Henry VI, Part II

tickle point, now they are gone:

Suffolk concluded on the articles,

The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleased

To change two dukedoms for a duke’s fair daughter.

I cannot blame them all: what is’t to them?

’Tis thine they give away, and not their own.

Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage

And purchase friends and give to courtezans,

Still revelling like lords till all be gone;

While as the silly owner of the goods

Weeps over them and wrings his hapless hands

And shakes his head and trembling stands aloof,

While all is shared and all is borne away,

Ready to starve and dare not touch his own:

So York must sit and fret and bite his tongue,

While his own lands are bargain’d for and sold.

Methinks the realms of England, France and Ireland

Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood

As did the fatal brand Althaea burn’d

Unto the prince’s heart of Calydon.

Anjou and Maine both given unto the French!

Cold news for me, for I had hope of France,

Even as I have of fertile England’s soil.

A day will come when York shall claim his own;

And therefore I will take the Nevils’ parts

And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey,

And, when I spy advantage, claim the crown,

For that’s the golden mark I seek to hit:

Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right,

Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist,

Nor wear the diadem upon his head,

Whose church-like humours fits not for a crown.

Then, York, be still awhile, till time do serve:

Watch thou and wake when others be asleep,

To pry into the secrets of the state;

Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love,

With his new bride and England’s dear-bought queen,

And Humphrey with the peers be fall’n at jars:

Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose,

With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed;

And in my standard bear the arms of York,

To grapple with the house of Lancaster;

And, force perforce, I’ll make him yield the crown,

Whose bookish rule hath pull’d fair England down. Exit.

Scene II
The Duke of Gloucester’s house.




Enter Duke Humphrey and his wife Eleanor.


Duchess

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 seest thou there? King Henry’s diadem,

Enchased 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 heaved 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.



Gloucester

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.



Duchess

What dream’d my lord? tell me, and I’ll requite it

With sweet rehearsal of my morning’s dream.



Gloucester

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 placed the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset,

And William de la Pole, first duke of Suffolk.

This was my dream: what it doth bode, God knows.



Duchess

Tut, this was nothing but an argument

That he that breaks a stick of Gloucester’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.



Gloucester

Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright:

Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtured Eleanor,

Art thou not second woman in the realm,

And the protector’s wife, beloved 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!



Duchess

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.



Gloucester
Nay, be not angry; I am pleased again.



Enter Messenger.


Messenger

My lord protector, ’tis his highness’ pleasure

You do prepare to ride unto Saint Alban’s,

Where as the king and queen do mean to hawk.



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


Duchess

Yes, my good lord, I’ll follow presently. Exeunt Gloucester and Messenger.

Follow I must; I cannot go before,

While Gloucester 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
Jesus preserve your royal majesty!


Duchess
What say’st thou? majesty! I am but grace.


Hume

But, by the grace of God, and Hume’s advice,

Your grace’s title shall be multiplied.



Duchess

What say’st thou, man? hast thou as yet conferr’d

With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch,

With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer?

And will they undertake to do me good?



Hume

This they have promised, to show your highness

A spirit raised from depth of under-ground,

That shall make answer to such questions

As by your grace shall be propounded him.



Duchess

It is enough; I’ll think upon the questions:

When from Saint Alban’s we do make return,

We’ll see these things effected to the full.

Here, Hume, take this reward; make merry, man,

With thy confederates in this weighty cause. Exit.



Hume

Hume must make merry with the duchess’ 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