The Same. A Room in the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER'S House. |
|
Enter GLOUCESTER and his DUCHESS. |
Duch. 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 scest thou there? King Henry's diadem |
Enchas'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. |
Duch. 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 Pole, first Duke of Suffolk. |
This was my dream: what it doth bode, God knows. |
Duch. 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. |
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. |
Duch. 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. |
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Enter a Messenger. |
Mess. My Lord Protector, 'tis his highness' pleasure |
You do prepare to ride unto Saint Alban's, |
Whereas the king and queen do mean to hawk. |
Glo. I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us? |
Duch. 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! |
Duch. What sayst thou? majesty! I am but Grace. |
Hume. But, by the grace of God, and Hume's advice, |
Your Grace's title shall be multiplied. |
Duch. What sayst 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 rais'd from depth of under ground, |
That shall make answer to such questions |
As by your Grace shall be propounded him. |
Duch. 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 confed' rates 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 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 duchess |
And buzz these conjurations in her brain. |
They say, 'A crafty knave does need no broker;' |
Yet am I Suffolk 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 duchess' wrack, |
And her attainture will be Humphrey's fall. |
Sort how it will I shall have gold for all. [Exit. |
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