Captain.
The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day^{4 note}
Is crept into the bosom of the sea;
And now loud howling wolves arouse the jades,^{5 note}



That drag the tragick melancholy night,
Who with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings
Clip dead mens' graves; and from their misty jaws
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.
Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize;
For whilst our Pinnace anchors in the Downs,
Here shall they make their ransom on the sand;
Or with their blood stain this discolour'd shore.
—Master, this prisoner freely give I thee;
And thou, that art his mate, make boot of this;
The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share. [Pointing to Suffolk.

1 Gent.
What is my ransom, master, let me know.

Mast.
A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head.

Mate.
And so much shall you give, or off goes yours.

Whit.
What, think you much to pay two thousand crowns,

And bear the name and port of gentlemen?
—Cut both the villains' throats,—for die you shall,
Nor can those lives, which we have lost in fight,
Be counter-pois'd with such a petty sum.

1 Gent.
I'll give it, Sir, and therefore spare my life.

2 Gent.
And so will I, and write home for it straight.

Whit.
I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard,
And therefore, to revenge it, shalt thou die; [To Suffolk.
And so should these, if I might have my will.

Cap.
Be not so rash, take ransom, let him live.

Suf.
^{6 note}Look on my George, I am a Gentleman;
Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid—

Whit.
And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore.
How now? why start'st thou? what, doth death affright?

Suf.
Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death.
A cunning man did calculate my birth,
And told me, that by Water I should die,
Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded,
Thy name is Gualtier, being rightly sounded.

Whit.
Gualtier or Walter, which it is I care not;
Ne'er yet did base Dishonour blur our name,
But with our sword, we wip'd away the blot.
Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge,
Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defac'd,
And I proclaim'd a Coward through the world!

Suf.
Stay, Whitmore, for thy prisoner is a Prince;
The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.

Whit.
The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags?

Suf.
Ay, but these rags are no part of the Duke.
^{7 note}

Cap.
But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be.

Suf.
Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry's blood,
The honourable blood of Lancaster,
Must not be shed by such a jaded groom.
Hast thou not kiss'd thy hand, and held my stirrop?
Bare-headed, plodded by my foot-cloth mule,
And thought thee happy when I shook my head?
How often hast thou waited at my cup,
Fed from my trencher, kneel'd down at the board,
When I have feasted with Queen Margaret?
Remember it, and let it make thee crest-fal'n;
Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride.^{8 note}
How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood,
And duly waited for my coming forth?
This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,
And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue.

Whit.
Speak, Captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?

Cap.
First let my words stab him, as he hath me.

Suf.
Base slave, thy words are blunt; and so art thou.

Cap.
Convey him hence, and on our long-boat's side
Strike off his head.

Suf.
Thou dar'st not for thy own.

Cap.
Poole? Sir Poole? Lord?* ^note

For daring to affie a mighty Lord
Unto the daughter of a worthless King,
Having nor Subject, Wealth, nor diadem!
By devilish policy art thou grown great,
And, like ambitious Sylla, over-gorg'd
With gobbets of thy mother's bleeding heart.
By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France;
The false revolting Normans, thorough thee,
Disdain to call us Lord; and Picardie
Hath slain their Governors, surpriz'd our Forts,
And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home.
The princely Warwick, and the Nevills all,
Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain,
As hating thee, are rising up in arms.
And now the House of York, thrust from the Crown
By shameful murder of a guiltless King,
And lofty proud incroaching tyranny,
Burns with revenging fire; whose hopeful Colours
Advance a half-fac'd Sun striving to shine;
Under the which is writ, Invitis nubibus.
The Commons here in Kent are up in arms:
And to conclude, Reproach, and Beggary
Is crept into the Palace of our King,
And all by thee.—Away! convey him hence.—

Suf.
O, that I were a God, to shoot forth thunder
Upon these paultry, servile, abject drudges!
Small things make base men proud. This villain here,
Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more
Than Bargulus the strong Illyrian Pirate.^{9 note}
Drones suck not eagles' blood, but rob bee-hives.
It is impossible that I should die

By such a lowly vassal as thyself.
Thy words move rage, and not remorse, in me:
I go of message from the Queen to France;
I charge thee waft me safely cross the channel.

Cap.
Walter—

Whit.
Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death.

Suf.
Gelidus timor occupat artus: it's thee I fear.

Whit.
Thou shalt have cause to fear, before I leave thee.
What, are ye daunted now? now will ye stoop?

1 Gent.
My gracious Lord, intreat him; speak him fair.

Suf.
Suffolk's imperial tongue is stern and rough,
Us'd to command, untaught to plead for favour.
Far be it, we should honour such as these
With humble suit; no, rather let my head
Stoop to the block, than these knees bow to any,
Save to the God of heav'n, and to my King;
And sooner dance upon a bloody pole,
Than stand uncover'd to the vulgar groom.
True Nobility is exempt from fear:
More can I bear, than you dare execute.

Cap.
Hale him away, and let him talk no more;
Come, soldiers, shew what cruelty ye can.

Suf.
That this my death may never be forgot!—
Great men oft die by vile Bezonians.
A Roman sworder and Banditto slave
Murder'd sweet Tully; Brutus' bastard hand
Stabb'd Julius Cæsar; savage Islanders
^{1 note}Pompey the Great: And Suffolk dies by Pirates. [Exit Walter Whitmore with Suffolk.

Cap.
And as for these, whose ransom we have set,
It is our pleasure one of them depart;
Therefore come you with us, and let him go. [Exit Captain and the rest.

Manet the first Gent. Enter Whitmore with the body.

Whit.
There let his head and liveless body lie,
Until the Queen his mistress bury it. [Exit Whit.

1 Gent.
O barbarous and bloody spectacle!
His body will I bear unto the King;
If he revenge it not, yet will his friends;
So will the Queen, that living held him dear. [Exit.

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