Norf. They were misled by their ambitious fathers.
Win. What son to obey his father proves a traitor,
Must buy his disobedience with his death.
Wyat. My lord of Winchester still thirsts for blood.
Q. Mary. Wyat, no more; the law shall be their judge:
Mercy to mean offenders we’ll ostend,
Not unto such that dare usurp our crown.
Arun. Count Egmond, the ambassador from Spain,
Attends your Highness’ answer, brought those letters
Sent from the emperor in his son’s behalf.
Q. Mary. In the behalf of lovely, princely Philip,
Whose person we have shrined in our heart,
At the first sight of his delightful picture?
That picture should have power to tingle
Love in royal breasts: the darts of love are words,
Pictures, conceit he’ll prevail by any.
Your counsel, lords, about this foreign business.
Arm. I say, and it like your royal majesty,
A royal treaty, and to be confirm’d;
And I allow the match.
Win. Allow it, lords! we have cause
To thank our God, that such a mighty prince
As Philip is, son to the emperor,
Heir to wealthy Spain,
And many spacious kingdoms, will vouchsafe
Wyat. Vouchsafe, my lord of Winchester! pray, what?
Win. To grace our mighty sovereign with
His honourable title.
Wyat. To marry with our queen; mean you not so?
Win. I do; what then?
Wyat. O God! Is she a beggar, a forsaken maid,
That she hath need of grace from foreign princes?
By God’s dear mother — O God, pardon! swear I!
Methinks she is a fair and lovely prince;
Her only beauty, were she of mean birth,
Able to make the greatest potentate,
Ay, the great emperor of the mighty Cham,
That hath more nations under his command
Than Spanish Philip’s like to inherit towns,
To come and lay his sceptre at her feet,
And to entreat her to vouchsafe the grace
To take him and his kingdom to her mercy.
Win. Wyat, you are too hot.
Wyat. And you too proud. Vouchsafe! O, base!
I hope she’ll not vouchsafe
To take the emperor’s son to her dear mercy.
Q. Mary. Proceed, my lord of Winchester, I pray.
Win. Then still I say we’ve cause to thank our God,
That such a mighty prince will look so low
As to respect this island and our queen.
Wyat. Pardon me, madam; he respects your island
More than your person: think of that.
Norf. Wyat, you wrong the affection of the prince,
For he desires no fortresses nor towns,
Nor to bear any office, rule, or state,
Either by person or by substitute,
Nor yet himself to be a councillor
In our affairs.
Wyat. What need he, noble lords,
To ask the fruit, when he demands the tree?
No castle, fortresses, nor towers of strength!
It boots not, when the chiefest tower of all,
The key that opens unto all the land,
I mean our gracious sovereign, must be his.
But he will bear no office in the land, —
And yet will marry with the queen of all!
Nor be of council in the realm’s affairs —
And yet the queen enclosed in his arms!
I do not like this strange marriage:
The fox is subtle, and his head once in,
The slender body easily will follow.
I grant he offers you, in name of dower,
The yearly sum of threescore thousand ducats,
Besides the seventeen famous provinces,
And that the heir succeeding from your loins
Shall have the sovereign rule of both the realms.
What! shall this move your highness to the match?
Spain is too far for England to inherit,
But England near enough for Spain to woo.
Q. Mary. Have not the kings of England, good Sir
Thomas,
Espous’d the daughters of our neighbour kings?
Wyat. I grant your predecessors oft have sought
Their queen from France, and sometimes, too from Spain:
But never could I hear that England yet
Has been so base, to seek a king from either.
’Tis policy, dear queen, no love at all.
Win. ’Tis love, great queen, no policy at all.
Wyat. Which of you all dares justify this match,
And not be touch’d in conscience with an oath?
Remember, O remember, I beseech you,
King Henry’s last will and his act at court!
I mean that royal court of parliament,
That does prohibit Spaniards from the land,
That Will and Act to which you all are sworn,
And do not damn your souls with perjury.
Q. Mary. But that we know thee, Wyat, to be true
Unto the crown of England and to us,
Thy over-boldness should be paid with death:
But cease, for fear your liberal tongue offend.
With one consent, my lords, you like this match?
Omnes. We do, great sovereign.
Q. Mary. Call in Count Egmond, honourable lords.
Enter EGMOND
We have determin’d of your embassy,
And thus I plight our love to Philip’s heart.
Embark you straight, the wind blows wondrous fair:
Till he shall land in England I’m all care.
[Exeunt all but Sir Thomas Wyat.
Wyat. And ere he land in England, I will offer
My loyal breast for him to tread upon,
O, who so forward, Wyat, as thyself
To raise this troublesome queen in this her throne!
Philip is a Spaniard, a proud nation,
Whom naturally our countrymen abhor.
Assist me, gracious heavens, and you shall see
What bate I bear unto their slavery!
I’ll into Kent, there muster up each friend,
To save this country, and this realm defend. [Exit.
Enter GUILDFORD, JANE, and LIEUTENANT.
Guild. Good morrow to the patron of my woe.
Jane. Good morrow to my lord, my lovely Dudley:
Why do you look so sad, my dearest lord?
Guild. Nay, why doth Jane thus with a heavy eye,
And a defected look, salute the day?
Sorrow doth ill become thy silver brow:
Sad grief lies dead, so long as thou lives fair;
In my Jane’s joy, I do not care for care.
Jane. My looks, my love, are sorted with my heart.
The sun himself doth scantly show his face.
Out of this firm grate you may perceive
The Tower-hill throng’d with store of people,
As if they gap’d for some strange novelty.
Guild. Though sleep do seldom dwell in men of care,
Yet I did this night sleep, and this night dream’d
My princely father, great Northumberland,
Was married to a stately bride;
And then methought, just on his bridal day,
A poison’d draught did take his life away.
Jane. Let not fond visions so appal my love,
For dreams do oftentimes contrary prove.
Guild. The nights are tedious, and the days are sad:
And see you how the people stand in heaps,
Each man sad looking on his appos’d object,
As if a general passion possess’d them?
Their eyes do seem as dropp
ing as the moon,
As if prepared for a tragedy;
For never swarms of people there do tread,
But to rob life and to enrich the dead,
And show they wept.
Lieut. My lord, they did so, for I was there.
Guild. I pray resolve us, good master lieutenant,
Who was it yonder that tender’d up his life
To nature’s death?
Lieut. Pardon me, my lord; ’tis felony to acquaint you
With death of any prisoner;
Yet, to resolve your grace,
It was your father, great Northumberland,
That this day lost his head.
Guild. Peace rest his soul! His sins
Be buried in his grave,
And not remember’d in his epitaph.
But who comes here?
Jane. My father prisoner!
Enter SUFFOLK, guarded forth.
Suff. O, Jane, now nought but fear! thy title and thy state,
Thou now must leave for a small grave.
Had I been contented to ha’ been great, I had stood,
But now my rising is pull’d down with blood.
Farewell. Point me my house of prayers.
Jane. Is grief so short?
’Twas wont to be foil of words, ’tis true,
But now death’s lesson bids a cold adieu.
Farewell: thus friends on desperate journeys part;
Breaking off words with tears, that swell the heart.
[Exit Suffolk.
Lieut. It is the pleasure of the queen that you part lodgings,
Till jour arraignment, which must be to-morrow.
Jane. Good master lieutenant, let us pray together.
Lieut., Pardon me, madam, I may not; they that owe you, sway me.
Guild. Entreat not, Jane: though she our bodies part,
Our souls shall meet: farewell, my love.
Jane. My Dudley, my own heart. [Exeunt.
Enter Wyat with Soldiers.
Wyat Hold, drum: stand, gentlemen:
Give the word along; stand, stand.
Masters, friends, soldiers, and therefore gentlemen;
I know some of you wear warm purses
Lined with gold; to them I speak not;
But to such lean knaves that cannot put up crosses
Thus, I say, fight valiantly,
And by the Mary God,
You that have all your life-time silver lack’d
Shall now get crowns; marry, they must be crack’d.
Sold. No matter, we’ll change them for white money.
Wyat. But it must needs be so, dear countrymen,
For soldiers are the masters of war’s mint;
BLOWS are the stamps, they set upon with bullets,
And broken pates are, when the brains lie spilt,
These light crowns that with blood are double gilt.
But that’s not all that your stout hearts shall earn:
Stick to this glorious quarrel, and your names
Shall stand in chronicles, rank’d even with kings.
You free your country from base Spanish thrall,
From ignominious slavery:
Who can disgest a Spaniard, that’s a true Englishman?
Sold. Would he might choke, that disgests him!
Wyat. He that loves freedom and his country,
Cry a Wyat! he that will not, with my heart,
Let him stand forth, shake hands, and we’ll depart!
Soldiers. A Wyat, a Wyat, a Wyat!
Enter NOBBY, sounding a trumpet.
Harp. Forbear, or with the breath thy trumpet spends
This shall let forth thy soul.
Norry. I am a herald, and challenge safety
By th’law of arms.
Harp. So shalt thou when thou’rt lawfully employ’d.
Wyat. What loud knave’s that?
Norry. No knave, Sir Thomas, I am a true man
To my queen, to whom thou art a traitor.
Sold. Knock him down.
Wyat. Knock him down! fie, no,
We’ll handle him, he shall sound before he go.
Harp. He comes from Norfolk and those fawning lords,
In Mary’s name, weighing out life to them
That will with baseness buy it:
Seize on him, as a pernicious enemy,
Wyat. Sir George, be rul’d;
Since we profess the art of war,
Let’s not be hiss’d at for our ignorance:
He shall pass and repass, juggle the best he can.
Lead him into the city. Norry, set forth,
Set forth thy brazen throat, and call all Rochester
About thee; do thy office; fill
Their light heads with proclamations, do;
Catch fools with lime-twigs dipt with pardons.
But Sir George, and good Sir Harry Isley,
If this gallant open his mouth too wide,
Powder the varlet, pistol him, fire the roof
That’s o’er his mouth.
He craves the law of arms, and he shall ha’t:
Teach him our law, to cut’s throat if he prate.
If louder reach thy proclamation,
The Lord have mercy upon thee!
Norry. Sir Thomas, I must do my office.
Harp. Come, we’ll do ours too.
Wyat. Ay, ay, do, blow thyself hence.
[Exeunt Harper, Isley, and Norry.
Whorson, proud herald, because he can.»
Give arms, he thinks to cut us off by th’ elbows.
Masters, and fellow soldiers, say will you leave
Old Tom Wyat?
Omnes. No, no, no.
Wyat. A march! ’tis Norfolk’s drum upon my life.
I pray, see what drum it is. [Within, cry, Arm.
Rodston. The word is given, arm! arm flies through. the camp,
As loud, though not so fall of dread, as thunder.
For no man’s cheeks look pale, but every face
Is lifted up above his foreman’s head,
And every soldier does on tiptoe stand,
Shaking a drawn sword in his threatening hand.
Wyat. At whom, at whose drum?
Rod. At Norfolk, Norfolk’s drum.
With him comes Arundel. You may behold
The silken faces of their ensigns show
Nothing but wrinkles straggling in the wind.:
Norfolk rides foremostly, his crest well known,
Proud as if all our heads were now his own.
Wyat. Soft, he shall pay more for them.
Sir Robert Rodston, bring our musketeers,
To flank our pikes; let all our archery
Fall off in wings of shot aboth sides of the van,
To gall the first horse of the enemy,
That shall come fiercely on our cannoneers:
Bid them to charge: charge, my hearts.
Omnes. Charge, charge.
Wyat. Saint George for England, Wyat for poor Kent!
Blood lost in country’s quarrel is nobly spent.
Enter Islet.
Isley. Base slave, hard-hearted fugitive!
He that you sent with Norry, false Sir George,
Is fled to Norfolk.
Rod. Sir George Harper fled!
Wyat. I ne’er thought better of a counterfeit:
His name was Harper, was it not? let him go;
Henceforth all harpers, for his sake, shall stand
But for plain ninepence throughout all the land.
They come: no man give ground in these hot cases;
Be Englishmen, and beard them to their faces. [Eseunt.
Enter Norfolk, Arundel, Brett, and Soldiers.
Norf. Yonder the traitor marcheth with a steel-bow,
Bent on his sovereign and her kingdom’s peace.
To wave him to us with a flag of truce,
And tender him soft mercy, were
To call our right in question.<
br />
Therefore put in act your resolute intendments:
If rebellion be suffer’d to take head,
She lives too long. Treason doth swarm,
Therefore give signal to the fight.
Brett. ’Tis good, ’tis good, my lord.
Norf. Where’s Captain Brett?
Brett. Here, my lord.
Norf. To do honour to you, and those five hundred
Londoners, that march after your colours,
You shall charge the traitor in the vanguard,
Whilst myself, with noble Arundel
And stout Jerningham, second you in the main,
God and Saint George this day fight on our side,
While thus we tame a desperate rebel’s pride.
[Exeunt all but Brett and Soldiers.
Brett. Countrymen and friends, and you the most valiant
sword and buckler men of London, the Duke of Norfolk
in honour has promoted you to the vanguard, and why to
the vanguard, but because he knows you to be eager men,
martial men, men of good stomachs, very hot shots, very
actious for valour, such as scorn to shrink for a wetting,
who will bear off anything with head and shoulders!
Omnes. We’ll forwards, good commander, forwards.
Brett. I am to lead you, and whither? to fight; and
with whom? with Wyat; and what is Wyat? a most
famous and arch-traitor — to nobody, by this hand, that I know.
Omnes. Nay, speak out, good captain.
Brett. I say again, — is worthy Norfolk gone?
Omnes. Ay, ay, gone, gone.
Brett. I say again, that Wyat for rising thus in arms,
with the Kentish men dangling thus at his tail, is worthy
to be hanged — like a jewel in the kingdom’s ear: say I well, my lads?
Omnes. Forwards, forwards.
Brett. And whosoever cuts off his head shall have for his labour —
Clown. What shall I have? I’ll do’t.
Brett. The pox, the plague, and all the diseases the
spittle-houses and hospitals can throw upon him.
Clown. I’ll not do’t, that’s flat.
Brett. And wherefore is Wyat up?
Clown. Because he cannot keep his bed.
Brett. No, Wyat is up to keep the Spaniards down, to
keep King Philip out, whose coming in will give the land
such a philip, ‘twill make it reel again.
Clown. ‘A would it were come to that, ‘a would; we
would leave off Philips and fall to hot-cockles.
Brett. Philip is a Spaniard; and what is a Spaniard?
Clown. A Spaniard is no Englishman, that I know.
Brett. Eight, a Spaniard is a Camocho, a Calimanco;
nay, which is worse, a Dondego, — and what is a Dondego?
Clown. A Dondego is a kind of Spanish stock-fish, or
poor John.
Brett. No, a Dondego is a desperate Viliago, a very
Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker Page 159