I muse my Lord of Gloucester is not come.

’Tis not his wont to be the hindmost man,

Whate’er occasion keeps him from us now.

Can you not see, or will ye not observe

The strangeness of his altered countenance?

With what a majesty he bears himself,

How insolent of late he is become,

How proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself?

We know the time since he was mild and affable;

And if we did but glance a far-off look,

Immediately he was upon his knee,

That all the court admired him for submission.

But meet him now, and be it in the morn

When everyone will give the time of day,

He knits his brow and shows an angry eye

And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee,

Disdaining duty that to us belongs.

Small curs are not regarded when they grin,

But great men tremble when the lion roars;

And Humphrey is no little man in England.

First note that he is near you in descent,

And should you fall, he is the next will mount.

Me seemeth then it is no policy,

Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears

And his advantage following your decease,

That he should come about your royal person

Or be admitted to your Highness’ Council.

By flattery hath he won the commons’ hearts;

And when he please to make commotion,

’Tis to be feared they all will follow him.

Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted;

Suffer them now, and they’ll o’ergrow the garden

And choke the herbs for want of husbandry.

The reverent care I bear unto my lord

Made me collect these dangers in the Duke.

If it be fond, can it a woman’s fear;

Which fear if better reasons can supplant,

I will subscribe and say I wronged the Duke.

My Lord of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York,

Reprove my allegation if you can,

Or else conclude my words effectual.

Well hath your highness seen into this Duke;

And, had I first been put to speak my mind,

I think I should have told your grace’s tale.

The Duchess by his subornation,

Upon my life, began her devilish practices;

Or, if he were not privy to those faults,

Yet, by reputing of his high descent,

As next the King he was successive heir,

And such high vaunts of his nobility—

Did instigate the bedlam brain-sick Duchess

By wicked means to frame our sovereign’s fall.

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep,

And in his simple show he harbours treason.

The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb.

No, no, my sovereign, Gloucester is a man

Unsounded yet and full of deep deceit.

Did he not, contrary to form of law,

Devise strange deaths for small offences done?

And did he not, in his protectorship,

Levy great sums of money through the realm

For soldiers’ pay in France, and never sent it?

By means whereof the towns each day revolted.

Tut, these are petty faults to faults unknown,

Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke Humphrey.

My lords, at once: the care you have of us

To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot

Is worthy praise; but, shall I speak my conscience,

Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent

From meaning treason to our royal person

As is the sucking lamb or harmless dove.

The Duke is virtuous, mild, and too well given

To dream on evil or to work my downfall.

Ah, what’s more dangerous than this fond affiance?

Seems he a dove? His feathers are but borrowed,

For he’s disposed as the hateful raven.

Is he a lamb? His skin is surely lent him,

For he’s inclined as is the ravenous wolves.

Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit?

Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all

Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.

All health unto my gracious sovereign!

Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France?

That all your interest in those territories

Is utterly bereft you; all is lost.

Cold news, Lord Somerset; but God’s will be done.

As firmly as I hope for fertile England.

Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud,

And caterpillars eat my leaves away;

But I will remedy this gear ere long,

Or sell my title for a glorious grave.

All happiness unto my lord the King!

Pardon, my liege, that I have staid so long.

Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too soon,

Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art.

I do arrest thee of high treason here.

Well, Suffolk, thou shalt not see me blush,

Nor change my countenance for this arrest.

A heart unspotted is not easily daunted.

The purest spring is not so free from mud

As I am clear from treason to my sovereign.

Who can accuse me? Wherein am I guilty?

’Tis thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France,

And, being Protector, stayed the soldiers’ pay,

By means whereof his highness hath lost France.

Is it but thought so? What are they that think it?

I never robbed the soldiers of their pay,

Nor ever had one penny bribe from France.

So help me God, as I have watched the night,

Ay, night by night, in studying good for England!

That doit that e’er I wrested from the King,

Or any groat I hoarded to my use,

Be brought against me at my trial day!

No, many a pound of mine own proper store,

Because I would not tax the needy commons,

Have I dispursed to the garrisons

And never asked for restitution.

It serves you well, my lord, to say so much.

I say no more than truth, so help me God!

In your protectorship you did devise

Strange tortures for offenders never heard of,

That England was defamed by tyranny.

Why, ’tis well known that, whiles I was Protector,

Pity was all the fault that was in me;

For I should melt at an offender’s tears,

And lowly words were ransom for their fault.

Unless it were a bloody murderer,

Or foul felonious thief that fleeced poor passengers,

I never gave them condign punishment.

Murder indeed, that bloody sin, I tortured

Above the felon or what trespass else.

My lord, these faults are easy, quickly answered;

But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge

Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself.

I do arrest you in his highness’ name,

And here commit you to my Lord Cardinal

To keep until your further time of trial.

My Lord of Gloucester, ’tis my special hope

That you will clear yourself from all suspense.

My conscience tells me you are innocent.

Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous.

Virtue is choked with foul ambition,

And charity chased hence by rancour’s hand;

Foul subornation is predominant,

And equity exiled your highness’ land.

I know their complot is to have my life;

And if my death might make this island happy

And prove the period of their tyranny,

I would expend it with all willingness.

But mine is made the prologue to their play;

For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril,

Will not conclude their plotted tragedy.

Beaufort’s red sparkling eyes blab his heart’s malice,

And Suffolk’s cloudy brow his stormy hate;

Sharp Buckingham unburdens with his tongue

The envious load that lies upon his heart;

And dogged York, that reaches at the moon,

Whose overweening arm I have plucked back,

By false accuse doth level at my life.

And you, my sovereign lady, with the rest,

Causeless have laid disgraces on my head

And with your best endeavour have stirred up

My liefest liege to be mine enemy.

Ay, all of you have laid your heads together—

Myself had notice of your conventicles—

And all to make away my guiltless life.

I shall not want false witness to condemn me,

Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt.

The ancient proverb will be well effected:

“A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.”

My liege, his railing is intolerable.

If those that care to keep your royal person

From treason’s secret knife and traitor’s rage

Be thus upbraided, chid, and rated at,

And the offender granted scope of speech,

’Twill make them cool in zeal unto your grace.

Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here

With ignominious words, though clerkly couched,

As if she had suborned some to swear

False allegations to o’erthrow his state?

But I can give the loser leave to chide.

Far truer spoke than meant. I lose, indeed.

Beshrew the winners, for they played me false!

And well such losers may have leave to speak.

He’ll wrest the sense and hold us here all day.

Lord Cardinal, he is your prisoner.

Sirs, take away the Duke, and guard him sure.

Ah, thus King Henry throws away his crutch

Before his legs be firm to bear his body.

Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side,

And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first.

Ah, that my fear were false; ah, that it were!

For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear.

My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best

Do, or undo, as if ourself were here.

What, will your highness leave the parliament?

Ay, Margaret; my heart is drowned with grief,

Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes,

My body round engirt with misery;

For what’s more miserable than discontent?

Ah, uncle Humphrey, in thy face I see

The map of honour, truth, and loyalty;

And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come

That e’er I proved thee false or feared thy faith.

What louring star now envies thy estate

That these great lords and Margaret our Queen

Do seek subversion of thy harmless life?

Thou never didst them wrong nor no man wrong.

And as the butcher takes away the calf

And binds the wretch and beats it when it strains,

Bearing it to the bloody slaughterhouse,

Even so remorseless have they borne him hence;

And as the dam runs lowing up and down,

Looking the way her harmless young one went,

And can do naught but wail her darling’s loss,

Even so myself bewails good Gloucester’s case

With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimmed eyes

Look after him, and cannot do him good,

So mighty are his vowed enemies.

His fortunes I will weep and ’twixt each groan

Say “Who’s a traitor? Gloucester he is none.”

Free lords, cold snow melts with the sun’s hot beams.

Henry my lord is cold in great affairs,

Too full of foolish pity; and Gloucester’s show

Beguiles him, as the mournful crocodile

With sorrow snares relenting passengers,

Or as the snake, rolled in a flowering bank,

With shining checkered slough, doth sting a child

That for the beauty thinks it excellent.

Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I—

And yet herein I judge mine own wit good—

This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world,

To rid us from the fear we have of him.

That he should die is worthy policy,

But yet we want a colour for his death.

’Tis meet he be condemned by course of law.

But, in my mind, that were no policy.

The King will labour still to save his life,

The commons haply rise to save his life,

And yet we have but trivial argument,

More than mistrust, that shows him worthy death.

So that, by this, you would not have him die.

Ah, York, no man alive so fain as I!

’Tis York that hath more reason for his death.

But, my Lord Cardinal, and you, my Lord of Suffolk,

Say as you think, and speak it from your souls:

Were ’t not all one an empty eagle were set

To guard the chicken from a hungry kite,

As place Duke Humphrey for the King’s Protector?

So the poor chicken should be sure of death.

Madam, ’tis true; and were ’t not madness then

To make the fox surveyor of the fold,

Who being accused a crafty murderer,

His guilt should be but idly posted over

Because his purpose is not executed?

No, let him die in that he is a fox,

By nature proved an enemy to the flock,

Before his chaps be stained with crimson blood,

As Humphrey, proved by reasons, to my liege.

And do not stand on quillets how to slay him;

Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety,

Sleeping or waking, ’tis no matter how,

So he be dead; for that is good deceit

Which mates him first that first intends deceit.

Thrice-noble Suffolk, ’tis resolutely spoke.

Not resolute, except so much were done,

For things are often spoke and seldom meant;

But that my heart accordeth with my tongue,

Seeing the deed is meritorious,

And to preserve my sovereign from his foe,

Say but the word, and I will be his priest.

But I would have him dead, my Lord of Suffolk,

Ere you can take due orders for a priest.

Say you consent and censure well the deed,

And I’ll provide his executioner.

I tender so the safety of my liege.

Here is my hand, the deed is worthy doing.

And so say I.

And I. And now we three have spoke it,

It skills not greatly who impugns our doom.

Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain

To signify that rebels there are up

And put the Englishmen unto the sword.

Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime,

Before the wound do grow uncurable;

For, being green, there is great hope of help.

A breach that craves a quick expedient stop!

What counsel give you in this weighty cause?

That Somerset be sent as regent thither.

’Tis meet that lucky ruler be employed;

Witness the fortune he hath had in France.

If York, with all his far-fet policy,

Had been the regent there instead of me,

He never would have stayed in France so long.

No, not to lose it all as thou hast done.

I rather would have lost my life betimes

Than bring a burden of dishonour home

By staying there so long till all were lost.

Show me one scar charactered on thy skin;

Men’s flesh preserved so whole do seldom win.

Nay then, this spark will prove a raging fire

If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with.

No more, good York. Sweet Somerset, be still.

Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there,

Might happily have proved far worse than his.

What, worse than naught? Nay, then a shame take all!

And, in the number, thee that wishest shame!

My Lord of York, try what your fortune is.

Th’ uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms

And temper clay with blood of Englishmen.

To Ireland will you lead a band of men,

Collected choicely, from each county some,

And try your hap against the Irishmen?

I will, my lord, so please his majesty.

Why, our authority is his consent,

And what we do establish he confirms.

Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand.

I am content. Provide me soldiers, lords,

Whiles I take order for mine own affairs.

A charge, Lord York, that I will see performed.

But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey.

No more of him; for I will deal with him

That henceforth he shall trouble us no more.

And so break off; the day is almost spent.

Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event.

My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen days

At Bristol I expect my soldiers;

For there I’ll ship them all for Ireland.

I’ll see it truly done, my Lord of York.

Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts,

And change misdoubt to resolution.

Be that thou hop’st to be, or what thou art

Resign to death; it is not worth th’ enjoying.

Let pale-faced fear keep with the mean-born man

And find no harbour in a royal heart.

Faster than springtime showers comes thought on thought,

And not a thought but thinks on dignity.

My brain, more busy than the labouring spider

Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.

Well, nobles, well, ’tis politicly done,

To send me packing with an host of men;

I fear me you but warm the starved snake,

Who, cherished in your breasts, will sting your hearts.

’Twas men I lacked, and you will give them me;

I take it kindly, yet be well assured

You put sharp weapons in a madman’s hands.

Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band,

I will stir up in England some black storm

Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell;

And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage

Until the golden circuit on my head,

Like to the glorious sun’s transparent beams,

Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw.

And for a minister of my intent,

I have seduced a headstrong Kentishman,

John Cade of Ashford,

To make commotion, as full well he can,

Under the title of John Mortimer.

In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade

Oppose himself against a troop of kerns,

And fought so long till that his thighs with darts

Were almost like a sharp-quilled porpentine;

And in the end being rescued, I have seen

Him caper upright like a wild Morisco,

Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells.

Full often, like a shag-haired crafty kern,

Hath he conversed with the enemy,

And undiscovered come to me again

And given me notice of their villainies.

This devil here shall be my substitute;

For that John Mortimer, which now is dead,

In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble.

By this I shall perceive the commons’ mind,

How they affect the house and claim of York.

Say he be taken, racked, and tortured,

I know no pain they can inflict upon him

Will make him say I moved him to those arms.

Say that he thrive, as ’tis great like he will,

Why then from Ireland come I with my strength

And reap the harvest which that rascal sowed.

For Humphrey being dead, as he shall be,

And Henry put apart, the next for me.