Elean.
Why droops my lord, like over-ripen'd corn,
Hanging the head at Ceres' plenteous load?
Why doth the great duke Humphrey knit his brows,
As frowning at the favours of the world?
Why are thine eyes fix'd to the sullen earth,
Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight?
What see'st thou there? king Henry's diadem,
Inchas'd with all the honours of the world?
If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face,
Until thy head be circled with the same.
Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold:—
What, is't too short? I'll lengthen it with mine:
And, having both together heav'd it up,
We'll both together lift our heads to heaven;
And never more abase our sight so low
As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground.

Glo.
O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord,
Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts:
And may that thought, when I imagine ill
Against my king and nephew, virtuous Henry,
Be my last breathing in this mortal world!
My troublous dream this night doth make me sad.

Elean.
What dream'd my lord? tell me, and I'll requite it
With sweet rehearsal of my morning's dream.

Glo.
Methought, this staff, mine office-badge in court,
Was broke in twain; by whom, I have forgot,
But, as I think, it was by the cardinal;
And on the pieces of the broken wand

Were plac'd the heads of Edmund duke of Somerset,
And William de la Poole first duke of Suffolk.
This was my dream; what it doth bode, God knows.

Elean.
Tut, this was nothing but an argument,
That he, that breaks a stick of Gloster's grove,
Shall lose his head for his presumption.
But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet duke:
Methought, I sat in seat of majesty,
In the cathedral church of Westminster,
And in that chair where kings and queens are crown'd;
Where Henry, and dame Margaret, kneel'd to me,
And on my head did set the diadem.

Glo.
Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright:
Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtur'd Eleanor!
Art thou not second woman in the realm;
And the protector's wife, belov'd of him?
Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command,
Above the reach or compass of thy thought?
And wilt thou still be hammering treachery,
To tumble down thy husband, and thyself,
From top of honour to disgrace's feet?
Away from me, and let me hear no more.

Elean.
What, what, my lord! are you so choleric
With Eleanor, for telling but her dream?
Next time, I'll keep my dreams unto myself,
And not be check'd.

Glo.
Nay, be not angry, I am pleas'd again. Enter a Messenger.

Mess.
My lord protector, 'tis his highness' pleasure,
You do prepare to ride unto Saint Albans,
Whereas the king and queen do mean to hawk^{5 note}

Glo.
I go.—Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us?

Elean.
Yes, my good lord, I'll follow presently. [Exit Gloster.
Follow I must, I cannot go before,
While Gloster bears this base and humble mind.
Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood,
I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks,
And smooth my way upon their headless necks:
And, being a woman, I will not be slack
To play my part in fortune's pageant.
Where are you there? Sir John! nay, fear not, man,
We are alone; here's none but thee, and I. Enter Hume.

Hume.
Jesu preserve your royal majesty!

Elean.
My majesty! why, man, I am but grace.

Hume.
But, by the grace of God, and Hume's advice,
Your grace's title shall be multiply'd.

Elean.
What say'st thou, man? hast thou as yet conferr'd
With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch;
And Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer?
And will they undertake to do me good?

Hume.
This they have promised,—to shew your highness
A spirit rais'd from depth of under ground,
That shall make answer to such questions,

As by your grace shall be propounded him.

^{6 note}









Elean.
It is enough; I'll think upon the questions:
When from saint Albans we do make return,
We'll see those things effected to the full.
Here, Hume, take this reward; make merry, man,
With thy confederates in this weighty cause. [Exit Eleanor.

Hume.
Hume must make merry with the dutchess' gold;
Marry, and shall. But, how now, Sir John Hume?
Seal up your lips, and give no words but—mum!
The business asketh silent secrecy.
Dame Eleanor gives gold, to bring the witch:
Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil.
Yet have I gold, flies from another coast:
I dare not say, from the rich cardinal,
And from the great and new-made duke of Suffolk;
Yet I do find it so: for, to be plain,
They, knowing dame Eleanor's aspiring humour,
Have hired me to undermine the dutchess,
And buz these conjurations in her brain.
They say, A crafty knave does need no broker^{7 note};
Yet am I Suffolk's and the cardinal's broker.
Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near
To call them both—a pair of crafty knaves.

Well, so it stands: And thus, I fear, at last,
Hume's knavery will be the dutchess' wreck;
And her attainture will be Humphrey's fall:
^{8 note}Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all. [Exit.

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