University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

WALSINGHAM.

Scene I.

Windsor Castle.
Queen Elizabeth and Sir Francis Walsingham.
Elizabeth.
What will ye make me? Let the council know
I am yet their loving mistress, but they lay
Too strange a burden on my love who send
As to their servant word what ways to take,
What sentence of my subjects given subscribe
And in mine own name utter. Bid them wait;
Have I not patience? and was never quick
To teach my tongue the deadly word of death,
Lest one day strange tongues blot my fame with blood;
The red addition of my sister's name
Shall brand not mine.

Walsingham.
God grant your mercy shown
Mark not your memory like a martyr's red
With pure imperial heart's-blood of your own
Shed through your own sweet-spirited height of heart
That held your hand from justice.

Elizabeth.
I would rather
Stand in God's sight so signed with mine own blood
Than with a sister's—innocent; or indeed
Though guilty—being a sister's—might I choose,
As being a queen I may not surely—no—
I may not choose, you tell me.

Walsingham.
Nay, no man
Hath license of so large election given
As once to choose, being servant called of God,
If he will serve or no, or save the name
And slack the service.

Elizabeth.
Yea, but in his Word
I find no word that whets for king-killing
The sword kings bear for justice; yet I doubt,
Being drawn, it may not choose but strike at root—
Being drawn to cut off treason. Walsingham,
You are more a statesman than a gospeller;
Take for your tongue's text now no text of God's,
But what the devil has put into their lips
Who should have slain me; nay, what by God's grace,
Who bared their purpose to us, through pain or fear
Hath been wrung thence of secrets writ in fire
At bottom of their hearts. Have they confessed?

Walsingham.
The twain trapped first in London.

Elizabeth.
What, the priest?
Their twice-turned Ballard, ha?

Walsingham.
Madam, not he.

Elizabeth.
God's blood! ye have spared not him the torment, knaves?
Of all I would not spare him.

Walsingham.
Verily, no;
The rack hath spun his life's thread out so fine
There is but left for death to slit in twain
The thickness of a spider's.

Elizabeth.
Ay, still dumb?

Walsingham.
Dumb for all good the pains can get of him;
Had he drunk dry the chalice of his craft
Brewed in design abhorred of even his friends
With poisonous purpose toward your majesty,
He had kept scarce harder silence.

Elizabeth.
Poison? ay—
That should be still the churchman's household sword
Or saintly staff to bruise crowned heads from far
And break them with his precious balms that smell
Rank as the jaws of death, or festal fume
When Rome yet reeked with Borgia; but the rest
Had grace enow to grant me for goodwill
Some death more gracious than a rat's? God wot,
I am bounden to them, and will charge for this
The hangman thank them heartily; they shall not
Lack daylight means to die by. God, meseems,
Will have me not die darkling like a dog,
Who hath kept my lips from poison and my heart
From shot of English knave or Spanish, both
Dubbed of the devil or damned his doctors, whom
My riddance from all ills that plague man's life
Should have made great in record; and for wage
Your Ballard hath not better hap to fee
Than Lopez had or Parry. Well, he lies
As dumb in bonds as those dead dogs in earth,
You say, but of his fellows newly ta'en
There are that keep not silence: what say these?
Pour in mine ears the poison of their plot
Whose fangs have stung the silly snakes to death.

Walsingham.
The first a soldier, Savage, in these wars
That sometime serving sought a traitor's luck
Under the prince Farnese, then of late
At Rheims was tempted of our traitors there,
Of one in chief, Gifford the seminarist,
My smock-faced spy's good uncle, to take off
Or the earl of Leicester or your gracious self;
And since his passage hither, to confirm
His hollow-hearted hardihood, hath had
Word from this doctor more solicitous yet
Sent by my knave his nephew, who of late
Was in the seminary of so deadly seed
Their reader in philosophy, that their head,
Even Cardinal Allen, holds for just and good
The purpose laid upon his hand; this man
Makes yet more large confession than of this,
Saying from our Gilbert's trusty mouth he had
Assurance that in Italy the Pope
Hath levies raised against us, to set forth
For seeming succour toward the Parmesan,
But in their actual aim bent hither, where
With French and Spaniards in one front of war
They might make in upon us; but from France
No foot shall pass for inroad on our peace
Till—so they phrase it—by these Catholics here
Your majesty be taken, or—

Elizabeth.
No more—
But only taken? springed but bird-like? Ha!
They are something tender of our poor personal chance—
Temperately tender: yet I doubt the springe
Had haply maimed me no less deep than life
Sits next the heart most mortal. Or—so be it
I slip the springe—what yet may shackle France,
Hang weights upon their purpose who should else
Be great of heart against us? They take time
Till I be taken—or till what signal else
As favourable?

Walsingham.
Till she they serve be brought
Safe out of Paulet's keeping.

Elizabeth.
Ay? they know him
So much my servant, and his guard so good,
That sound of strange feet marching on our soil
Against us in his prisoner's name perchance
Might from the walls wherein she sits his guest
Raise a funereal echo? Yet I think
He would not dare—what think'st thou might he dare
Without my word for warrant? If I knew
This—

Walsingham.
It should profit not your grace to know
What may not be conceivable for truth
Without some stain on honour.

Elizabeth.
Nay, I say not
That I would have him take upon his hand
More than his trust may warrant: yet have men,
Good men, for very truth of their good hearts
Put loyal hand to work as perilous—well,
God wot I would not have him so transgress—
If such be called transgressors.

Walsingham.
Let the queen
Rest well assured he shall not. So far forth
Our swordsman Savage witnesses of these
That moved him toward your murder but in trust
Thereby to bring invasion over sea:
Which one more gently natured of his birth,
Tichborne, protests with very show of truth
That he would give no ear to, knowing, he saith,
The miseries of such conquest: nor, it seems,
Heard this man aught of murderous purpose bent
Against your highness.

Elizabeth.
Naught? why then, again,
To him I am yet more bounden, who may think,
Being found but half my traitor, at my hands
To find but half a hangman.

Walsingham.
Nay, the man
Herein seems all but half his own man, being
Made merely out of stranger hearts and brains
Their engine of conspiracy; for thus
Forsooth he pleads, that Babington his friend
First showed him how himself was wrought upon
By one man's counsel and persuasion, one
Held of great judgment, Ballard, on whose head
All these lay all their forfeit.

Elizabeth.
Yet shall each
Pay for himself red coin of ransom down
In costlier drops than gold is. But of these
Why take we thought? their natural-subject blood
Can wash not out their sanguine-sealed attempt,
Nor leave us marked as tyrant: only she
That is the head and heart of all your fears
Whose hope or fear is England's, quick or dead,
Leaves or imperilled or impeached of blood
Me that with all but hazard of mine own,
God knows, would yet redeem her. I will write
With mine own hand to her privily,—what else?—
Saying, if by word as privy from her hand
She will confess her treasonous practices,
They shall be wrapped in silence up, and she
By judgment live unscathed.

Walsingham.
Being that she is,
So surely will she deem of your great grace,
And see it but as a snare set wide, or net
Spread in the bird's sight vainly.

Elizabeth.
Why, then, well:
She, casting off my grace, from all men's grace
Cuts off herself, and even aloud avows
By silence and suspect of jealous heart
Her manifest foul conscience: on which proof
I will proclaim her to the parliament
So self-convicted. Yet I would not have
Her name and life by mortal evidence
Touched at the trial of them that now shall die
Or by their charge attainted: lest myself
Fall in more peril of her friends than she
Stands yet in shot of judgment.

Walsingham.
Be assured,
Madam, the process of their treasons judged
Shall tax not her before her trial-time
With public note of clear complicity
Even for that danger's sake which moves you.

Elizabeth.
Me
So much it moves not for my mere life's sake
Which I would never buy with fear of death
As for the general danger's and the shame's
Thence cast on queenship and on womanhood
By mean of such a murderess. But, for them,
I would the merited manner of their death
Might for more note of terror be referred
To me and to my council: these at least
Shall hang for warning in the world's wide eye
More high than common traitors, with more pains
Being ravished forth of their more villainous lives
Than feed the general throat of justice. Her
Shall this too touch, whom none that serves henceforth
But shall be sure of hire more terrible
Than all past wage of treason.

Walsingham.
Why, so far
As law gives leave—

Elizabeth.
What prat'st thou me of law?
God's blood! is law for man's sake made, or man
For law's sake only, to be held in bonds,
Led lovingly like hound in huntsman's leash
Or child by finger, not for help or stay,
But hurt and hindrance? Is not all this land
And all its hope and surety given to time
Of sovereignty and freedom, all the fame
And all the fruit of manhood hence to be,
More than one rag or relic of its law
Wherewith all these lie shackled? as too sure
Have states no less than ours been done to death
With gentle counsel and soft-handed rule
For fear to snap one thread of ordinance
Though thence the state were strangled.

Walsingham.
Madam, yet
There need no need be here of law's least breach,
That of all else is worst necessity—
Being such a mortal medicine to the state
As poison drunk to expel a feverish taint
Which air or sleep might purge as easily.

Elizabeth.
Ay, but if air be poison-struck with plague
Or sleep to death lie palsied, fools were they,
Faint hearts and faithless, who for health's fair sake
Should fear to cleanse air, pierce and probe the trance,
With purging fire or iron. Have your way.
God send good end of all this, and procure
Some mean whereby mine enemies' craft and his
May take no feet but theirs in their own toils,
And no blood shed be innocent as mine.

Scene II.

Chartley.
Mary Beaton and Sir Amyas Paulet.
Paulet.
You should do well to bid her less be moved
Who needs fear less of evil. Since we came
Again from Tixall this wild mood of hers
Hath vexed her more than all men's enmities
Should move a heart more constant. Verily,
I thought she had held more rule upon herself
Than to call out on beggars at the gate
When she rode forth, crying she had nought to give,
Being all as much a beggar too as they,
With all things taken from her.

Mary Beaton.
Being so served,
In sooth she should not show nor shame nor spleen:
It was but seventeen days ye held her there
Away from all attendance, as in bonds
Kept without change of raiment, and to find,
Being thence haled hither again, no nobler use,
But all her papers plundered—then her keys
By force of violent threat wrung from the hand
She scarce could stir to help herself abed:
These were no matters that should move her.

Paulet.
None,
If she be clean of conscience, whole of heart,
Nor else than pure in purpose, but maligned
Of men's suspicions: how should one thus wronged
But hold all hard chance good to approve her case
Blameless, give praise for all, turn all to thanks
That might unload her of so sore a charge,
Despoiled not, but disburdened? Her great wrath
Pleads hard against her, and itself spake loud
Alone, ere other witness might unseal
Wrath's fierce interpretation: which ere long
Was of her secretaries expounded.

Mary Beaton.
Sir,
As you are honourable, and of equal heart
Have shown such grace as man being manful may
To such a piteous prisoner as desires
Nought now but what may hurt not loyalty
Though you comply therewith to comfort her,
Let her not think your spirit so far incensed
By wild words of her mistress cast on you
In heat of heart and bitter fire of spleen
That you should now close ears against a prayer
Which else might fairly find them open.

Paulet.
Speak
More short and plainly: what I well may grant
Shall so seem easiest granted.

Mary Beaton.
There should be
No cause I think to seal your lips up, though
I crave of them but so much breath as may
Give mine ear knowledge of the witness borne
(If aught of witness were against her borne)
By those her secretaries you spake of.

Paulet.
This
With hard expostulation was drawn forth
At last of one and other, that they twain
Had writ by record from their lady's mouth
To Babington some letter which implies
Close conscience of his treason, and goodwill
To meet his service with complicity:
But one thing found therein of deadliest note
The Frenchman swore they set not down, nor she
Bade write one word of favour nor assent
Answering this murderous motion toward our queen:
Only, saith he, she held herself not bound
For love's sake to reveal it, and thereby
For love of enemies do to death such friends
As only for her own love's sake were found
Fit men for murderous treason: and so much
Her own hand's transcript of the word she sent
Should once produced bear witness of her.

Mary Beaton.
Ay?
How then came this withholden?

Paulet.
If she speak
But truth, why, truth should sure be manifest,
And shall, with God's good will, to good men's joy
That wish not evil: as at Fotheringay
When she shall come to trial must be tried
If it be truth or no: for which assay
You shall do toward her well and faithfully
To bid her presently prepare her soul
That it may there make answer.

Mary Beaton.
Presently?

Paulet.
Upon the arraignment of her friends who stand
As 'twere at point of execution now
Ere sentence pass upon them of their sin.
Would you no more with me?

Mary Beaton.
I am bounden to you
For thus much tidings granted.

Paulet.
So farewell.

[Exit.
Mary Beaton.
So fare I well or ill as one who knows
He shall not fare much further toward his end.
Here looms on me the landmark of my life
That I have looked for now some score of years
Even with long-suffering eagerness of heart
And a most hungry patience. I did know,
Yea, God, thou knowest I knew this all that while,
From that day forth when even these eyes beheld
Fall the most faithful head in all the world,
Toward her most loving and of me most loved,
By doom of hers that was so loved of him
He could not love me nor his life at all
Nor his own soul nor aught that all men love,
Nor could fear death nor very God, or care
If there were aught more merciful in heaven
Than love on earth had been to him. Chastelard
I have not had the name upon my lips
That stands for sign of love the truest in man
Since first love made him sacrifice of men,
This long sad score of years retributive
Since it was cast out of her heart and mind
Who made it mean a dead thing; nor, I think,
Will she remember it before she die
More than in France the memories of old friends
Are like to have yet forgotten; but for me,
Haply thou knowest, so death not all be death,
If all these years I have had not in my mind
Through all these chances this one thought in all,
That I shall never leave her till she die.
Nor surely now shall I much longer serve
Who fain would lie down at her foot and sleep,
Fain, fain have done with waking. Yet my soul
Knows, and yet God knows, I would set not hand
To such a work as might put on the time
And make death's foot more forward for her sake:
Yea, were it to deliver mine own soul
From bondage and long-suffering of my life,
I would not set mine hand to work her wrong.
Tempted I was—but hath God need of me
To work his judgment, bring his time about,
Approve his justice if the word be just
That whoso doeth shall suffer his own deed,
Bear his own blow, to weep tears back for tears,
And bleed for bloodshed? God should spare me this
That once I held the one good hope on earth,
To be the mean and engine of her end
Or some least part at least therein: I prayed,
God, give me so much grace—who now should pray,
Tempt me not, God. My heart swelled once to know
I bore her death about me; as I think
Indeed I bear it: but what need hath God
That I should clench his doom with craft of mine?
What needs the wrath of hot Elizabeth
Be blown aflame with mere past writing read,
Which hath to enkindle it higher already proof
Of present practice on her state and life?
Shall fear of death or love of England fail
Or memory faint or foresight fall stark blind,
That there should need the whet and spur of shame
To turn her spirit into some chafing snake's
And make its fang more feared for mortal? Yet
I am glad, and I repent me not, to know
I have the writing in my bosom sealed
That bears such matter with her own hand signed
As she that yet repents her not to have writ
Repents her not that she refrained to send
And fears not but long since it felt the fire—
Being fire itself to burn her, yet unquenched,
But in my hand here covered harmless up
Which had in charge to burn it. What perchance
Might then the reading of it have wrought for us,
If all this fiery poison of her scoffs
Making the foul froth of a serpent's tongue
More venomous, and more deadly toward her queen
Even Bess of Hardwick's bitterest babbling tales,
Had touched at heart the Tudor vein indeed?
Enough it yet were surely, though that vein
Were now the gentlest that such hearts may hold
And all doubt's trembling balance that way bent,
To turn as with one mortal grain cast in
The scale of grace against her life that writ
And weigh down pity deathward.

Enter Mary Stuart.
Mary Stuart.
Have we found
Such kindness of our keeper as may give
Some ease from expectation? or must hope
Still fret for ignorance how long here we stay
As men abiding judgment?

Mary Beaton.
Now not long,
He tells me, need we think to tarry; since
The time and place of trial are set, next month
To hold it in the castle of Fotheringay.

Mary Stuart.
Why, he knows well I were full easily moved
To set forth hence; there must I find more scope
To commune with the ambassador of France
By letter thence to London: but, God help,
Think these folk truly, doth she verily think,
What never man durst yet nor woman dreamed,
May one that is nor man nor woman think,
To bring a queen born subject of no laws
Here in subjection of an alien law
By foreign force of judgment? Were she wise,
Might she not have me privily made away?
And being nor wise nor valiant but of tongue,
Could she find yet foolhardiness of heart
Enough to attaint the rule of royal rights
With murderous madness? I will think not this
Till it be proven indeed.

Mary Beaton.
A month come round,
This man protests, will prove it.

Mary Stuart.
Ay! protests?
What protestation of what Protestant
Can unmake law that was of God's mouth made,
Unwrite the writing of the world, unsay
The general saying of ages? If I go,
Compelled of God's hand or constrained of man's,
Yet God shall bid me not nor man enforce
My tongue to plead before them for my life.
I had rather end as kings before me, die
Rather by shot or stroke of murderous hands,
Than so make answer once in face of man
As one brought forth to judgment. Are they mad,
And she most mad for envious heart of all,
To make so mean account of me? Methought,
When late we came back hither soiled and spent
And sick with travel, I had seen their worst of wrong
Full-faced, with its most outrage: when I found
My servant Curle's young new-delivered wife
Without priest's comfort and her babe unblessed
A nameless piteous thing born ere its time,
And took it from the mother's arms abed
And bade her have good comfort, since myself
Would take all charge against her husband laid
On mine own head to answer; deeming not
Man ever durst bid answer for myself
On charge as mortal: and mine almoner gone,
Did I not crave of Paulet for a grace
His chaplain might baptize me this poor babe,
And was denied it, and with mine own hands
For shame and charity moved to christen her
There with scant ritual in his heretic sight
By mine own woful name, whence God, I pray,
For her take off its presage? I misdeemed,
Who deemed all these and yet far more than these
For one born queen indignities enough,
On one crowned head enough of buffets: more
Hath time's hand laid upon me: yet I keep
Faith in one word I spake to Paulet, saying
Two things were mine though I stood spoiled of all
As of my letters and my privy coin
By pickpurse hands of office: these things yet
Might none take thievish hold upon to strip
His prisoner naked of her natural dower,
The blood yet royal running here unspilled
And that religion which I think to keep
Fast as this royal blood until I die.
So where at last and howsoe'er I fare
I need not much take thought, nor thou for love
Take of thy mistress pity; yet meseems
They dare not work their open will on me:
But God's it is that shall be done, and I
Find end of all in quiet. I would sleep
On this strange news of thine, that being awake
I may the freshlier front my sense thereof
And thought of life or death. Come in with me.

Scene III.

Tyburn.
A Crowd of Citizens.
1st Citizen.
Is not their hour yet on? Men say the queen
Bade spare no jot of torment in their end
That law might lay upon them.

2nd Citizen.
Truth it is,
To spare what scourge soe'er man's justice may
Twist for such caitiff traitors were to grieve
God's with mere inobservance. Hear you not
How yet the loud lewd braggarts of their side
Keep heart to threaten that for all this foil
They are not foiled indeed, but yet the work
Shall prosper with deliverance of their queen
And death for her of ours, though they should give
Of their own lives for one an hundredfold?

3rd Citizen.
These are bold mouths; one that shall die to-day,
Being this last week arraigned at Westminster,
Had no such heart, they say, to his defence,
Who was the main head of their treasons.

1st Citizen.
Ay,
And yesterday, if truth belie not him,
Durst with his doomed hand write some word of prayer
To the queen's self, her very grace, to crave
Grace of her for his gracelessness, that she
Might work on one too tainted to deserve
A miracle of compassion, whence her fame
For pity of sins too great for pity of man
Might shine more glorious than his crime showed foul
In the eye of such a mercy.

2nd Citizen.
Yet men said
He spake at his arraignment soberly
With clear mild looks and gracious gesture, showing
The purport of his treasons in such wise
That it seemed pity of him to hear them, how
All their beginnings and proceedings had
First head and fountain only for their spring
From ill persuasions of that poisonous priest
Who stood the guiltiest near, by this man's side
Approved a valiant villain. Barnwell next,
Who came but late from Ireland here to court,
Made simply protestation of design
To work no personal ill against the queen
Nor paint rebellion's face as murder's red
With blood imperial: Tichborne then avowed
He knew the secret of their aim, and kept,
And held forsooth himself no traitor; yet
In the end would even plead guilty, Donne with him,
And Salisbury, who not less professed he still
Stood out against the killing of the queen,
And would not hurt her for a kingdom: so,
When thus all these had pleaded, one by one
Was each man bid say fairly, for his part,
Why sentence should not pass: and Ballard first,
Who had been so sorely racked he might not stand,
Spake, but as seems to none effect: of whom
Said Babington again, he set them on,
He first, and most of all him, who believed
This priest had power to assoil his soul alive
Of all else mortal treason: Ballard then,
As in sad scorn—Yea, Master Babington,
Quoth he, lay all upon me, but I wish
For you the shedding of my blood might be
The saving of your life: howbeit, for that,
Say what you will; and I will say no more.
Nor spake the swordsman Savage aught again,
Who, first arraigned, had first avowed his cause
Guilty: nor yet spake Tichborne aught: but Donne
Spake, and the same said Barnwell, each had sinned
For very conscience only: Salisbury last
Besought the queen remission of his guilt.
Then spake Sir Christopher Hatton for the rest
That sat with him commissioners, and showed
How by dark doctrine of the seminaries
And instance most of Ballard had been brought
To extreme destruction here of body and soul
A sort of brave youths otherwise endowed
With goodly gifts of birthright: and in fine
There was the sentence given that here even now
Shows seven for dead men in our present sight
And shall bring six to-morrow forth to die.

Enter Babington, Ballard (carried in a chair), Tichborne, Savage, Barnwell, Tilney, and Abington, guarded: Sheriff, Executioner, Chaplain, &c.
1st Citizen.
What, will they speak?

2nd Citizen.
Ay; each hath leave in turn
To show what mood he dies in toward his cause.

Ballard.
Sirs, ye that stand to see us take our doom,
I being here given this grace to speak to you
Have but my word to witness for my soul,
That all I have done and all designed to do
Was only for advancement of true faith
To furtherance of religion: for myself
Aught would I never, but for Christ's dear church
Was mine intent all wholly, to redeem
Her sore affliction in this age and land,
As now may not be yet: which knowing for truth,
I am readier even at heart to die than live.
And dying I crave of all men pardon whom
My doings at all have touched, or who thereat
Take scandal; and forgiveness of the queen
If on this cause I have offended her.

Savage.
The like say I, that have no skill in speech,
But heart enough with faith at heart to die,
Seeing but for conscience and the common good,
And no preferment but this general weal,
I did attempt this business.

Barnwell.
I confess
That I, whose seed was of that hallowed earth
Whereof each pore hath sweated blood for Christ,
Had note of these men's drifts, which I deny
That ever I consented with or could
In conscience hold for lawful. That I came
To spy for them occasions in the court
And there being noted of her majesty
She seeing mine eyes peer sharply like a man's
That had such purpose as she wist before
Prayed God that all were well—if this were urged,
I might make answer, it was not unknown
To divers of the council that I there
Had matters to solicit of mine own
Which thither drew me then: yet I confess
That Babington, espying me thence returned,
Asked me what news: to whom again I told,
Her majesty had been abroad that day,
With all the circumstance I saw there. Now
If I have done her majesty offence
I crave her pardon: and assuredly
If this my body's sacrifice might yet
Establish her in true religion, here
Most willingly should this be offered up.

Tilney.
I came not here to reason of my faith,
But to die simply like a Catholic, praying
Christ give our queen Elizabeth long life,
And warning all youth born take heed by me.

Abington.
I likewise, and if aught I have erred in aught
I crave but pardon as for ignorant sin,
Holding at all points firm the Catholic faith;
And all things charged against me I confess,
Save that I ever sought her highness' death:
In whose poor kingdom yet ere long I fear
Will be great bloodshed.

Sheriff.
Seest thou, Abington,
Here all these people present of thy kind
Whose blood shall be demanded at thy hands
If dying thou hide what might endanger them?
Speak therefore, why or by what mortal mean
Should there be shed such blood?

Abington.
All that I know
You have on record: take but this for sure,
This country lives for its iniquity
Loathed of all countries, and God loves it not.
Whereon I pray you trouble me no more
With questions of this world, but let me pray
And in mine own wise make my peace with God.

Babington.
For me, first head of all this enterprise,
I needs must make this record of myself,
I have not conspired for profit, but in trust
Of men's persuasions whence I stood assured
This work was lawful which I should have done
And meritorious as toward God; for which
No less I crave forgiveness of my queen
And that my brother may possess my lands
In heritage else forfeit with my head.

Tichborne.
Good countrymen and my dear friends, you look
For something to be said of me, that am
But an ill orator; and my text is worse.
Vain were it to make full discourse of all
This cause that brings me hither, which before
Was all made bare, and is well known to most
That have their eyes upon me: let me stand
For all young men, and most for those born high,
Their present warning here: a friend I had,
Ay, and a dear friend, one of whom I made
No small account, whose friendship for pure love
To this hath brought me: I may not deny
He told me all the matter, how set down,
And ready to be wrought; which always I
Held impious, and denied to deal therein:
But only for my friend's regard was I
Silent, and verified a saying in me,
Who so consented to him. Ere this thing chanced,
How brotherly we twain lived heart in heart
Together, in what flourishing estate,
This town well knows: of whom went all report
Through her loud length of Fleetstreet and the Strand
And all parts else that sound men's fortunate names,
But Babington and Tichborne? that therein
There was no haughtiest threshold found of force
To brave our entry; thus we lived our life,
And wanted nothing we might wish for: then,
For me, what less was in my head, God knows,
Than high state matters? Give me now but leave
Scarce to declare the miseries I sustained
Since I took knowledge of this action, whence
To his estate I well may liken mine,
Who could forbear not one forbidden thing
To enjoy all else afforded of the world:
The terror of my conscience hung on me;
Who, taking heed what perils girt me, went
To Sir John Peters hence in Essex, there
Appointing that my horses by his mean
Should meet me here in London, whence I thought
To flee into the country: but being here
I heard how all was now bewrayed abroad:
Whence Adam-like we fled into the woods
And there were taken. My dear countrymen,
Albeit my sorrows well may be your joy,
Yet mix your smiles with tears: pity my case,
Who, born out of an house whose name descends
Even from two hundred years ere English earth
Felt Norman heel upon her, were it yet
Till this mishap of mine unspotted. Sirs,
I have a wife, and one sweet child: my wife,
My dear wife Agnes: and my grief is there;
And for six sisters too left on my hand:
All my poor servants were dispersed, I know,
Upon their master's capture: all which things
Most heartily I sorrow for: and though
Nought might I less have merited at her hands,
Yet had I looked for pardon of my fault
From the queen's absolute grace and clemency;
That the unexpired remainder of my years
Might in some sort have haply recompensed
This former guilt of mine whereof I die:
But seeing such fault may find not such release
Even of her utter mercies, heartily
I crave at least of her and all the world
Forgiveness, and to God commend my soul,
And to men's memory this my penitence
Till our death's record die from out the land.

1st Citizen.
God pardon him! Stand back: what ail these knaves
To drive and thrust upon us? Help me, sir;
I thank you: hence we take them full in view:
Hath yet the hangman there his knife in hand?