University of Virginia Library

Scene IV.

Exeter's Cell in the Tower.
EXETER.
Steps—not my warders—hearken—two are coming,
What next befalls? all day strange sounds were rise;
Trumpets and ordnance. What's to me who reigns
Or dies, or marries? all the sorry chances
Of courtly life! mayhap a King is murdered:
'Tis probable—the commonest accident!
Or Queen beheaded: well, if none but Queens,
I might not quarrel with the royal pastime.
Enter Northumberland and Headsman.
Ha! I should know that face; and lackeyed thus
By yon grim doomster, guess my coming fate.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
I greet you well, Lord Marquess Exeter!
Noble Plantagenet!

EXETER.
Hey! what means this?
The half-forgotten name—and fatal heritage!
Sir John of Dudley—bear and ragged staff!—
Or memory fails me.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
Now, Northumberland.

EXETER.
Indeed? excuse me: prisoners limp behind
The vaulting world. You are welcome.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
I would greet you
With tidings of content.

EXETER.
Long strangers here!

NORTHUMBERLAND.
I take your hand: nor coldly, thus, hereafter
Will you, perchance, vouchsafe it. I have power;
(In Edward's time I only had the will)
To serve you.

EXETER.
Ha! how well I guessed the truth!
One King the more is dead! who now rules England!
Chaste Boleyn's babe—or the Arragonian whelp?
No beauty I'll be sworn, unless Time makes one.

NORTHUMBERLAND.
The House of Grey is of the royal lineage.
To that King Edward's will bequeaths the crown.

EXETER.
My lady Duchess Queen?—Now God forbid!

NORTHUMBERLAND.
All cry amen to that—Her Grace of Suffolk
Yields to her wiser daughter—Lady Jane—
My son, Lord Guilford's wife; now Queen of England.

EXETER.
O now I do begin to read the stars,
And note what constellation climbs. My Lord,
Excuse the stiffness of imprisoned knees.
The obsolete posterity of Kings,
Lowly should bend to Kings' Progenitors.
Sir Headsman! art thou married?

HEADSMAN.
Nay, my Lord.

EXETER.
Get thee a wife then, in good haste: get sons!
Full-bosomed honour, like a plant in the sun,
Plays harlot to the hour. Lo! thistles burgeon
Even through the red Rose' cradle!

NORTHUMBERLAND.
My good Lord,
Unseasonable wit hath a warped edge,
Whereby the unskilful take unlooked for scars.
Good night—may fancy tickle you in dreams,
In which nor Boleyn's babe (I quote your phrase)
Nor whelp of Arragon—kind Heaven forfend!
Nor our grim friend here, with uncivil axe,
Dare mingle. Good night, Courtenaye!

EXETER.
Stay, Sir, stay—

NORTHUMBERLAND.
If at your bidding—yet bethink you well,
This trick of irony is dangerous.
Had you not guessed me for a friend, 'twere fatal
To have used it thus—“The whelp of Arragon!”
“Chaste Boleyn!” What if blood of these shall chance
To grace, or blot,—(the thought was your's) the throne?
Were Dudley not a friend, these words might slay you!

EXETER.
Be blisters on my lips!

NORTHUMBERLAND.
The rather salve them:
And for your best physician know John Dudley.
Henceforth we are as one—nay—mark me, Devon—
Or friends or foes! Are we as one? Why now,
This hand I clasp, and to my living heart
Fold it; in pledge of lasting amity.
So for short space, farewell! I go to plead
Your cause before the Council, and my daughter'
Queen Jane—your loving kinswoman. Good night!

[Exit.