King. O let vs yet be mercifull

Cam. So may your Highnesse, and yet punish too

Grey. Sir, you shew great mercy if you giue him life, After the taste of much correction

King. Alas, your too much loue and care of me, Are heauy Orisons 'gainst this poore wretch: If little faults proceeding on distemper, Shall not be wink'd at, how shall we stretch our eye When capitall crimes, chew'd, swallow'd, and digested, Appeare before vs? Wee'l yet inlarge that man, Though Cambridge, Scroope, and Gray, in their deere care And tender preseruation of our person Wold haue him punish'd. And now to our French causes, Who are the late Commissioners? Cam. I one my Lord, Your Highnesse bad me aske for it to day

Scro. So did you me my Liege

Gray. And I my Royall Soueraigne

King. Then Richard Earle of Cambridge, there is yours: There yours Lord Scroope of Masham, and Sir Knight: Gray of Northumberland, this same is yours: Reade them, and know I know your worthinesse. My Lord of Westmerland, and Vnkle Exeter, We will aboord to night. Why how now Gentlemen? What see you in those papers, that you loose So much complexion? Looke ye how they change: Their cheekes are paper. Why, what reade you there, That haue so cowarded and chac'd your blood Out of apparance

Cam. I do confesse my fault, And do submit me to your Highnesse mercy

Gray. Scro. To which we all appeale

King. The mercy that was quicke in vs but late, By your owne counsaile is supprest and kill'd: You must not dare (for shame) to talke of mercy, For your owne reasons turne into your bosomes, As dogs vpon their maisters, worrying you: See you my Princes, and my Noble Peeres, These English monsters: My Lord of Cambridge heere, You know how apt our loue was, to accord To furnish with all appertinents Belonging to his Honour; and this man, Hath for a few light Crownes, lightly conspir'd And sworne vnto the practises of France To kill vs heere in Hampton. To the which, This Knight no lesse for bounty bound to Vs Then Cambridge is, hath likewise sworne. But O, What shall I say to thee Lord Scroope, thou cruell, Ingratefull, sauage, and inhumane Creature? Thou that didst beare the key of all my counsailes, That knew'st the very bottome of my soule, That (almost) might'st haue coyn'd me into Golde, Would'st thou haue practis'd on me, for thy vse? May it be possible, that forraigne hyer Could out of thee extract one sparke of euill That might annoy my finger? 'Tis so strange, That though the truth of it stands off as grosse As black and white, my eye will scarsely see it. Treason, and murther, euer kept together, As two yoake diuels sworne to eythers purpose, Working so grossely in an naturall cause, That admiration did not hoope at them. But thou (gainst all proportion) didst bring in Wonder to waite on treason, and on murther: And whatsoeuer cunning fiend it was That wrought vpon thee so preposterously, Hath got the voyce in hell for excellence: And other diuels that suggest by treasons, Do botch and bungle vp damnation, With patches, colours, and with formes being fetcht From glist'ring semblances of piety: But he that temper'd thee, bad thee stand vp, Gaue thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason, Vnlesse to dub thee with the name of Traitor. If that same Daemon that hath gull'd thee thus, Should with his Lyon-gate walke the whole world, He might returne to vastie Tartar backe, And tell the Legions, I can neuer win A soule so easie as that Englishmans. Oh, how hast thou with iealousie infected The sweetnesse of affiance? Shew men dutifull, Why so didst thou: seeme they graue and learned? Why so didst thou. Come they of Noble Family? Why so didst thou. Seeme they religious? Why so didst thou. Or are they spare in diet, Free from grosse passion, or of mirth, or anger, Constant in spirit, not sweruing with the blood, Garnish'd and deck'd in modest complement, Not working with the eye, without the eare, And but in purged iudgement trusting neither, Such and so finely boulted didst thou seeme: And thus thy fall hath left a kinde of blot, To make thee full fraught man, and best indued With some suspition, I will weepe for thee. For this reuolt of thine, me thinkes is like Another fall of Man. Their faults are open, Arrest them to the answer of the Law, And God acquit them of their practises

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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