Queene. Oft haue I heard that greefe softens the mind,
And makes it fearefull and degenerate,
Thinke therefore on reuenge, and cease to weepe.
But who can cease to weepe, and looke on this.
Heere may his head lye on my throbbing brest:
But where's the body that I should imbrace?
Buc. What answer makes your Grace to the Rebells
Supplication?
King. Ile send some holy Bishop to intreat:
For God forbid, so many simple soules
Should perish by the Sword. And I my selfe,
Rather then bloody Warre shall cut them short,
Will parley with Iacke Cade their Generall.
But stay, Ile read it ouer once againe
Qu. Ah barbarous villaines: Hath this louely face,
Rul'd like a wandering Plannet ouer me,
And could it not inforce them to relent,
That were vnworthy to behold the same
King. Lord Say, Iacke Cade hath sworne to haue thy
head
Say. I, but I hope your Highnesse shall haue his
King. How now Madam?
Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolkes death?
I feare me (Loue) if that I had beene dead,
Thou would'st not haue mourn'd so much for me
Qu. No my Loue, I should not mourne, but dye for
thee.
Enter a Messenger.
King. How now? What newes? Why com'st thou in
such haste?
Mes. The Rebels are in Southwarke: Fly my Lord:
Iacke Cade proclaimes himselfe Lord Mortimer,
Descended from the Duke of Clarence house,
And calles your Grace Vsurper, openly,
And vowes to Crowne himselfe in Westminster.
His Army is a ragged multitude
Of Hindes and Pezants, rude and mercilesse:
Sir Humfrey Stafford, and his Brothers death,
Hath giuen them heart and courage to proceede:
All Schollers, Lawyers, Courtiers, Gentlemen,
They call false Catterpillers, and intend their death
Kin. Oh gracelesse men: they know not what they do
Buck. My gracious Lord, retire to Killingworth,
Vntill a power be rais'd to put them downe
Qu. Ah were the Duke of Suffolke now aliue,
These Kentish Rebels would be soone appeas'd