_Pem._ That is done, As well as't can be done. Call in my son And Albemarle. _Win._ My lords! [_Re-enter Richford and Albemarle_] _Pem._ Now let us talk Of England. O, this fleet, this fleet, rigged out By warlike Constance in monk Louis' name! I see it nearing now, leaping the waves, On, on, and none to meet it! Cowards all. What do ye here, ye three, loitering about A sick man's bed? A man almost a corpse. I would not have a servant waste himself To give me drink while England needs his sword. _Rich._ My father lord, we have our men abroad Rousing the country for a stout defence. To meet the French with our poor ships were madness; But let them land we'll give them such a rap---- _Pem._ What? Land your enemy? O, fools and cowards! ... I've given my life for England. Now you'll cast My heart-dear bargain into Louis' hand As 'twere a snood slipped from an easy maid. Fool man! to puff his days out jousting Fate, Who waits but his bare death to start her mock Of horrid pleasantries. Then does she make Dice of the miser's bones, carousal cups Of the ascetic's skull, a hangman's scoff Of clerics' prayer-fed sons; and proudest sires, Who sentried their blue blood, peer back through dust To see all Babylon pour to their line. And now she'll bid my war-ghost eyes behold The land held with my life become a field For foes at holiday! _Win._ Compose yourself, your grace. _Pem._ Gualo has come, but where is he will set This power its task, and play it for this isle? I can not say that wisdom dies with me, But I could wish more proof of sager mind Than e'er I've had from this small audience. Lord Bishop, you are left custodian Of Henry's ripening youth. _Win._ Nor shall I fail To be your worthy heir in this high duty, For still I shall consult with your great spirit, Praying your ghost be mover of my deeds. _Pem._ I've spoken to the king. He'll give you love For love. But who shall be lord chancellor? There's little choice. And yet there's one, De Burgh, If camp and field could spare him---- _Alb._ Sir, a man No older than our sons? _Pem._ By your good leave, Age is no patent to respect and place If virtue go not with it. Whitened hairs Make honor radiant, but vice thereby Is viler still. Ay, there are some---- _Rich._ Peace, father, And save thy strength for us. _Pem._ Ah, son, I've been A careless holder all my life, and still With my last hour play spendthrift. Well, here be Three friends of England--Gualo makes a fourth-- And trusting you I ease my bones to death.