King. Ah woe is me for Gloster, wretched man

Queen. Be woe for me, more wretched then he is. What, Dost thou turne away, and hide thy face? I am no loathsome Leaper, looke on me. What? Art thou like the Adder waxen deafe? Be poysonous too, and kill thy forlorne Queene. Is all thy comfort shut in Glosters Tombe? Why then Dame Elianor was neere thy ioy. Erect his Statue, and worship it, And make my Image but an Ale-house signe. Was I for this nye wrack'd vpon the Sea, And twice by aukward winde from Englands banke Droue backe againe vnto my Natiue Clime. What boaded this? but well fore-warning winde Did seeme to say, seeke not a Scorpions Nest, Nor set no footing on this vnkinde Shore. What did I then? But curst the gentle gusts, And he that loos'd them forth their Brazen Caues, And bid them blow towards Englands blessed shore, Or turne our Sterne vpon a dreadfull Rocke: Yet aeolus would not be a murtherer, But left that hatefull office vnto thee. The pretty vaulting Sea refus'd to drowne me, Knowing that thou wouldst haue me drown'd on shore With teares as salt as Sea, through thy vnkindnesse. The splitting Rockes cowr'd in the sinking sands, And would not dash me with their ragged sides, Because thy flinty heart more hard then they, Might in thy Pallace, perish Elianor. As farre as I could ken thy Chalky Cliffes, When from thy Shore, the Tempest beate vs backe, I stood vpon the Hatches in the storme: And when the duskie sky, began to rob My earnest-gaping-sight of thy Lands view, I tooke a costly Iewell from my necke, A Hart it was bound in with Diamonds, And threw it towards thy Land: The Sea receiu'd it, And so I wish'd thy body might my Heart: And euen with this, I lost faire Englands view, And bid mine eyes be packing with my Heart, And call'd them blinde and duskie Spectacles, For loosing ken of Albions wished Coast. How often haue I tempted Suffolkes tongue (The agent of thy foule inconstancie) To sit and watch me as Ascanius did, When he to madding Dido would vnfold His Fathers Acts, commenc'd in burning Troy. Am I not witcht like her? Or thou not false like him? Aye me, I can no more: Dye Elinor, For Henry weepes, that thou dost liue so long.

Noyse within. Enter Warwicke, and many Commons.

War. It is reported, mighty Soueraigne, That good Duke Humfrey Traiterously is murdred By Suffolke, and the Cardinall Beaufords meanes: The Commons like an angry Hiue of Bees That want their Leader, scatter vp and downe, And care not who they sting in his reuenge. My selfe haue calm'd their spleenfull mutinie, Vntill they heare the order of his death

King. That he is dead good Warwick, 'tis too true, But how he dyed, God knowes, not Henry: Enter his Chamber, view his breathlesse Corpes, And comment then vpon his sodaine death

War. That shall I do my Liege; Stay Salsburie With the rude multitude, till I returne

King. O thou that iudgest all things, stay my thoghts: My thoughts, that labour to perswade my soule, Some violent hands were laid on Humfries life: If my suspect be false, forgiue me God, For iudgement onely doth belong to thee: Faine would I go to chafe his palie lips, With twenty thousand kisses, and to draine Vpon his face an Ocean of salt teares, To tell my loue vnto his dumbe deafe trunke, And with my fingers feele his hand, vnfeeling: But all in vaine are these meane Obsequies,

Bed put forth.

And to suruey his dead and earthy Image: What were it but to make my sorrow greater? Warw. Come hither gracious Soueraigne, view this body

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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