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. * * * * * _Warbeck_-- Noble thoughts 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. PENTHEA'S DYING SONG From 'The Broken Heart'