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With thine own hand, within this
true ? Is it a sure intelligence of all The
progress of our enemies' intents, Without corruption? Clif True, as I wish heaven;
infected honour white again. K. Hen. We know all, Clifford, fully, since this
meteor, This airy apparition first discradled From Tournay into Portugal; and thence Advanced his fiery blaze for adoration To th’ superstitious Irish; since the beard Of this wild comet, conjured into France, Sparkled in antick flames in Charles his court; But shrunk again from thence, and, hid in dark
ness, Stole into Flanders
* flourishing the rags? Of painted power on the shore of Kent, Whence he was beaten back with shame and
scorn, Contempt, and slaughter of some naked outlaws:
* Stole into Flanders, flourishing the rags, &c.] Something is apparently lost here, perhaps the end of this line and the beginning of the next, as I have marked them in the text. The import is clear enough—
there embarked his followers, And made for England-flourishing the rags, &c. In this expedition Perkin did not land, and those of his followers whom he sent on shore at Sandwich, were defeated by the Kentish
The prisoners, to the amount of 150 (mostly foreigners), were executed Hanged,” as Lord Bacon says,
upon the seacoast of Kent, Sussex, and Norfolk, for sea-marks, or light-houses, to warn Perkin's people to avoid the coast."
But tell me, what new course now shapes duke
K. Hen. A subtle villain
Dur. French, both in heart and actions.
treason; Speak them.
Clif. Not any of the best; your fortune
K. Hen. Still more Frion !
8 Stephen Frion.] Frion had been seduced from Henry's service by the Duchess of Burgundy; and was a very active agent in the great drama which she was now preparing to bring forward. followed Perkin's fortunes for a long while,” Bacon says, “and was indeed his principal counsellor and instrument in all his proceedings."
As dangerous as infectious—we must match 'em.
Clif. Oh, sir, here I must break
K. Hen. Well, well, be brief, be brief.
Clif. The first in rank Shall be John Ratcliffe, Lord Fitzwater, then Sir Simon Mountford, and Sir Thomas Thwaites, With William Dawbeney, Chessoner, Astwood, Worsley, the dean of Paul's, two other friars, And Robert Ratcliffe.
K. Hen. Churchmen are turn'd devils.
Clif. One more remains
K. Hen. Ha, Clifford! one more?
Clif. Great sir, do not hear him;
K. Hen. Urswick, the light !
All these were seized, tried, and condemned for high-treason: most of them perished upon the scaffold. Worsley and the two dominicans were spared.
Dur. You alter strangely, sir.
K. Hen. Alter, lord bishop! Why, Clifford stabb'd me, or I dream'd he stabb’d
Sirrah, it is a custom with the guilty
Clif. I dare, and once more,
Dur. Most strange!
Clif. Sir William Stanley is your secret enemy,
liam Stanley! My chamberlain, my counsellor, the love, The pleasure of my court, my bosom friend, The charge, and the controulment of my person; The keys and secrets of my treasury; The all of all I am ! I am unhappy. Misery of confidence,-let me turn traitor To my own person, yield my sceptre up To Edward's sister, and her bastard duke!
Dur. You lose your constant temper.
K. Hen. Sir William Stanley! O do not blame me; he, 'twas only he Who, having rescued me in Bosworth field From Richard's bloody sword, snatch'd from his
head The kingly crown, and placed it first on mine.' He never fail'd me; what have I deserv'd To lose this good man's heart, or he his own? Urs. The night doth waste, this passion ill be
comes you; Provide against your danger.
K. Hen. Let it be so. Urswick, command straight Stanley to his cham
ber. 'Tis well we are i' th' Tower; set a guard on
him. Clifford, to bed; you must lodge here to-night; We'll talk with you to-morrow. My sad soul Divines strange troubles.
Daw. (within.) Ho! the king, the king !
K. Hen. Dawbeney's voice; admit him.
from rest?—the news?
Shakspeare thus notices the circumstance:
“ Enter Stanley bearing the crown. “ Stanley. Courageous Richmond, well bast thou acquit thee ! Lo bere, this long usurped royalty From the dead temples of this bloody wretch Have I pluck'd off, to grace thy brows withal; Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it.”—Richard III.