King. That is to see how deepe my graue is made, For with his soule fled all my worldly solace: For seeing him, I see my life in death

War. As surely as my soule intends to liue With that dread King that tooke our state vpon him, To free vs from his Fathers wrathfull curse, I do beleeue that violent hands were laid Vpon the life of this thrice-famed Duke

Suf. A dreadfull Oath, sworne with a solemn tongue: What instance giues Lord Warwicke for his vow

War. See how the blood is setled in his face. Oft haue I seene a timely-parted Ghost, Of ashy semblance, meager, pale, and bloodlesse, Being all descended to the labouring heart, Who in the Conflict that it holds with death, Attracts the same for aydance 'gainst the enemy, Which with the heart there cooles, and ne're returneth, To blush and beautifie the Cheeke againe. But see, his face is blacke, and full of blood: His eye-balles further out, than when he liued, Staring full gastly, like a strangled man: His hayre vprear'd, his nostrils stretcht with strugling: His hands abroad display'd, as one that graspt And tugg'd for Life, and was by strength subdude. Looke on the sheets his haire (you see) is sticking, His well proportion'd Beard, made ruffe and rugged, Like to the Summers Corne by Tempest lodged: It cannot be but he was murdred heere, The least of all these signes were probable

Suf. Why Warwicke, who should do the D[uke]. to death? My selfe and Beauford had him in protection, And we I hope sir, are no murtherers

War. But both of you were vowed D[uke]. Humfries foes, And you (forsooth) had the good Duke to keepe: Tis like you would not feast him like a friend, And 'tis well seene, he found an enemy

Queen. Than you belike suspect these Noblemen, As guilty of Duke Humfries timelesse death

Warw. Who finds the Heyfer dead, and bleeding fresh, And sees fast-by, a Butcher with an Axe, But will suspect, 'twas he that made the slaughter? Who finds the Partridge in the Puttocks Nest, But may imagine how the Bird was dead, Although the Kyte soare with vnbloudied Beake? Euen so suspitious is this Tragedie

Qu. Are you the Butcher, Suffolk? where's your Knife? Is Beauford tearm'd a Kyte? where are his Tallons? Suff. I weare no Knife, to slaughter sleeping men, But here's a vengefull Sword, rusted with ease, That shall be scowred in his rancorous heart, That slanders me with Murthers Crimson Badge. Say, if thou dar'st, prowd Lord of Warwickshire, That I am faultie in Duke Humfreyes death

Warw. What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolke dare him? Qu. He dares not calme his contumelious Spirit, Nor cease to be an arrogant Controller, Though Suffolke dare him twentie thousand times

Warw. Madame be still: with reuerence may I say, For euery word you speake in his behalfe, Is slander to your Royall Dignitie

Suff. Blunt-witted Lord, ignoble in demeanor, If euer Lady wrong'd her Lord so much, Thy Mother tooke into her blamefull Bed Some sterne vntutur'd Churle; and Noble Stock Was graft with Crab-tree slippe, whose Fruit thou art, And neuer of the Neuils Noble Race

Warw. But that the guilt of Murther bucklers thee, And I should rob the Deaths-man of his Fee, Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames, And that my Soueraignes presence makes me milde, I would, false murd'rous Coward, on thy Knee Make thee begge pardon for thy passed speech, And say, it was thy Mother that thou meant'st, That thou thy selfe wast borne in Bastardie; And after all this fearefull Homage done, Giue thee thy hyre, and send thy Soule to Hell, Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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