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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-fallen,

Ay, and allay thus thy abortive pride,

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.

WHITMORE.

Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?

CAPTAIN.

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

SUFFOLK.

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

CAPTAIN.

Convey him hence, and on our long-boat's side

Strike off his head.

SUFFOLK.

Thou dar'st not, for thy own.

CAPTAIN.

Yes, Pole!

SUFFOLK.

Pole!

CAPTAIN.

Pool! Sir Pool! lord!

Ay, kennel, puddle, sink, whose filth and dirt

Troubles the silver spring where England drinks.

Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth

For swallowing the treasure of the realm;

Thy lips that kiss'd the queen shall sweep the ground;

And thou that smil'dst at good Duke Humphrey's death

Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain,

Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again.

And wedded be thou to the hags of hell,

For daring to affy a mighty lord

Unto the daughter of a worthless king,

Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem.

By devilish policy art thou grown great

And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorg'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 Picardy

Hath slain their governors, surpris'd our forts,

And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home.

The princely Warwick, and the Nevils 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 murther of a guiltless king

And lofty proud encroaching tyranny,

Burns with revenging fire, whose hopeful colours

Advance our 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.

SUFFOLK.

O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder

Upon these paltry, 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.—

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.

CAPTAIN.

Walter,—

WHITMORE.

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

SUFFOLK.

Gelidus timor occupat artus; it is thee I fear.

WHITMORE.

Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee.

What, are ye daunted now? now will ye stoop?

1 GENTLEMAN. My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair.

SUFFOLK.

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 heaven 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.

CAPTAIN.

Hale him away, and let him talk no more.

SUFFOLK.

Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can,

That this my death may never be forgot!

Great men oft die by vile bezonians:

A Roman sworder and banditto slave

Murther'd sweet Tully; Brutus' bastard hand

Stabb'd Julius Caesar; savage islanders

Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates.

[Exeunt Whitmore and others with Suffolk.]

CAPTAIN.

And as for these whose ransom we have set,

It is our pleasure one of