 | Henry the Sixth, The First part |  |
The SCENE the Cardinals Apartment.
Enter the Cardinal.
Card.
I'me vext! I'me more, I'me wrack'd! By what? who knows?
By a thing within me call'd a Conscience.
A Trick,—a Spring, that catches us, and pinches,
If we but point at an ill Action.
Why is it an ill thing to kill a man?
He is the Plague and Sickness of the World.
'Tis a kind honest thing to kill a man,
You cure the World of one Disease, you free
Thousands from Mischief, and you ease the man.
Yet if one do a man so great a kindness,
The damn'd ungrateful Rogue torments one's Conscience.
Men are ungrateful Rogues, living or dead.
I know not what to do; I must have ease.
Ho there!
Enter a Servant.
Ser.
My Lord.
Card.
Call my Physitian.
Stay there!—What shou'd I do with a Physitian?
No Physick can give me any ease, but Poyson.
The gravel of the Grave is the best scowring
For such fierce Hawks as I am, after feeding.
Go, now I think on't, call my Confessor.
Let him alone!—What shou'd I do with him too?
My Soul is sick, and it can have no ease,
I grow sick.—
Unless it purge (forsooth) in a Priest's ear.
Fetch me a Glass of Wine, run quickly,—run.
I tremble!—a cold sweat comes over me,
All the Air tastes of an infernal damp.
The Ghost of Duke Humphry appears and goes out, the Cardinal falls into a Swoon. Enter the Servant with Wine.
1 Ser.
Help, help, my Lord is fallen! my Lord is dead!
2 Ser.
Oh! Heaven! What's the matter with my Lord?
3 Ser.
He opens now his eyes!
4 Ser.
He foams at the mouth.
1 Ser.
Let's set him in the Chair and give him air.
3 Ser.
I'le run for his Physitians.
Ex.
4 Ser.
I'le give notice
To all the Court.
Ex.
Enter the three Murtherers.
Card.
Stand off, and let the Duke of Glocester speak to me.
Speak, speak, I say! What wou'dst thou have with me?
2 Mur.
He names the Duke of Glocester.
1 Mur.
Oh! Does he so?
Is his Infallibility come to that? A Pox of his Doctrines,
He has damn'd himself and me too.
Card.
Who is the Grave-maker?
He is a Villain, he digs Graves so shallow,
The dead break Prison, and come plague the Living.
Why this is fine, the Living cannot eat
Nor drink, nor sleep in quiet for the Dead;
The Dead that can do none of e'm, must plague us.
Thou envious Ghost, get to thy own abode,
I know not where it is, in Heaven or Hell,
Oh! Hell! Hell! Hell! I am tormented: Oh!
1 Mur.
Oh! gallant, brave Infallibility!
Enter the King, Salisbury, Warwick.
King.
How does the Cardinal?
2 Mur.
Sir, of a sudden
He's fallen into a fit of Infallible Madness.
Card.
Ha! who are these? Stand off, stand off, who are you?
Sal.
This is your King.
Card.
What King? The King of Terrors?
Death! is it he? If thou be'st Death, I'le give thee
Treasure enough to purchase all this Kingdom,
So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.
King.
Ah! What a sign it is of evil life
When Death's approach appears so terrible?
War.
My Lord, my Lord! Do you know your King?
Car.
What King? what King?
War.
King Henry.
Car.
Ha! King Henry!
Sir, bring me to my Trial when you will,
I am prepar'd, died he not in his Bed?
Can I make men live whether they will no?
Oh! do not torture me! I will confess!—Oh!
King.
Poor wretch!
War.
What think you, Sir? Are not these signs
Of horrid Guilt?
King.
Let us not Censure him.
Car.
Alive again, do you say? Ha! shew him me!
I'le give a Thousand Pound to look on him.
Stand by and let me see him,—there he is,
He has no Eyes, the dust has blinded e'm,
Comb down his hair!—look!—look! it stands upright
Like Limetwigs, set to catch my flying Soul.
I prethee do not carry me along with thee,
And I'le do cruel Pennance all my life;
Hunger shall tear my Entrals, Whips my Flesh,
Thorns my bare Feet; my habit shall be Hair cloth,
The Rock my Bed, hard Roots my only food,
Foul Puddle all my drink; if this suffice not,
I'le sell my self a Slave among the Turks:
What dost thou say? wilt thou consent to this?
King.
Oh! thou eternal Mercy, cast an eye
Of pity on this Wretch! Oh! drive away from him
The hungry Fiend, that strives to gripe his Soul.
Card.
Ha! Wilt thou not consent? and must I die?
Oh! let me live, and be a Slave, a Dog!
What must I die? Oh! this is very cruel!
War.
See how he grins, Sir, with the pangs of Death.
Sal.
Disturb him not, let him pass peaceably.
King.
Peace to his Soul, if it be Heavens good pleasure.
Lord Cardinal, If you have any hopes of Heaven,
Hold up your hand, and give a joyful signal.
Sal.
He gives us none.
King.
Oh! Heaven have mercy on him.
War.
He gives a dreadful signal of his Guilt.
King.
Forbear to judge him, we are sinners all.
He's dead!—close up his eyes,—and let us all
To sad and devout Meditation.
Exeunt.
Enter the Cardinal.
Card.
I'me vext! I'me more, I'me wrack'd! By what? who knows?
By a thing within me call'd a Conscience.
A Trick,—a Spring, that catches us, and pinches,
If we but point at an ill Action.
Why is it an ill thing to kill a man?
He is the Plague and Sickness of the World.
'Tis a kind honest thing to kill a man,
You cure the World of one Disease, you free
Thousands from Mischief, and you ease the man.
Yet if one do a man so great a kindness,
The damn'd ungrateful Rogue torments one's Conscience.
Men are ungrateful Rogues, living or dead.
I know not what to do; I must have ease.
Ho there!
Enter a Servant.
Ser.
My Lord.
Card.
Call my Physitian.
Stay there!—What shou'd I do with a Physitian?
No Physick can give me any ease, but Poyson.
The gravel of the Grave is the best scowring
For such fierce Hawks as I am, after feeding.
Go, now I think on't, call my Confessor.
Let him alone!—What shou'd I do with him too?
My Soul is sick, and it can have no ease,
I grow sick.—
Unless it purge (forsooth) in a Priest's ear.
Fetch me a Glass of Wine, run quickly,—run.
I tremble!—a cold sweat comes over me,
All the Air tastes of an infernal damp.
63
1 Ser.
Help, help, my Lord is fallen! my Lord is dead!
2 Ser.
Oh! Heaven! What's the matter with my Lord?
3 Ser.
He opens now his eyes!
4 Ser.
He foams at the mouth.
1 Ser.
Let's set him in the Chair and give him air.
3 Ser.
I'le run for his Physitians.
Ex.
4 Ser.
I'le give notice
To all the Court.
Ex.
Enter the three Murtherers.
Card.
Stand off, and let the Duke of Glocester speak to me.
Speak, speak, I say! What wou'dst thou have with me?
2 Mur.
He names the Duke of Glocester.
1 Mur.
Oh! Does he so?
Is his Infallibility come to that? A Pox of his Doctrines,
He has damn'd himself and me too.
Card.
Who is the Grave-maker?
He is a Villain, he digs Graves so shallow,
The dead break Prison, and come plague the Living.
Why this is fine, the Living cannot eat
Nor drink, nor sleep in quiet for the Dead;
The Dead that can do none of e'm, must plague us.
Thou envious Ghost, get to thy own abode,
I know not where it is, in Heaven or Hell,
Oh! Hell! Hell! Hell! I am tormented: Oh!
1 Mur.
Oh! gallant, brave Infallibility!
Enter the King, Salisbury, Warwick.
King.
How does the Cardinal?
2 Mur.
Sir, of a sudden
He's fallen into a fit of Infallible Madness.
Card.
Ha! who are these? Stand off, stand off, who are you?
Sal.
This is your King.
Card.
What King? The King of Terrors?
Death! is it he? If thou be'st Death, I'le give thee
Treasure enough to purchase all this Kingdom,
So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.
King.
Ah! What a sign it is of evil life
When Death's approach appears so terrible?
War.
My Lord, my Lord! Do you know your King?
64
What King? what King?
War.
King Henry.
Car.
Ha! King Henry!
Sir, bring me to my Trial when you will,
I am prepar'd, died he not in his Bed?
Can I make men live whether they will no?
Oh! do not torture me! I will confess!—Oh!
King.
Poor wretch!
War.
What think you, Sir? Are not these signs
Of horrid Guilt?
King.
Let us not Censure him.
Car.
Alive again, do you say? Ha! shew him me!
I'le give a Thousand Pound to look on him.
Stand by and let me see him,—there he is,
He has no Eyes, the dust has blinded e'm,
Comb down his hair!—look!—look! it stands upright
Like Limetwigs, set to catch my flying Soul.
I prethee do not carry me along with thee,
And I'le do cruel Pennance all my life;
Hunger shall tear my Entrals, Whips my Flesh,
Thorns my bare Feet; my habit shall be Hair cloth,
The Rock my Bed, hard Roots my only food,
Foul Puddle all my drink; if this suffice not,
I'le sell my self a Slave among the Turks:
What dost thou say? wilt thou consent to this?
King.
Oh! thou eternal Mercy, cast an eye
Of pity on this Wretch! Oh! drive away from him
The hungry Fiend, that strives to gripe his Soul.
Card.
Ha! Wilt thou not consent? and must I die?
Oh! let me live, and be a Slave, a Dog!
What must I die? Oh! this is very cruel!
War.
See how he grins, Sir, with the pangs of Death.
Sal.
Disturb him not, let him pass peaceably.
King.
Peace to his Soul, if it be Heavens good pleasure.
Lord Cardinal, If you have any hopes of Heaven,
Hold up your hand, and give a joyful signal.
Sal.
He gives us none.
King.
Oh! Heaven have mercy on him.
War.
He gives a dreadful signal of his Guilt.
King.
Forbear to judge him, we are sinners all.
He's dead!—close up his eyes,—and let us all
To sad and devout Meditation.
Exeunt.
| Henry the Sixth, The First part | |