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Car. Are you advis'd ?—the east side of the grove? Glo. Cardinal, I am with you.


[ Aside. K. Hen. Why, how now, uncle Gloster.

Glo. Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord. Now, by God's mother, priest, I'll shave your crown for

this, Or all my fence shall fail.

[ Aside.
Car. Medice teipsum ;
Protector, see to’t well, protect yourself. [Aside.
K. Hen. The winds grow high; so do your stomachs,

How irksome is this musick to my heart!
When such strings jar, what hope of harmony?

pray, my lords, let me compound this strife.

Enter an Inhabitant of Saint Albans, crying, A Mi

racle !
Glo. What means this noise ?
Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim ?

Inhab. A miracle! a miracle !
Suf. Come to the king, and tell him what miracle.

Inhab. Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Albans' shrine,
Within this half hour, hath receiv'd his sight;
A man, that ne'er saw in his life before.

K. Hen. Now, God be prais'd! that to believing souls Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair !

Enter the Mayor of Saint Albans, and his Brethren ; and

Simpcox, borne between two persons in a Chair; his Wife and a great Multitude following.

Car. Here come the townsmen on procession, To present your highness with the man.

K. Hen. Great is his comfort in this earthly vale, Although by his sight his sin be multiplied.

Glo. Stand by, my masters, bring him near the king, His highness' pleasure is to talk with him.

K. Hen. Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance,
That we for thee may glorify the Lord.
What, hast thou been long blind, and now restor’d?

Simp. Born blind, an't please your grace.
Wife. Ay, indeed, was he.
Suf. What woman is this?
Wife. His wife, an't like your worship.
Glo. Had'st thou been his mother, thou could'st have

better told.
K. Hen. Where wert thou born?
Simp. At Berwick in the north, an't like your grace.
K. Hen. Poor soul! God's goodness hath been great

to thee: Let never day nor night unhallow'd pass, But still remember what the Lord hath done. Q. Mar. Tell me, good fellow, cam'st thou here by

Or of devotion, to this holy shrine ?

Simp. God knows, of pure devotion; being calld
A hundred times, and oftner, in my sleep
By good Saint Alban ; who said, -Simpcor, come;
Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.

Wife. Most true, forsooth; and many time and oft Myself have heard a voice to call him so.

Car. What, art thou lame?
Simp. Ay, God Almighty help me!
Suf. How cam'st thou so ?
Simp. A fall off a tree.

them :

Wife. A plum-tree, master.
Glo. How long hast thou been blind?
Simp. O, born so, master.
Glo. What, and would'st climb a tree?
Simp. But that in all my life, when I was a youth.
Wife. Too true; and bought his climbing very dear.
Glo. 'Mass, thou lov’dst plums well, that would'st ven-

ture so. Simp. Alas, good master, my wife desir’d some dam

sons, And made me climb, with danger of my life.

Glo. A subtle knave! but yet it shall not serve.-Let me see thine eyes :-wink now ;-now open In my opinion yet thou see'st not well. Simp. Yes, master, clear as day; I thank God, and

Saint Alban. Glo. Say'st thou me so? What colour is this cloak of ? Simp. Red, master; red as blood. Glo. Why, that's well said: What colour is my gown of? Simp. Black, forsooth; coal-black, as jet. K. Hen. Why then, thou know'st what colour jet is of? Suf. And yet, I think, jet did he never see. Glo. But cloaks, and gowns, before this day, a many. Wife. Never, before this day, in all his life. Glo. Tell me, sirrah, what's my name? Simp. Alas, master, I know not. Glo. What's his name? Simp. I know not. Glo. Nor his? Simp. No, indeed, master. Glo. What's thine own name? Simp. Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, inaster.

Glo. Then, Saunder, sit thou there, the lyingest knave In Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, Thou might'st as well have known our names, as thus To name the several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours; but suddenly To nominate them all, 's impossible.My lords, Saint Alban here hath done a miracle; And would ye not think that cunning to be great, That could restore this cripple to his legs ?

Simp. 0, master, that you could !

Glo. My masters of Saint Albans, have you not beadles in your town, and things called whips ?

May. Yes, my lord, if it please your grace.
Glo. Then send for one presently.
May. Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight.

[Erit an Attendant. Glo. Now fetch me a stool hither by and by. [A Stool brought out.] Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me over this stool, and run away.

Simp. Alas, master, I am not able to stand alone: You


about to torture me in vain.

Re-enter Attendant, with the Beadle. Glo. Well, sir, we must have you find your legs. Sirrah beadle, whip him till he leap over that same stool.

Bead. I will, my lord.—Come on, sirrah ; off with your doublet quickly.

Simp. Alas, master, what shall I do? I am not able to stand.

[-After the Beadle hath hit him once, he leaps over

the Stool, and runs away; and the People follow, and cry, A Miracle !

K. Hen. O God, see'st thou this, and bear'st so long? Q. Mar. It made me laugh, to see the villain run. Glo. Follow the knave; and take this drab away. Wife. Alas, sir, we did it for pure need.

Glo. Let them be whipped through every market town, till they come to Berwick, whence they came.

[Exeunt Mayor, Beadle, Wife, &c. Car. Duke Humphrey has done a miracle to-day. Suf. True; made the lame to leap, and fly away.

Glo. But you have done more miracles than I ; You made, in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly.

K. Hen. What tidings with our cousin Buckingham ?

Buck. Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold.
A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent,-
Under the countenance and confederacy
Of lady Eleanor, the protector's wife,
The ringleader and head of all this rout,-
Have practis’d dangerously against your state,
Dealing with witches, and with conjurers:
Whom we have apprehended in the fact;
Raising up wicked spirits from under ground,
Demanding of king Henry's life and death,
And other of your highness' privy council,
As more at large your grace shall understand.

Car. And so, my lord protector, by this means
Your lady is forthcoming yet at London.
This news, I think, hath turn'd your weapon's edge;
'Tis like, my lord, you will not keep your hour.

[ Aside to Gloster. Glo. Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart !

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