ePub 版

SCENE VIII.-The same.

A noise about the house for some time. Then enter HARPOOL in the Irishman's apparel; the MAYOR, CONSTABLE, and WATCH of St. Albans meeting him.

Con. Stand close, here comes the Irishman that did the murder; by all tokens this is he.

Mayor. And perceiving the house beset, would get away. Stand, sirrah.

Har. What art thou that bidd'st me stand?

Con. I am the officer; and am come to search for an Irishman, such a villain as thyself, that hast murdered a man this last night by the high way.

Har. 'Sblood, constable, art thou mad? am I an Irishman? Mayor. Sirrah, we'll find you an Irishman before we part; Lay hold upon him.

Con. Make him fast. O thou bloody rogue!

Enter LORD and LADY COBHAM, in the apparel of the Carrier and his daughter.

Cob. What, will these ostlers sleep all day? Good morrow, good morrow. Come wench, come. Saddle, saddle; now afore God two fair days, ha ?

Con. Who goes there?

Mayor. O'tis Lancashire carrier; let them pass.

Cob. What, will nobody ope the gates here?

Come, let's in to stable, to look to our capuls.

[Exeunt LORD and LADY COBHAM. Car. [within]. Host. Why, ostler? Zooks, here's such abomination company of boys. A pox of this pigstye at the house' end; it fills all the house full of fleas. Ostler, ostler.


Ostl. Who calls there? what would you have?
Car. [within]. Zooks, do you rob your guests?

Do you lodge rogues, and slaves, and scoundrels, ha ?

They ha' stolen our clothes here. Why, ostler.

Ostl. A murrain choke you; what a bawling you keep!

Enter HOST.

Host. How now ? what would the carrier have?

Look up there.

Ostl. They say that the man and the woman that lay by them have stolen their clothes.

Host. What, are the strange folks up, that came in yesternight? Con. What, mine host, up so early?

Host. What, master mayor, and master constable ?

Mayor. We are come to seek for some suspected persons,

And such as here we found have apprehended.


Con. Who comes here ?


Car. Who comes here ? a plague 'found 'em. "You bawl," quoth-a; ods heart, I'll forswear your house; you lodged a fellow and his wife by us, that ha' run away with our 'parel, and left us such gew-gaws here:-Come, Kate, come to me; thou's dizeard,* i' faith.

Mayor. Mine host, know you this man?

Host. Yes, master mayor, I'll give my word for him. Why, neighbour Club, how comes this gear about?

Kate. Now, a foul on't, I cannot make this gew-gaw stand on my head.

Mayor. How came this man and woman thus attired?

Host. Here came a man and woman hither this last night, Which I did take for substantial people,.

And lodged all in one chamber by these folks;

Methinks they have been so bold to change apparel,
And gone away this morning ere they rose.

Mayor. That was that traitor Oldcastle that thus
Escaped us. Make hue and cry yet after him;
Keep fast that traitorous rebel his servant there:
Farewell, mine host.

[Exit MAYOR.

Car. Come, Kate Owdham, thou and I's trimly dizard.
Kate. I' faith, Gaff Club, Ise wot ne'er what to do,
Ise be so flouted and so shouted at; but, by the mass,

Ise cry..


SCENE IX-A wood near St. Albans.

Enter LORD and LADY COBHAM, disguised.

Cob. Come, madam, happily escaped. Here let us sit; This place is far remote from any path;

And here awhile our weary limbs may rest

To take refreshing, free from the pursuit
Of envious Rochester.

L. Cob. But where, my lord,

Shall we find rest for our disquiet minds?

There dwell untamed thoughts, that hardly stoop
To such abasement of disdained rags:

We were not wont to travel thus by night,
Especially on foot.

Cob. No matter, love;

Extremities admit no better choice,

And, were it not for thee, say froward time
Imposed a greater task, I would esteem it
As lightly as the wind that blows upon us.

* I. e. bedizened.

But in thy suffrance I am doubly task'd;
Thou wast not wont to have the earth thy stool,
Nor the moist dewy grass thy pillow, nor
Thy chamber to be the wide horizon.

L. Cob. How can it seem a trouble, having you
A partner with me in the worst I feel?

No, gentle lord, your presence would give ease

To death itself, should he now seize upon me.

[She produces some bread and cheese, and a bottle.

Behold what my foresight hath underta❜en,

For fear we faint; they are but homely cates;

Yet sauced with hunger, they may seem as sweet

As greater dainties we were wont to taste.

Cob. Praise be to him whose plenty sends both this
And all things else our mortal bodies need!
Nor scorn we this poor feeding, nor the state
We now are in; for what is it on earth,
Nay, under heaven, continues at a stay?
Ebbs not the sea, when it hath overflow'd?
Follows not darkness, when the day is gone?
And see we not sometimes the eye of heaven

Dimm'd with o'er-flying clouds ? There's not that work
Of careful nature, or of cunning art,

How strong, how beauteous, or how rich it be,
But falls in time to ruin. Here, gentle madam,
In this one draught I wash my sorrow down.

L. Cob. And I, encouraged with your cheerful speech,
Will do the like.

Cób. 'Pray God, poor Harpool come.

If he should fall into the bishop's hands,

Or not remember where we bade him meet us,
It were the thing of all things else, that now
Could breed revolt in this new peace of mind.
L. Cob. Fear not, my lord, he's witty to devise,
And strong to execute a present shift.

Cob. That power be still his guide, hath guided us!
My drowsy eyes wax heavy; early rising,
Together with the travel we have had,
Makes me that I could gladly take a nap,
Were I persuaded we might be secure.

L. Cob. Let that depend on me: whilst you do sleep

I'll watch that no misfortune happen us.

Cob. I shall, dear wife, be too much trouble to thee.
L. Cob. Urge not that;

My duty binds me, and your love commands.

I would I had the skill, with tuned voice
To draw on sleep with some sweet melody.
But imperfection, and unaptness too,
Are both repugnant: fear inserts the one;
The other nature hath denied me use.
But what talk I of means to purchase that
Is freely happen'd? Sleep with gentle hand


Hath shut his eyelids. O victorious labour,
How soon thy power can charm the body's sense!
And now thou likewise climb'st unto my brain,
Making my heavy temples stoop to thee.

Great God of heaven, from danger keep us free!

[Falls asleep.

Enter SIR RICHARD LEE, and his Servants.

Sir Rich. A murder closely done? and in my ground? Search carefully; if anywhere it were,

This obscure thicket is the likeliest place.

[Exit a Servant.

Re-enter SERVANT, bearing a dead Body.

Ser. Sir, I have found the body stiff with cold,

And mangled cruelly with many wounds.

Sir Rich. Look, if thou know'st him; turn his body up. Alack, it is my son, my son and heir,

Whom two years since I sent to Ireland,

To practise there the discipline of war;

And coming home (for so he wrote to me),

Some savage heart, some bloody devilish hand,
Either in hate, or thirsting for his coin,

Hath here sluiced out his blood. Unhappy hour!
Accursed place! but most inconstant fate,
That hadst reserved him from the bullet's fire,
And suffer'd him to scape the wood-kerns' fury,*
Didst here ordain the treasure of his life,
Even here within the arms of tender peace,
To be consumed by treason's wasteful hand!
And, which is most afflicting to my soul,

That this his death and murder should be wrought
Without the knowledge by whose means 'twas done.
2 Ser. Not so, Sir; I have found the authors of it.
See where they sit; and in their bloody fists

The fatal instruments of death and sin.

Sir Rich. Just judgment of that power, whose gracious eye, Loathing the sight of such a heinous fact,

Dazzled their senses with benumbing sleep,
Till their unhallow'd treachery was known.
Awake, ye monsters, murderers, awake;
Tremble for horror; blush, you cannot choose,
Beholding this unhuman deed of yours.

Cob. What mean you, Sir, to trouble weary souls,

And interrupt us of our quiet sleep?

Sir Rich. O devilish! can you boast unto yourselves
Of quiet sleep, having within your hearts

The guilt of murder waking, that with cries
Deafs the loud thunder, and solicits heaven

With more than mandrakes' shrieks for your offence?
L. Cob. What murder? You upbraid us wrongfully.

The kern was the Irish light-armed foot soldier.

Sir Rich. Can you deny the fact? see you not here
The body of my son, by you misdone?*
Look on his wounds, look on his purple hue:
Do we not find you where the deed was done?
Were not your knives fast closed in your hands?
Is not this cloth an argument beside,

Thus stain'd and spotted with his innocent blood?
These speaking characters, were there nothing else
To plead against you, would convict you both.
To Hertford with them, where the 'sizes now
Are kept; their lives shall answer for my son's
Lost life.

Cob. As we are innocent, so may we speed.

Sir Rich. As I am wrong'd, so may the law proceed. [Exeunt.

SCENE X-St. Albans.

Enter the Bishop of ROCHESTER, CONSTABLE of St. Albans, with SIR JOHN and DOLL, and the IRISHMAN in HARPOOL'S apparel.

Roch. What intricate confusion have we here?

Not two hours since we apprehended one

In habit Irish, but in speech not so;

And now you bring another, that in speech
Is Irish, but in habit English: yea,

And more than so, the servant of that heretic

Lord Cobham.

Irishm. Fait, me be no servant of de Lort Cobham; me be Mack-Shane, of Ulster.

Roch. Otherwise call'd Harpool, of Kent; go to, Sir;

You cannot blind us with your broken Irish.

Sir John. Trust me, lord bishop, whether Irish or English, Harpool or not Harpool, that I leave to the trial:

But sure I am, this man by face and speech,

Is he that murder'd young Sir Richard Lee

(I met him presently upon the fact);

And that he slew his master for that gold,

Those jewels, and that chain, I took from him.

Roch. Well, our affairs do call us back to London,

So that we cannot prosecute the cause,

As we desire to do; therefore we leave

The charge with you, to see they be convey'd [To the Constable.

To Hertford 'sizes: both this counterfeit,

And you, Sir John of Wrotham, and your wench;

For you are culpable as well as they.

Though not for murder, yet for felony.

But since you are the means to bring to light

This graceless murder, you shall bear with you
Our letters to the judges of the bench,

To be your friends in what they lawful may.
Sir John. I thank your lordship.

* I. e. destroyed.


« 上一頁繼續 »