WHITMORE.
And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore.
How now! Why starts thou? What, doth death affright?
SUFFOLK.
Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death.
A cunning man did calculate my birth
And told me that by water I should die.
Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded;
Thy name is Gaultier, being rightly sounded.
WHITMORE.
Gaultier or Walter, which it is, I care not.
Never yet did base dishonour blur our name
But with our sword we wiped away the blot.
Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge,
Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defaced,
And I proclaimed a coward through the world!
SUFFOLK.
Stay, Whitmore, for thy prisoner is a prince,
The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.
WHITMORE.
The Duke of Suffolk, muffled up in rags?
SUFFOLK.
Ay, but these rags are no part of the Duke.
Jove sometime went disguised, and why not I?
LIEUTENANT.
But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be.
SUFFOLK.
Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry’s blood,
The honourable blood of Lancaster,
Must not be shed by such a jaded groom.
Hast thou not kissed thy hand and held my stirrup?
Bareheaded plodded by my foot-cloth mule,
And thought thee happy when I shook my head?
How often hast thou waited at my cup,
Fed from my trencher, kneeled down at the board,
When I have feasted with Queen Margaret?
Remember it, and let it make thee crestfallen,
Ay, and allay thus thy abortive pride.
How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood
And duly waited for my coming forth?
This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,
And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue.
WHITMORE.
Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?
LIEUTENANT.
First let my words stab him, as he hath me.