PHILIP FALCONBRIDGE

The news I herd was Peters prayers, Who wished Like fortune to befall us all: And with that word, the rope his latest friend, Kept him from falling headlong to the ground. The Prelates storm and thirst for sharp revenge: But please your Majesty, were that the worst, It little skilled: a greater danger grows, Which must be weeded out by careful speed, Or all is lost, for all is leveled at. These curses (good my Lord) fit not the season: Help must descend from heaven against this treason? I would be loath to leave your Highness thus, Yet you command, and I, though grieved, will go. My Lord, these motions are as passion of a mad man. My Lord of Salisbury, I cannot couch My speeches with the needful words of art, As does beseem in such a weighty work, But what my conscience and my duty will, I purpose to impart. For Chesters exile, blame his busy wit, That meddled where his duty quite forbade: For any private causes that you have, Me think they should not mount to such a height, As to depose a King in their revenge. For Arthurs death, K. John was innocent, He desperate was the deathsman to himself, Which you, to make a colour to your crime, injustly do im pute to his default, But where fell traitorisme hath reside ̄ ce, There wants no words to set despite on work. I say 'tis shame, and worthy all reproof, To wrest such petty wrongs in terms of right, Against a King anointed by the Lord. Why Salsbury, admit the wrongs are true, Yet subjects may not take in hand revenge, And rob the heavens of their proper power, Where sitteth he to whom revenge belongs. And does a Pope, a priest, a man of pride, Give charters for the lives of lawful kings? What can he bless, or who regards his curse, But such as give to man, and take from God? I speak it in the sighed of God above, There's not a man that die in your belief, But sells his soul perpetually to pain. Aid Lewis, leave God, kill John, please hell, Make havoc of the welfare of your souls, For here I leave you in the sighed of heaven, A troop of traitors, food for hellish fiends; If you desist, then follow me as friends, If not, then do your worst, as hateful traitors. For Lewis his right, alas 'tis too too lame, A senseless claim, if truth be titles friend. In brief, if this be cause of our resort, Our pilgrimage is to the devils shrine. I came not Lords, to troop as traitors do, Nor will I counsel in so bade a cause: Please you return, we go again as friends, If not, I to my King, and you where traitors please. My Lord, I am loath to allude so much to the pro verb, honours change manners: a king is a king, though For tune do her worst, & we as dutiful in despite of her frown, as if your highness were now in the highest tipe of dignity. I think rather, my Lord Abbot, you remember my last being here, when I went in progress for powches, and the rancour of his heart breaks out in his countenance, to show he hath not forgotten me. Your Son, my Lord, young Henry craves to see Your Majesty, and brings with him beside The Barons that revolted from your Grace. Oh piercing sighed, he fumbleth in the mouth, His speech does fail: lift up your self my Lord, And see the Prince to comfort you in death. Not worse my Lord, but every whit as bade. The Nobles have elected Lewis King, In right of Lady Blanch, your niece, his wife: His landing is expected every hour, The Nobles, Commons, Clergy, all Estates, Incited chiefly by the Cardinal, Pandulph that lies here Legate for the Pope, Think long to see their new elected King. And for undoubted proof, see here my Liege, Letters to me from your Nobility, To be a party in this Actium: Who under show of feigned holiness, Appoint their meeting at S. Edmunds Bury, There to consult, conspire, and conclude The overthrown and downfall of your State. I go my Lord: see how he is distracted, This is the cursed Priest of Italy Hath heaped these mischiefs on this hapless land. Now Philip, hadst thou Tully's eloquence, Then mightest thou hope to plead with good success. My Lord of Melun, what title had the Prince To England and the Crown of Albion, But such a title as the Pope confirmed: The Prelate now lets fallen his feigned claim: Lews is but the agent for the Pope, Then must the Dolphin cease, sith he hath ceased: But cease or no, it greatly matters not, If you my Lords and Barons of the Land Will leave the French, and cleave unto our King. For shame ye Peers of England suffer not Your selves, your honours, and your land to fallen: But with resolved thoughts beat back the French, And free the Land from yoke of servitude. This Abbot hath and interest in this act. At all adventures take thou that from me. There lie the Abbot, Abbey, Lubber, Devil. March with the Monk unto the gates of hell. How fares my Lord? A good my Liege, with patience conquer grief, And bear this pain with kingly fortitude. Forgive the world and all your earthly foes, And call on Christ, who is your latest friend. Let's arm our selves in young K. Henries right, And beat the power of France to sea again. Lord Salsbury, your self shall march with me. So shall we bring these troubles to and end. My Lord, what answer make you to the King? Then Kings & Princes, let these broils have end, And at more leisure talk upon the League. Mean while to Worster let us bear the King, And there inter his body, as beseems. But first, in sighed of Lews heir of France, Lords take the Crown, and set it on his head, That by succession is our lawful King. Thus England's peace begins in Henries reign, And bloody wars are closed with happy league. Let England live but true within it self, And all the world can never wrong her State. Lews, thou shalt be bravely shipped to France, For never Frenchman God of English ground The twentieth partly that thou hast conquered. Dolphin, thy hand; to Worster we will march: Lords all, lay hands to bear your Sovereign With obsequies of honour to his graven: If England's Peers and people join in one, Nor Pope, nor France, nor Spain can do them wrong. How fares my Lord, that he is carried thus? Not all the aukeward Fortune's yet befallen, Made such impression of lament in me. Nor ever did my eye attaint my heart With any object moving more remorse, Than now beholding of a mighty King, Born by his Lords in such distressed State. Such as it is, and heavy though it be, To glut the world with tragic elegies, Once will I breathe to aggravate the rest, Another moan to make the measure full. The bravest bowman had not yet sent forth Two arrows from the quiver at his side, But that a rumor went throughout our Camp, That John was fled, the King had left the field. At last the rumor scaled these ears of mine, Who rather chosen as sacrifice for Mars, Than ignominious scandal by retire. I cheered the troops, as did the prince of Troy His weary followers gainst the Myrmidons, Crying aloud, S. George, the day is ours. But fear had captivated courage quite, And Like the Lamb before the greedy Wolf, So heartless fled our war-men from the field. Short tale to make, my self amongst the rest, Was feign to fly before the eager foe. By this time night had shadowed all the earth, With sable curtains of the blackest hue, And fenced us from the fury of the French, As Io from the jealous Juno's eye, When in the morning our troops did gather head, Passing the washes with our carriages, The impartial tide deadly and inexorable, Came raging in with billows threatening death, And swallowed up the most of all our men, My self upon a Galloway right free, well paced, Out stripped the floods that followed wave by wave, I so escaped to tell this tragic tale. Comfort my Lord, and curse the Cardinal, Betake your self to arms, my troops are pressed To answer Lews with a lusty shock: The English archers have their quivers full, Their bows are bent, the pikes are pressed to push: Good cheer my Lord, King Richard's fortune hangs Upon the plume of warlike Philips helm. Then let them know his brother and his son Are leaders of the Englishmen at arms. He is dead my Lord. His speech does fail, he hastes to his end. A proper jest, when Kings must stoop to Friars, Needs hath no law, when Friars must be Kings. Good cheer my Lord, the Abbey is at hand, Behold my Lord, the Churchmen come to meet you. The King thou seest is weak and very faint, What victuals hast thou to refresh his Grace? See how he strives for life, unhappy Lord, Whose bowels are divided in themselves. This is the fruit of Popery, when true Kings Are slain and shouldered out by Monks and Friars. What cheer my liege? your colour begins to change.