Enter two or three running ouer the Stage, from the Murther of Duke Humfrey.
1. Runne to my Lord of Suffolke: let him know We haue dispatcht the Duke, as he commanded
2. Oh, that it were to doe: what haue we done? Didst euer heare a man so penitent? Enter Suffolke.
1. Here comes my Lord
Suff. Now Sirs, haue you dispatcht this thing? 1. I, my good Lord, hee's dead
Suff. Why that's well said. Goe, get you to my House, I will reward you for this venturous deed: The King and all the Peeres are here at hand. Haue you layd faire the Bed? Is all things well, According as I gaue directions? 1. 'Tis, my good Lord
Suff. Away, be gone.
Sound Trumpets. Enter the King, the Queene, Cardinall, Suffolke, Somerset, with Attendants.
King. Goe call our Vnckle to our presence straight: Say, we intend to try his Grace to day, If he be guiltie, as 'tis published
Suff. Ile call him presently, my Noble Lord. Enter
King. Lords take your places: and I pray you all Proceed no straiter 'gainst our Vnckle Gloster, Then from true euidence, of good esteeme, He be approu'd in practise culpable
Queene. God forbid any Malice should preuayle, That faultlesse may condemne a Noble man: Pray God he may acquit him of suspition
King. I thanke thee Nell, these wordes content mee much. Enter Suffolke.
How now? why look'st thou pale? why tremblest thou? Where is our Vnckle? what's the matter, Suffolke? Suff. Dead in his Bed, my Lord: Gloster is dead
Queene. Marry God forfend
Card. Gods secret Iudgement: I did dreame to Night, The Duke was dumbe, and could not speake a word.
Qu. How fares my Lord? Helpe Lords, the King is dead
Som. Rere vp his Body, wring him by the Nose
Qu. Runne, goe, helpe, helpe: Oh Henry ope thine eyes
Suff. He doth reuiue againe, Madame be patient
King. Oh Heauenly God
Qu. How fares my gracious Lord? Suff. Comfort my Soueraigne, gracious Henry comfort
King. What, doth my Lord of Suffolke comfort me? Came he right now to sing a Rauens Note, Whose dismall tune bereft my Vitall powres: And thinkes he, that the chirping of a Wren, By crying comfort from a hollow breast, Can chase away the first-conceiued sound? Hide not thy poyson with such sugred words, Lay not thy hands on me: forbeare I say, Their touch affrights me as a Serpents sting. Thou balefull Messenger, out of my sight: Vpon thy eye-balls, murderous Tyrannie Sits in grim Maiestie, to fright the World. Looke not vpon me, for thine eyes are wounding; Yet doe not goe away: come Basiliske, And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight: For in the shade of death, I shall finde ioy; In life, but double death, now Gloster's dead
Queene. Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolke thus? Although the Duke was enemie to him, Yet he most Christian-like laments his death: And for my selfe, Foe as he was to me, Might liquid teares, or heart-offending groanes, Or blood-consuming sighes recall his Life; I would be blinde with weeping, sicke with grones, Looke pale as Prim-rose with blood-drinking sighes, And all to haue the Noble Duke aliue. What know I how the world may deeme of me? For it is knowne we were but hollow Friends: It may be iudg'd I made the Duke away, So shall my name with Slanders tongue be wounded, And Princes Courts be fill'd with my reproach: This get I by his death: Aye me vnhappie, To be a Queene, and Crown'd with infamie