C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
From ‘Perkin Warbeck’
By John Ford (1586–c. 1640)
D
I here present you, royal sir, a shadow
Of Majesty, but in effect a substance
Of pity; a young man, in nothing grown
To ripeness, but th’ ambition of your mercy;
Perkin, the Christian world’s strange wonder!
King Henry—Dawbeny,
We observe no wonder; I behold (’tis true)
An ornament of nature, fine and polished,
A handsome youth, indeed, but not admire him.
How come he to thy hands?
Dawbeny—From sanctuary.
At Bewley, near Southampton; registered,
With these few followers, for persons privileged.
King Henry—I must not thank you, sir! you were to blame
To infringe the liberty of houses sacred;
Dare we be irreligious?
Dawbeny—Gracious lord!
They voluntarily resigned themselves,
Without compulsion.
King Henry—So? ’twas very well
’Twas very well. Turn now thine eyes,
Young man! upon thyself and thy past actions:
What revels in combustion through our kingdom
A frenzy of aspiring youth has danced;
Till wanting breath, thy feet of pride have slipt
To break thy neck.
Warbeck—But not my heart; my heart
Will mount till every drop of blood be frozen
By death’s perpetual winter. If the sun
Of Majesty be darkened, let the sun
Of life be hid from me, in an eclipse
Lasting and universal. Sir, remember
There was a shooting in of light when Richmond
(Not aiming at the crown) retired, and gladly,
For comfort to the Duke of Bretagne’s court.
Richard, who swayed the sceptre, was reputed
A tyrant then; yet then, a dawning glimmer’d
To some few wand’ring remnants, promising day
When first they ventur’d on a frightful shore
At Milford Haven.
Dawbeny—Whither speeds his boldness?
Check his rude tongue, great sir.
King Henry—Oh, let him range:
The player’s on the stage still; ’tis his part:
He does but act.—What followed?
Warbeck—Bosworth Field:
Where at an instant, to the world’s amazement,
A morn to Richmond and a night to Richard
Appear’d at once. The tale is soon applied:
Fate which crowned these attempts, when least assured,
Might have befriended others, like resolved.
King Henry—A pretty gallant! thus your aunt of Burgundy,
Your duchess aunt, informed her nephew: so
The lesson, prompted, and well conned, was molded
Into familiar dialogue, oft rehearsed,
Till, learnt by heart, ’tis now received for truth.
Warbeck—Truth in her pure simplicity wants art
To put a feigned blush on; scorn wears only
Such fashion as commends to gazers’ eyes
Sad ulcerated novelty, far beneath; in such a court
Wisdom and gravity are proper robes
By which the sovereign is best distinguished
From zanies to his greatness.
King Henry—Sirrah, shift
Your antic pageantry, and now appear
In your own nature; or you’ll taste the danger
Of fooling out of season.
Warbeck—I expect
No less than what severity calls justice,
And politicians safety; let such beg
As feed on alms: but if there can be mercy
In a protested enemy, then may it
Descend to these poor creatures whose engagements
To the bettering of their fortunes have incurred
A loss of all to them, if any charity
Flow from some noble orator; in death
I owe the fee of thankfulness.
King Henry—So brave?
What a bold knave is this!
We trifle time with follies.
Urswick, command the Dukeling and these fellows
To Digby, the Lieutenant of the Tower.
Meet freedom in captivity: the Tower,
Our childhood’s dreadful nursery!
King Henry—Was ever so much impudence in forgery?
The custom, sure, of being styled a king
Hath fastened in his thought that he is such.