Volume Viii Part 31 (1/2)

WOM. What a noise is there?

A foul shame on ye! is it you that knock'd?

WAR. What, do you know me then?

WOM. Whoop! who knows not you?

The beggar'd, banish'd Shrieve of Nottingham, You that betray'd your master: is't not you?

Yes, a shame on you! and forsooth ye come, To have some succour here, because you sav'd My unthrift husband from the gallow-tree.

A pox upon you both! would both for me Were hang'd together. But soft, let me see; The man looks faint: feel'st thou indeed distress?

WAR. O, do not mock me in my heaviness.

WOM. Indeed, I do not. Well, I have within A caudle made, I will go fetch it him. [_Exit_.

WAR. O blessed woman! comfortable word!

Be quiet, entrails, you shall be reliev'd.

_Enter_ WOMAN.[234]

WOM. Here, Warman, put this hempen caudle o'er thy head.

See downward yonder is thy master's walk; And like a Judas, on some rotten tree, Hang up this rotten trunk of misery, That goers-by thy wretched end may see.

Stirr'st thou not, villain? get thee from my door; A plague upon thee, haste and hang thyself.

Run, rogue, away! 'tis thou that hast undone Thy n.o.ble master, Earl of Huntington.

[_Exit_.

WAR. Good counsel and good comfort, by my faith.

Three doctors are of one opinion, That Warman must make speed to hang himself.

The last hath given a caudle comfortable, That to recure my griefs is strong and able: I'll take her medicine, and I'll choose this way, Wherein, she saith, my master hath his walk; There will I offer life for treachery, And hang, a wonder to all goers-by.

But soft! what sound harmonious is this?

What birds are these, that sing so cheerfully, As if they did salute the flowering spring?

Fitter it were with tunes more dolefully They shriek'd out sorrow, than thus cheerly sing.

I will go seek sad desperation's cell; This is not it, for here are green-leav'd trees.

Ah, for one winter-bitten bared bough, Whereon a wretched life a wretch would lese.

O, here is one! Thrice-blessed be this tree, If a man cursed may a blessing give.

_Enter_ OLD FITZWATER.

But out, alas! yonder comes one to me To hinder death, when I detest to live.

FITZ. What woful voice hear I within this wood?

What wretch is there complains of wretchedness?

WAR. A man, old man, bereav'd of all earth's good, And desperately seeks death in this distress.

FITZ. Seek not for that which will be here too soon, At least, if thou be guilty of ill-deeds.