had I gone to it by fortune, I had made your sons George and Dick to have stood gaping after the Crown. This wench, mother, is a widow, and hath made proof of her valour; and for any thing I know, I am as like to do the deed, as John Gray her husband was. I had rather the people prayed to bless mine heir, than send me an heir. Hold your peace, if you can see; there was never mother had a towarder son. Why, cousin Howard and Tom Sellinger, heard you ever such a coil about a wife?

How. My sovereign lord, with patience bear her spleen. Your princely mother's zeal is like a river,

That from the free abundance of the waters

Breaks out into this inundation.

From her abundant care this rage proceeds,
O'er-swoln with the extremity of love.

Sel. My lord, my lord, avoid a woman's humour.

If you resist this tumour of her will,

Here you shall have her dwell upon this passion,
Until she lade and dull our ears again.

Seem you but sorry for what you have done,
And straight she'll put the finger in the eye,
With comfort now, since it cannot be helpt.
But make you show to justify the act,
If ever other language in her lips
Than "Out upon it, it is abominable !"
I dare be hanged.

Say any thing, it makes no matter what,

Than thus be wearied with a woman's chat.

Duch. Ay, ay, you are the spaniels of the court,
And thus you fawn and soothe your wanton king:
But, Edward, had'st thou priz'd thy majesty,
Thou never would'st have stain'd thy princely state
With the base leavings of a subject's bed,

Nor borne the blemish of her bigamy.

A widow is it not a goodly thing?

Gray's children, come ask blessing of the King.

Queen. Nay, I beseech your grace, my lady York,
Even as you are a princess and a widow,
Think not so meanly of my widowhood:
A spotless virgin came I first to Gray;
With him I liv'd a true and faithful wife;
And since his high imperial majesty
Hath pleas'd to bless my poor dejected state
With the high sovereign title of his Queen,
I here protest, before the host of heaven,
I came as chaste a widow to his bed

As when a virgin I to Gray was wed.

King. Come, come, have done. Now you have chid enough. God's foot, we were as merry ere she came as any people in Christendom, I with the mistress and these with the maids, only we have no fiddlers at our feast; but, mother, you have made a fit of mirth. Welcome to Grafton, mother. By my troth, you are even just come as I wished you here. Let us go to supper; and in charity give us your blessing ere we go to bed.

Duch. O Edward, Edward! fly and leave this place,
Wherein, poor silly king, thou art enchanted.
This is her dam of Bedford's work, her mother,
That hath bewitch'd thee, Edward, my poor child.
Dishonour not the princes of thy land,

To make them kneel with reverence at her feet,
That, ere thou didst empale with sovereignty,
They would have scorned to have look'd upon.
There's no such difference 'twixt the greatest peer
And the poor silliest kitchen-maid that lives,
As is betwixt thy worthiness and her's.

Queen. I do confess it: yet, my lady York,

My mother is a duchess, as you are,
A princess born, the Duke of Bedford's wife,

And, as you know, a daughter and a sister
Unto the royal blood of Burgundy.

But

you cannot so basely think on me,
As I do think of these vain worldly titles.
God from my soul my sin as far divide,
As I am far from boasting in this pride!

Sel. Madam, she is the mirror of her kind.
Had she but so much spleen as hath a gnat,
Her spirits would startle to abide your taunts.
She is a saint, and, madam, you blaspheme,
To wrong so sweet a lady.

Duch. Thou art a minion and a flatterer.

Sel. Madam, but that you are my sovereign's mother, I would let you know you wrong a gentleman.

How. Good cousin Sellinger, have patience.
Her grace's rage, by too much violence,
Hath spent itself already into air.

Dear madam, I beseech you, on my knee,
Tender that loving-kindness to the Queen,
That I dare swear she doth in soul to you.

Edw. Well said, good coz; I pray thee, make them friends.

Why, how now, Bess, what weep? nay then, I'll chide you. What sudden news comes by this messenger?

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My sovereign lord, the bastard Falconbridge Of late hath stirr'd rebellion in the south,

Encouraging his forces to deliver

King Henry, late depos'd, out of the Tower.
To him the malcontented commons flock
From every part of Sussex, Kent, and Essex,
His army waxed twenty thousand strong,
And, as it is suppos'd by circumstance,
Mean to take London, if not well defended.

Edw. Well, let this Phaeton, that is mounted thus,

Look he sit surely, or, by England's George,
I'll break his neck. This is no new evasion;
I surely thought that one day I should see
That bastard Falcon take his wings to mount
Into our eagle-aery. Methought I saw
Black discontent sit ever on his brow,
And now I see I calculated well.

Good cousin Howard, and Tom Sellinger,
This night we'll spend in feast and jollity
With our new Queen and our beloved mother:
To-morrow you shall have commission

To raise up power against this haughty rebel.
Sirrah, depart not till you know our pleasure.
You shall convey us letters back to London
Unto the Mayor, Recorder, and our friends.
Is supper ready? come by, my bonny Bess.
Welcome, mother; we are all your guests.

SCENE II.—Near London.

[Exeunt.

Enter FALCONBRIDGE with his troops, marching, Spicing, Smoke, Chub, and others.

Fal. Hold, drum!

Spi. Hold, drum, and be hanged!

Smoke. Hold, drum, hold! peace then, ho!

Silence to the proclamation.

Spi. You lie, you rogue; 'tis to the oration.

Chub. Nay, then, you all lie; 'tis to the coblication.

Fal. True-hearted English, and our valiant friends

All. Ho! brave General, i'faith.

Spi. Peace there, you rogues, or I will split your chaps.
Fal. Dear countrymen, I publicly proclaim,

If any wronged, discontented English,

Touch'd with true feeling of King Henry's wrongs,

Henry the Sixth, the lawful king of England,

Who, by that tyrant Edward, the usurper,
Is held a wretched prisoner in the Tower,
If any man that fain would be enfranchis'd
From the sad yoke of Yorkish servitude,
Under which we toil like naked galley-slaves,
Know he that Thomas Neville, the Lord Falconbridge
All. Ay, ay! a Falconbridge! a Falconbridge!
Spi. Peace, ye clamorous rogues! On, General, with
your oration. Peace, there!

Fal. Pitying King Henry's poor distressed case,
Arm'd with his title and a subject's zeal,

Takes up just arms against the house of York,
And does proclaim our ancient liberty.

All. Liberty, liberty, liberty, general liberty!
Fal. We do not rise like Tyler, Cade, and Straw,
Bluebeard, and other of that rascal rout,
Basely like tinkers or such muddy slaves,
For mending measures or the price of corn,
Or for some common in the wild of Kent,
That's by some greedy cormorant enclos'd,
But in the true and antient lawful right
Of the redoubted house of Lancaster.
Our blood is noble, by our birth a Neville,
And by our lawful line, Lord Falconbridge.
Who's here that's of so dull a leaden temper,
That is not fired with a Neville's name?

All. A Neville! a Neville! a Neville!
Fal. Our quarrel, like ourself, is honourable,
The law our warrant.

Smoke. Ay, ay; the law is on our side.
Chub. Ay; the law is in our own hands.

Spi. Peace, you rogues!

Fal. And more: a blessing by the Word propos'd

To those that aid a true anointed king.

Courage, brave spirits, and cry a Falconbridge!