Henry VI ii
·I ii 1 ·
Verse
Eleanor Eleanor: Why droops my lord, like over-ripen'd corn, Hanging the head at Ceres' plenteous load? Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows, As frowning at the favours of the world? Why are thine eyes fixed to the sullen earth, Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight? What seest thou there? King Henry's diadem, Enchased with all the honours of the world? If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face, Until thy head be circled with the same. Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold. What, is't too short? I'll lengthen it with mine: And, having both together heaved it up, We'll both together lift our heads to heaven, And never more abase our sight so low As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground. Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts. And may that thought, when I imagine ill Against my king and nephew, virtuous Henry, Be my last breathing in this mortal world! My troublous dream this night doth make me sad. Eleanor: What dream'd my lord? tell me, and I'll requite it With sweet rehearsal of my morning's dream. Was broke in twain; by whom I have forgot, But, as I think, it was by the cardinal; And on the pieces of the broken wand Were placed the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset, And William de la Pole, first duke of Suffolk. This was my dream: what it doth bode, God knows. Eleanor: Tut, this was nothing but an argument That he that breaks a stick of Gloucester's grove Shall lose his head for his presumption. But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet duke: Methought I sat in seat of majesty In the cathedral church of Westminster, And in that chair where kings and queens are crown'd; Where Henry and dame Margaret kneel'd to me And on my head did set the diadem. Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtured Eleanor, Art thou not second woman in the realm, And the protector's wife, beloved of him? Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command, Above the reach or compass of thy thought? And wilt thou still be hammering treachery, To tumble down thy husband and thyself From top of honour to disgrace's feet? Away from me, and let me hear no more! Eleanor: What, what, my lord! are you so choleric With Eleanor, for telling but her dream? Next time I'll keep my dreams unto myself, And not be cheque'd. |