Why, this it is, when men are ruled by women:
'Tis not the king that sends you to the Tower:
Grey his wife, Clarence, 'tis she
That tempers him to this extremity.
Was it not she and that good man
Anthony Woodville, her brother there,
That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower,
whence this present day he is deliver'd?
We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.
By heaven, I think there's no man is secure
But the queen's kindred and night-walking heralds
betwixt the king and Mistress Shore.
Heard ye not what an humble suppliant
Lord hastings was to her for
Humbly complaining to her deity
Got my lord chamberlain his liberty.
I'll tell you what; I think it is our way,
we will keep in favour with the king,
To be her men and wear her livery:
The jealous o'erworn widow and
Since that our brother dubb'd them gentlewomen.
Are mighty gossips in this monarchy.
I beseech your graces both to pardon me;
His majesty hath straitly given in charge
That no man shall
have private conference,
Of what degree soever, with his brother.
Even so; an't please your worship, Brakenbury,
You may partake of any thing we say:
We speak no treason,
man: we say the king
Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen
Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous;
say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot,
A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;
And that the
queen's kindred are made gentle-folks:
How say you sir? Can you deny all this?
With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.
Naught to do with mistress Shore! I tell thee, fellow,
He that doth naught with her, excepting one,
best he do it secretly, alone.
What one, my lord?
Her husband, knave: wouldst thou betray me?
I beseech your grace to pardon me, and withal
Forbear your conference with the noble duke.
We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey.
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