The king has come ? Ha ! Low ? He 's sad , you say ? A son ! Where is the son Would weep for Pembroke ? First touch my hand and swear by highest God That you will serve the king . For the last time I 'll trust and pardon you . If you make black Your soul with violation of this oath , I , safe beyond the stars , shall know it not , Nor die again to think on ‘ t. Men , weep not That ye lack sons , but weep when your wives bear them ! Thanks , Albemarle . Ay , son . Nay , I 'm not dying yet , And wish to keep my last words for his ears . There 's holy magic in the passing tongue That stamps its truth unrasurable . So Would I grave Henry 's heart . I 'll wait My hour . Who comes with him ? And I not told ? Already I am dead . These ears , that kings Engaged , are now contracted to the worm Permits no forfeiture . Well , well , his message ? The pope our friend ? I thank thee , Heaven ! England , take up thy heart ! Thou yet mayst hope ! He alone can do it . Lord Albemarle , and my new-graced son , Will ‘ t please you walk within ? Now , Winchester ? Ay , you 'd trot fast enough To see me die . So I have , my lord . A task unfinished I must leave to you . Here is the key to yonder cabinet . Pray you unlock it ... and take out the packet Your eye 's now on . Ay , that is it . ‘ Twas Henry Second , grandsire of this Henry , Gave me that packet . Sir , you know the tale Of princess Adelais who journeyed here As the betrothed of Richard , Henry 's son . Alack , she never was his bride . Some say That Henry loved her ... I know not ... but she Returned to France , her reason wandering . “ If she recover , ” said the king to me , “ Give her this packet ; should she die , break seal And learn what you shall do . ” She did not die , Nor can I say she lives , so sad her state . Her age was bare fifteen when she left England , Her face a lily and her eyes a flood ; She now must be midway her fifth decade , A time , I 've heard , when subtle changes work Within the mind . A beauteous soul ! O God , Restore her now , or lift her e'en to thee ! ... Take you the packet , and the king 's command . But first your oath . Deceit has sapped my faith So oft I could believe the devil himself Wears gown and mitre . Peter des Roches , will you Be true ? That is done , As well as't can be done . Call in my son And Albemarle . 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 . 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 ! 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 . 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 —— 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 —— 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 . De Burgh ! O gallant soul ! Now am I young ! With forty ships he 'll meet the fleet of France ! I live again , for courage is not dead ! Nay — help — ah , I am gone . I 'll hasten on And plead in Heaven for his victory . Devils ! dogs ! beasts ! Now these devoted bones Will never lie at peace in English earth . My country ! Must the foreign foot be set Once more upon thy neck , and thine own sons Pour sulphur to thy wounds ? The king ! the king ! What , vipers , do you hear ? Call in the king ! Ho , here ! The king ! He has not yet confirmed you chancellor ? While we ride forth to call men to defence — In truth to give them hand and foot to Louis — You wait here with the king —— Does he suspect ? Submit ! ‘ Tis only for an hour . We should have heard by now . There 's something wrong . But five ? What 's here ? Must we believe this tale ? Nay , but ‘ tis strange . You 'll not forget Your barons ’ suit , my liege . Will what I will ! And post you , sirs ! Ha , so ! This wedge of love ‘ twixt you and Henry Quite thrusts you out . You have my oath , my lord . True . If Winchester would Trust Canterbury to find way . But will not Kent oppose this swordless worship ? It needs No second sight , my lord . The barons ’ arms Outnumber all the feeble prelacy . Proud Poitevin ! He plots to lose his head , And give this land a king indeed ! Your cause is ours , and here we draw our swords ! Ah , must we force you , sir ? Say you will . The king once ours we 'll keep the castles , too . Then , Henry , come with us . We 'll put No pressure on your liberty save that We must t ’ enforce our charter rights . And you with us . And I , my king , sought but the good of England In all too harshly crying for the rights Of your long loyal barons . But where is Gualo ? He is friend to Kent . Well done ! Henry will never yield . He wraps the earl So close in love ‘ twill shake the throne to part them . There 's no path to the king not barriered By Kent 's unceasing watch . Arm-locked as king and king ; and eye to eye , Like lovers changing souls . And his pale friend , lord Wynne , Turns corpse on ‘ s feet . This judgment , sire , Is much too modest . ‘ Twere best to haste in this , ere all the shires Misled in love by Kent , hear of his danger . In fewest words , What purpose you ? But you must see the trial . We pray your pardon , sire . No doubt , my liege , we shall remove each bar That shuts you from your love , and please ourselves The most in pleasing you . ‘ Tis strange enough , my lord . Kent 's wife , the princess Margaret , now swears ‘ Twas she who took the maiden 's life , and speaks With so much care and proof of circumstance I scarce can doubt her . No other . She says ‘ twas she alone , and not her husband . Then you 've no doubt ‘ Twas she ? God send you comfort , sire . Sire , I informed you —— My lord —— What ! The lord of Wynne returned ? But I hope He has not bent a wizard 's eye upon Our secrets . I go at once to raise what power I can . Sire , I go .