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The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea; And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades That drag the tragic melancholy night; Who, with their drowsy, slow and flagging wings, Clip dead men’s graves and from their misty jaws Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air. Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize; For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs, Here shall they make their ransom on the sand, Or with their blood stain this discolour’d shore. Master, this prisoner freely give I thee; And thou that art his mate, make boot of this; The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share.
The bright, noisy, and regretful day Has slipped into the sea; And now loud, howling wolves wake the tired horses That pull the sad, tragic night; Who, with their sleepy, slow and drooping wings, Clip the graves of the dead and from their misty mouths Breathe poisonous, contagious darkness into the air. So bring out the soldiers from our captured prize; For while our small ship is anchored in the Downs, They will either pay their ransom here on the shore, Or stain this sand with their blood. Master, I give you this prisoner freely; And you, his mate, can make use of this one; The other, Walter Whitmore, is yours to deal with.
What is my ransom, master? let me know.
What’s my ransom, captain? Tell me.
A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head. Master’s-Mate And so much shall you give, or off goes yours.
A thousand crowns, or else lose your head. Master’s-Mate And you’ll pay this much, or off goes your head.
What, think you much to pay two thousand crowns, And bear the name and port of gentlemen? Cut both the villains’ throats; for die you shall: The lives of those which we have lost in fight Be counterpoised with such a petty sum!
What, do you think it’s too much to pay two thousand crowns, And still call yourself a gentleman? Cut both these villains’ throats; you will die anyway: The lives of those we lost in battle Should be avenged with this small amount!
I’ll give it, sir; and therefore spare my life.
I’ll pay it, sir; so spare my life.
And so will I and write home for it straight.
And so will I, and I’ll write home for the money right away.
I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard, And therefore to revenge it, shalt thou die;
I lost my eye when capturing the prize, And so to avenge it, you shall die;
And so should these, if I might have my will.
And so would these, if I had my way.
Be not so rash; take ransom, let him live.
Don’t be so hasty; take the ransom, let him live.
Look on my George; I am a gentleman: Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.
Look at my George; I am a gentleman: Whatever you ask, I’ll pay.
And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore. How now! why start’st thou? what, doth death affright?
And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore. What’s this! Why do you flinch? What, is death scaring you?
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.
Your name scares me, for it brings death to mind. A wise man once predicted my birth And told me I would die by water: But don’t let that make you bloodthirsty; Your name is Walter, properly pronounced.
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 proclaim’d a coward through the world!
Gaultier or Walter, doesn’t matter to me: Our name has never been stained by dishonor, But with our sword, we’ve erased any shame; So, when I sell revenge like a merchant, Let my sword break, my arms be torn and ruined, And let the world call me a coward!
Stay, Whitmore; for thy prisoner is a prince, The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.
Wait, Whitmore; my prisoner is a prince, The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.
The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags!
The Duke of Suffolk wrapped in rags!
Ay, but these rags are no part of the duke: Jove sometimes went disguised, and why not I?
Yes, but these rags are not part of the duke: Jove sometimes disguised himself, so why shouldn’t I?
But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be.
But Jove was never killed, as you’ll be.
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 kiss’d thy hand and held my stirrup? Bare-headed 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, kneel’d down at the board. When I have feasted with Queen Margaret? Remember it and let it make thee crest-fall’n, Ay, and allay this 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.
Lowly servant, you dare threaten King Henry’s blood, The noble blood of Lancaster, Shouldn’t be shed by such a worn-out servant. Haven’t you kissed my hand and held my stirrup? Walked bareheaded beside my mule, And felt happy when I shook my head? How often have you waited at my cup, Eaten from my plate, knelt at my table, When I dined with Queen Margaret? Remember that, and let it humble you, Yes, and calm your foolish pride; How often have you waited in the hall For me to come out? This hand of mine has written in your favor, And now it will silence your rebellious tongue.
Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?
Speak, captain, should I stab this poor servant?
First let my words stab him, as he hath me.
Let my words stab him first, as he has done to me.
Base slave, thy words are blunt and so art thou.
Coward, your words are dull, and so are you.
Convey him hence and on our longboat’s side Strike off his head.
Take him away, and on our longboat’s side Cut off his head.
Thou darest not, for thy own.
You dare not, not for your own sake.
Yes, Pole.
Yes, Pole.
Pole!
Pole!
Pool! Sir Pool! lord! Ay, kennel, puddle, sink; whose filth and dirt Troubles the silver spring where England drinks. Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth For swallowing the treasure of the realm: Thy lips that kiss’d the queen shall sweep the ground; And thou that smiledst at good Duke Humphrey’s death, Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain, Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again: And wedded be thou to the hags of hell, For daring to affy a mighty lord Unto the daughter of a worthless king, Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem. By devilish policy art thou grown great, And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorged With gobbets of thy mother’s bleeding heart. By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France, The false revolting Normans thorough thee Disdain to call us lord, and Picardy Hath slain their governors, surprised our forts, And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home. The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all, Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain, As hating thee, are rising up in arms: And now the house of York, thrust from the crown By shameful murder of a guiltless king And lofty proud encroaching tyranny, Burns with revenging fire; whose hopeful colours Advance our half-faced sun, striving to shine, Under the which is writ ’Invitis nubibus.’ The commons here in Kent are up in arms: And, to conclude, reproach and beggary Is crept into the palace of our king. And all by thee. Away! convey him hence.
Pool! Sir Pool! lord! Yes, a pit, a puddle, a filthy sink; Whose muck disturbs the clean water where England drinks. Now I will close up this dirty mouth That swallows the kingdom’s treasure: Your lips that kissed the queen will kiss the ground; And you, who smiled at good Duke Humphrey’s death, Will laugh in vain against the wind, Who will hiss at you in contempt: And may you be wed to the hags of hell, For daring to tie a great lord To the daughter of a worthless king, Who had no people, no wealth, no crown. Through devilish schemes, you’ve grown powerful, And like the greedy Sylla, you’ve gorged On pieces of your mother’s bleeding heart. Through you, Anjou and Maine were sold to France, The false, rebellious Normans, through you Refuse to call us lord, and Picardy Has killed their leaders, captured our forts, And sent home wounded soldiers. The noble Warwick, and all the Nevils, Whose deadly swords never failed to strike, Are rising against you, hating you: And now the house of York, robbed of the crown By the shameful murder of a guiltless king And arrogant tyranny, Burns with a vengeful fire; their banner Shows our half-hidden sun, struggling to rise, Beneath which is written, ‘Against the clouded sky.’ The people of Kent are rising in rebellion: And, to sum it up, shame and poverty Have entered our king’s palace. All because of you. Get him out of here.
O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges! Small things make base men proud: this villain here, Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more Than Bargulus the strong Illyrian pirate. Drones suck not eagles’ blood but rob beehives: It is impossible that I should die By such a lowly vassal as thyself. Thy words move rage and not remorse in me: I go of message from the queen to France; I charge thee waft me safely cross the Channel.
I wish I were a god, to strike down these petty, weak, useless slaves! Small things make low men proud: this villain here, A mere captain of a small ship, threatens more Than the strong Illyrian pirate Bargulus. Drones don’t suck the blood of eagles, they rob the beehives: It’s impossible for me to die By such a low servant as you. Your words make me angry, not sorry: I’m on a mission from the queen to France; I command you to safely take me across the Channel.
Walter,--
Walter,--
Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death.
Come on, Suffolk, I have to send you to your death.
Gelidus timor occupat artus it is thee I fear.
A cold fear has taken hold of me; it’s you I’m afraid of.
Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee. What, are ye daunted now? now will ye stoop?
You’ll have reason to fear before I’m done with you. What, are you scared now? Will you give up now?
My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair.
My lord, please, ask him kindly, speak gently to him.
Suffolk’s imperial tongue is stern and rough, Used to command, untaught to plead for favour. Far be it we should honour such as these With humble suit: no, rather let my head Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any Save to the God of heaven and to my king; And sooner dance upon a bloody pole Than stand uncover’d to the vulgar groom. True nobility is exempt from fear: More can I bear than you dare execute.
Suffolk’s royal voice is harsh and firm, Used to giving orders, not begging for mercy. It would be beneath me to ask for mercy from men like these. No, let my head fall to the block before these knees bend to anyone Except the God of heaven and my king; And I’d sooner dance on a bloody pole Than bow my head to some common man. True nobility does not know fear: I can endure more than you could ever carry out.
Hale him away, and let him talk no more.
Drag him away, and don’t let him speak anymore.
Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can, That this my death may never be forgot! Great men oft die by vile bezonians: A Roman sworder and banditto slave Murder’d sweet Tully; Brutus’ bastard hand Stabb’d Julius Caesar; savage islanders Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates.
Come, soldiers, show me what cruelty you can muster, So that my death will never be forgotten! Great men often die at the hands of lowly men: A Roman soldier and a bandit slave Killed the great Cicero; Brutus’ bastard hand Stabbed Julius Caesar; savage islanders Killed Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates.
And as for these whose ransom we have set, It is our pleasure one of them depart; Therefore come you with us and let him go.
As for the ones we’ve set a ransom on, It’s our decision that one of them should leave; So you come with us, and let him go.
There let his head and lifeless body lie, Until the queen his mistress bury it.
Let his head and lifeless body stay here, Until the queen, his mistress, comes to bury it.
O barbarous and bloody spectacle! His body will I bear unto the king: If he revenge it not, yet will his friends; So will the queen, that living held him dear.
Oh, what a savage and bloody sight! I’ll take his body to the king: If he doesn’t avenge it, his friends will; And so will the queen, who loved him while he lived.