And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore.
How now! why start'st thou? what, doth
Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death.
A cunning man did calculate my birth
And told me that
by water I should die:
Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded;
Thy name is Gaultier, being rightly
Gaultier or Walter, which it is, I care not:
Never yet did base dishonour blur our name,
But with our sword
we wiped away the blot;
Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge,
Broke be my sword, my arms torn
And I proclaim'd a coward through the world!
Stay, Whitmore; for thy prisoner is a prince,
The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.
The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags!
Ay, but these rags are no part of the duke:
Jove sometimes went disguised, and why not I?
But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be.
Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry's blood,
The honourable blood of Lancaster,
Must not be shed by
such a jaded groom.
Hast thou not kiss'd thy hand and held my stirrup?
Bare-headed plodded by my foot-
And thought thee happy when I shook my head?
How often hast thou waited at my cup,
from my trencher, kneel'd down at the board.
When I have feasted with Queen Margaret?
and let it make thee crest-fall'n,
Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride;
How in our voiding lobby hast thou
And duly waited for my coming forth?
This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,
And therefore shall it
charm thy riotous tongue.
Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?
First let my words stab him, as he hath me.
Base slave, thy words are blunt and so art thou.
Convey him hence and on our longboat's side
Strike off his head.
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