HOTSPUR.

But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer
As high in the air as this unthankful king —
As this ingrate and cankered Bolingbroke! (Crosses L.)
Wor. (R.) Who struck this heat up?

Hot. He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners;
And when I urged the ransom once again

Of my wife's brother, then his cheek looked pale;
And on my face he turned an eye of death,

Trembling even at the name of Mortimer. (Crosses R.)
Therefore, I say

Wor. (L.) Peace, cousin, say no more:
And now I will unclasp a secret book,
And to your quick-conceiving discontents
I'll read you matter deep and dangerous;
As full of peril and adventurous spirit
As to o'er-walk a current, roaring loud,
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.

or sink or swim,

Hot. If he fall in, good-night!
Send Danger from the east unto the west,
So Honor cross it from the north to south,
And let them grapple : O! the blood more stirs
To rouse a lion, than to start a hare.

Wor. (Aside.) Imagination of some great ex-ploit'
Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.

Hot. Good heaven! methinks it were an easy leap,
To pluck bright Honor from the pale-faced moon;
Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,
And pluck up drowned Honor by the locks;
So he that doth redeem her thence might wear,
Without corrival, all her dignities.

But out upon this half-faced fellowship!

Wor. (Aside.) He apprehends a world of figures here, But not the form of what he should attend.

(Aloud.) Good cousin, give me audience for a while.

Hot. I cry you mercy.

Wor. Those same noble Scots,

That are your prisoners

Hot. I'll keep them all; (Crosses and recrosses.)

He shall not have a Scot of them - not one :

No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not:

I'll keep them, by this hand.

Wor. You start away,

209

And lend no ear unto my purposes.-
Those prisoners you shall keep.

Hot. Nay, I will; that's flat:

He said he would not ransom Mortimer;
Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer;
But I will find him when he lies asleep,

And in his ear I'll holla Mortimer! (Crosses and recrosses.)
Nay, I'll have a starling shall be taught to speak
Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him,
To keep his anger still in motion.

Wor. Hear you, cousin, a word.

Hot. All studies here I solemnly defy,
Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke.

And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,
But that I think his father loves him not,

And would be glad he met with some mischance,
I'd have him poisoned with a pot of ale.

Wor. Farewell, kinsman! I will talk to you,

When you are better tempered to attend.
Why, what a wasp-tongued and impatient fool
Art thou, to break into this woman's mood,

Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!

Hot. Why, look you, I am whipped and scourged with rods, Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear

Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke!

What do you

In Richard's time
call the place?
A plague upon 't! it is in Gloucestershire;

'T was where the madcap duke his uncle kept – His uncle York; where I first bowed my knee Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke,

'Sblood! when you and he came back from Ravenspurg. Wor. At Berkley Castle.

Hot. You say true.

Why, what a candy deal of courtesy

This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!

Look, "when his infant fortune came to age,"

And," gentle Harry Percy," and, "kind cousin!"

-

Heaven forgive me!

Good uncle, tell your tale, for I have done.

Wor. Nay, if you have not, to 't again;

I'll stay your leisure.

Hot. I have done, in sooth.

Wor. Then once more to your Scottish prisoners.

When time is ripe, which will be suddenly,

I'll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer,

SPARTACUS AND JOVIUS.

Where you and Douglas, and our powers at once
(As I will fashion it), shall happily meet,
To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms.

211

Hot. Uncle, adieu. O let the hours be short,
Till fields, and blows, and groans, applaud our sport!
SHAKSPEARE (altered).

IX.- SPARTACUS AND JOVIUS.

Enter SPARTACUS, L., JOVIUS, R.

Spartacus. Speak, Roman! wherefore does thy master send Thy gray hairs to the "cut-throat's" camp?

Jovius. Brave rebel

Spart. Why, that's a better name than rogue or bondman; But in this camp I am called General.

Jov. Brave General,

for, though a rogue and bondman,

As you have said, I'll still allow you General,
As he that beats a consul surely is.

Spart. Say two two consuls; and to that e'en add
A proconsul, three prætors, and some generals.
Jov. Why, this is no more than true. Are
Spart. Ay.

Jov. There is something in the air of Thrace
Breeds valor up as rank as grass. 'Tis pity
You are a barbarian.

Spart. Wherefore?

Jov. Had you been born

A Roman, you had won by this a triumph.
Spart. I thank the gods I am barbarian ;
For I can better teach the grace-begot
And heaven-supported masters of the earth
How a mere dweller of a desert rock

you a Thracian ?

Can bow their crowned heads to his chariot-wheels,

Their regal necks to be his stepping-blocks.

But come, what is thy message?

Jov. Julia, niece

Of the prætor, is thy captive.
Spart. Ay.

Jov. For whom

Spart. Ransomed, and by the steel, from out the camp

Of slaughtered Gellius! (Pointing off.) Behold them, Roma! Jov. (Looking as SPART. points.) This is sorcery!

But name a ransom for the general's niece.

Spart. Have I not now the prætor on the hip? He would, in his extremity, have made

My wife his buckler of defence; perhaps

Have doomed her to the scourge! But this is Roman.
Now the barbarian is instructed. Look !

Name her ransom.

Look you:

I hold the prætor by the heart; and he
Shall feel how tightly grip barbarian fingers.
Jov. Men do not war on women.
Spart. Men do not war on women!
One day I climbed up to the ridgy top
Of the cloud-piercing Hamus, where, among
The eagles and the thunders, from that height,
I looked upon the world, as far as where,
Wrestling with storms, the gloomy Euxine chafed
On his recoiling shores; and where dim Adria
In her blue bosom quenched the fiery sphere.
Between those surges lay a land, might once
Have matched Elysium; but Rome had made it
A Tartarus. In my green youth I looked
From the same frosty peak where now I stood,
And then beheld the glory of those lands,
Where Peace was tinkling on the shepherd's bell
And singing with the reapers.

Since that glad day, Rome's conquerors had passed
With withering armies there, and all was changed.
Peace had departed; howling War was there,
Cheered on by Roman hunters. Then, methought,
E'en as I looked upon the altered scene,

Groans echoed through the valleys, through which ran
Rivers of blood, like smoking Phlegethons;

Fires flashed from burning villages, and Famine

Shrieked in the empty corn-fields! Women and children,
Robbed of their sires and husbands, left to starve

These were the dwellers of the land! Say'st thou

Rome wars not, then, on women?

Jov. This is not to the matter.

Spart. Now, by Jove,

It is!

These things do Romans. But the earth

Is sick of conquerors.

There is not a man,

Not Roman, but is Rome's extremest foe :

THE SIEGE OF GHENT.

And such am I; sworn from that hour I saw
Those sights of horror, while the gods support me,
To wreak on Rome such havoc as Rome wreaks,
Carnage and devastation, woe and ruin.

Why should I ransom, when I swear to slay?
Begone! This is my answer!

BIRD.

213

X. THE SIEGE OF GHENT.

Enter first VAN DEN BOSCH, R.; then VAN ARTEVELDE, L.

Van den Bosch. What ho! Van Artevelde.

Artevelde. Who calls?

Bosch. 'Tis I.

Thou art an early riser, like myself;

Or is it that thou hast not been to bed?
Art. What are thy tidings?

Bosch. Nay, what can they be?

A page from pestilence and famine's day-book.
So many to the pest-house carried in,

So many to the dead-house carried out,

The same dull, dismal, horrible old story.

Art. Be quiet; listen to the westerly wind,

And tell me if it brings thee nothing new.

Bosch. (Listening.) Naught to my ear, save howl of hungry dog That hears the house is stirring: nothing else.

Art. No-now -I hear it not myself;

The city's hum is up; but ere you came

'T was audible enough.

Bosch. In Heaven's name, what?

no- nothing.

Art. A horseman's tramp upon the road from Bruges.
Bosch. Why, then, be certain 't is a flag of truce!

If once he reach the city, we are lost.

Nay, if he be but seen, our danger's great.

What terms so bad they would not swallow now?

Let's send some trusty varlets forth at once

To cross his way.

Art. And send him back to Bruges?

Bosch. Send him to- heaven - and that's a better place.

Art. Nay, softly, Van Den Bosch; let war be war,

But let us keep its ordinances.