Should we not now resent, in future story Our English would be chronicled as dullards;-- These French would mock us for the snails of war, Who bring our houses on our sluggish backs, To winter it before their mould'ring walls; Nay, every village, circled by a ditch, Would think itself a town impregnable; Check the full vigour of our march, and worry Our armies with resistance.

_Queen._ And yet, my liege, I cannot chuse but pity The wretched men, who now must suffer for it.

_King._ Justice, madam, Minute in her stern exercise of office, Is comprehensive in effect; and when She points her sword to the particular, She aims at general good.-- [_Solemn Music, at a Distance._ But, hark! they come.

Are they within our lines?

_Sir W._ They are, my liege.

_King._ Deliver up Sir John de Vienne.

[_KING EDWARD and QUEEN seat themselves on a Throne, erected in the Camp, on the occasion of the Execution._

_Enter EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE, with the Keys; RIBAUMONT, LA GLOIRE, JOHN D'AIRE, J. WISSANT, and P. WISSANT, with Halters round their Necks; a Mult.i.tude of French following._

_King._ Are these the six must suffer?

_Eust._ Suffer!--no:---- We do embrace our fate: we glory in't.

They who stand forward, sir, to yield their lives, A willing forfeit, for their country's safety, When they meet death, meet honour, and rejoice In the encounter. Suffer, is a term The upright, and undaunted spirit, blots From death's vocabulary.

_King._ Now, beshrew thee, knave!

Thou dost speak bluntly.

_Eust._ Ay, and cheerily.

But to our purpose.--I am bidden, sir, I and my n.o.ble comrades, here, of Calais, Thus lowly, at your feet, to tender to you Our city's keys;--[_Kneels and lays the Keys at the Foot of the Throne._]--and they do guard a treasure Well worth a king's acceptance; for they yield A golden opportunity to mightiness Of comforting the wretched. Take but these, And turn our ponderous portals on the hinge, And you will find, in every street, a doc.u.ment, A lesson, at each step, for iron power To feel for fellow men:--Our wasted soldiers Dropping upon their watch; the dying mother Wailing her famish'd child; the meagre son Grasping his father's hand in agony, Till their sunk eyes exchange a feeble gleam Of love and blessing, and they both expire.

_King._ Your citizens may thank themselves for't; wilfulness Does ever thus recoil upon itself.

_Eust._ Sworn liegemen to their master, and their monarch, They have perform'd their duty, sir. I trust You, who yourself are king, can scarcely blame Poor fellows for their loyalty. 'Tis plain You do not, sir; for now, your royal nature O'erflows in clemency; and setting by All thought of crushing those beneath your feet, Which, in the heat and giddiness of conquest, The victor sometimes is seen guilty of; Our town finds grace and pity at your hands.

Your n.o.ble bounty, sir, is pleas'd consider Some certain trifles we have suffer'd; such As a bare twelvemonth's siege--a lack of food; Some foolish grey-beards dead by't; some few heaps Of perish'd soldiers; and, humanely weighing These nothings as misfortunes, spare our people: Simply exacting, that six useless citizens, Mere logs in the community, and prized For nothing but their honesty, come forth, Like malefactors, and be gibbetted!

_King._ Villain and slave! for this thy daring taunt, (Howe'er before we might incline to listen), We henceforth shut the ear to supplication.

_Eust._ Mighty sir!

We march'd not forth to supplicate, but die.

Trust me, king, We could not covet aught, in your disposal, Would swell our future name with half the glory As this same sentence, which, we thank you for't, You have bestow'd, unask'd.

_King._ Conduct them straight to execution!

_La Gloire._ [_Advancing to the left of EUSTACHE._] Father!

_Eust._ How now? thou shakest!

_La Gloire._ 'Tisn't for myself, then.--For my own part, I am a man: but I cannot look on our relations, and my captain, and on you, father, without feeling a something, that makes a woman of me.--But I----

_Eust._ Briefly, boy; what is't?

_La Gloire._ Give me thy hand, father! So--[_Kisses it._]--And now, if I part with it, while a puff of breath remains in my body, I shall lose one of the most sorrowful comforts, that ever poor fellow in jeopardy fixed his heart upon. Were I but well a.s.sured poor Madelon would recover the news, I could go off as tough as the stoutest.

_Rib._ [_Advances to the right of EUSTACHE._]

Farewell, old heart! thy body doth incase The n.o.blest spirit soldier e'er could boast, To face grim death withal. Inform our fellows, At the last moment given, on the scaffold, We will embrace, and---- [_A m.u.f.fled Drum beats._ ----Hark! the signal beats.

_Eust._ Lead on.

[_They march up to the Scaffold._

_Soldier._ [_Without._] You cannot pa.s.s.

_Julia._ [_Without._] Nay, give me way!

_Enter JULIA and O'CARROL._

_Julia._ Stay, stay your hands! desist, or----

_King._ How now!

Wherefore this boldness?

_Julia._ Great and mighty King!

Behold a youth much wrong'd. Men do esteem The Monarch's throne as the pure fount and spring Whence justice flows: and here I cry for it.

_King._ What is the suit thus urges?

_Julia._ Please you, sir, Suspend a while this fatal ceremony,-- For therein lies my grief,--and I will on.

_King._ Pause ye a while.--Young man, proceed.

_Julia._ Now, Heaven!

Make firm my woman's heart! [_Aside._]--Most royal sir!

Although the cause of this my suit doth wound My private bosom, yet it doth involve, And couple with me, a right n.o.ble sharer.-- 'Tis you, great sir, you are yourself abused; My countrymen do palter with thee, King:---- You did require Six of our citizens, first in repute, And best consider'd of our town, as victims Of your high-throned anger. Here is one [_Pointing to RIBAUMONT._ I single out, and challenge to the proof;-- Let him stand forth;--and here I do avouch He is no member of our city: He does usurp another's right; defeats Your mighty purpose: and your rage, which thirsted For a rich draught of vengeance, must be served With the mere dregs of our community.

_Ribau._ [_Advances._] Shame! I shall burst!--the dregs!----

_King._ Thou self-will'd fool, Who would run headlong into death, what art thou?

_Ribau._ A man:--let that content you, sir!--'Tis blood You crave,--and with an appet.i.te so keen, 'Tis strange to find you nice about its quality.

But for this slave, Who thus has dared belie me, did not circ.u.mstance Rein in my wish--(O grant me patience, Heaven!

The dregs!)--now, by my soul! I'd crush the reptile Beneath my feet; now, while his poisonous tongue Is darting forth its venom'd slander on me.

_King._ I will be satisfied in this. Speak, fellow?

Say, what is thy condition?

_Ribau._ Truly, sir, 'Tis waste of royal breath to make this stir, For one, whom some few minutes hence your sentence Must sink to nothing. Henceforth I am dumb To all interrogation.

_King._ Now, by our diadem!--but answer you.

What is his state?--Say, of whose wreched place Is he the bold usurper?

_Julia._ Sir, of mine.

He does despoil me of my t.i.tle; comes Bedeck'd in my just dues; which, as a citizen, (A young one though I be,) I here lay claim to.

I am your victim, sir; dismiss this man, Who, haply, comes, in pity to my youth, And plucks the glory from me, which this ceremony Would grace my name withal, and let me die.

_O'Carrol._ Die!--Och, the devil! did I come to the camp for this?--Madam, dear, dear madam!-- [_Aside._