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Is all thy comfort shut in Gloucester's tomb?

Why, then, dame Margaret was ne'er thy joy.

Erect his statue and worship it,

And make my image but an alehouse sign.

Was I for this nigh wrack'd upon the sea,

And twice by awkward wind from England's bank

Drove back again unto my native clime?

What boded this but well forewarning wind

Did seem to say 'Seek not a scorpion's nest,

Nor set no footing on this unkind shore?'

What did I then, but curs'd the gentle gusts

And he that loos'd them forth their brazen caves,

And bid them blow towards England's blessed shore,

Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock?

Yet Aeolus would not be a murtherer,

But left that hateful office unto thee.

The pretty-vaulting sea refus'd to drown me,

Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown'd on shore,

With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness.

The splitting rocks cower'd in the sinking sands

And would not dash me with their ragged sides,

Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they,

Might in thy palace perish Margaret.

As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs,

When from thy shore the tempest beat us back,

I stood upon the hatches in the storm,

And when the dusky sky began to rob

My earnest-gaping sight of thy land's view,

I took a costly jewel from my neck—

A heart it was, bound in with diamonds—

And threw it towards thy land; the sea receiv'd it,

And so I wish'd thy body might my heart.

And even with this I lost fair England's view,

And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart,

And call'd them blind and dusky spectacles,

For losing ken of Albion's wished coast.

How often have I tempted Suffolk's tongue,

The agent of thy foul inconstancy,

To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did

When he to madding Dido would unfold

His father's acts commenc'd in burning Troy!

Am I not witch'd like her? or thou not false like him?

Ay me, I can no more! die, Margaret!

For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long.

[Noise within. Enter WARWICK, SALISBURY, and many Commons.]

WARWICK.

It is reported, mighty sovereign,

That good Duke Humphrey traitorously is murther'd

By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort's means.

The commons, like an angry hive of bees

That want their leader, scatter up and down

And care not who they sting in his revenge.

Myself have calm'd their spleenful mutiny

Until they hear the order of his death.

KING.

That he is dead, good Warwick, 't is too true;

But how he died God knows, not Henry.

Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse,

And comment then upon his sudden death.

WARWICK.

That shall I do, my liege.—Stay, Salisbury,

With the rude multitude till I return.

[Exit.]

KING.

O Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts,

My thoughts, that labour to persuade my soul

Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey's life!

If my suspect be false, forgive me, God,

For judgment only doth belong to thee.

Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips

With twenty thousand kisses, and to drain

Upon his face an ocean of salt tears

To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk,

And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling;

But all in vain are these mean obsequies;

And to survey his dead and earthy image,

What were it but to make my sorrow greater?

[Re-enter WARWICK and others, bearing GLOUCESTER's body on a bed.]

WARWICK.

Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body.

KING.

That is to see how deep my grave is made;

For with his soul fled all my worldly solace,

For seeing him I see my life in death.

WARWICK.

As surely as my soul intends to live

With that dread King that took our state upon him

To free us from his father's wrathful curse,

I do believe that violent hands were laid

Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke.

SUFFOLK.

A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue!

What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow?

WARWICK.

See how the blood is settled in his face.

Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost,

Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless,

Being all descended to the labouring heart,

Who, in the conflict that it holds with