QUEEN.  Well, I avouch, she will, before I go: 
Far be it John should prove Lord Bruce’s foe. 
Come, noble Salisbury, I long to be at Guildford.

SAL.  In such a business, madam, so do I.

[Exeunt.

KING.  Go on, good stales[306]:  now Guildford is mine own! [Aside.]
Hubert, I charge you take an hundred horse,
And follow unto Guildford castle-gates. 
The queen pretend you come to tend upon,
Sent carefully from us:  when you are in,
Boldly demand the lady for her sons,
For pledges of her husband’s faith and hers: 
Whom when ye have, upon the castle seize,
And keep it to our use, until we come. 
Meanwhile let me alone with Hugh your son,
To work a wonder, if no prodigy;
But whatsoe’er, it shall attempted be.

HUB.  Even that which to your majesty
May seem contentful, thereto I agree.

KING.  Go then to Guildford, and a victor be, [Exit HUBERT. 
Mowbray, our masque:  are you and Chester ready?

MOW.  We will before your grace, I warrant you.

KING.  How think’st of it, Mowbray?

MOW.  As on a masque:  but for our torch-bearers,
Hell cannot make so mad a crew as I.

KING.  Faith, who is chief?

MOW.  Will Brand, my lord;
But then your grace must curb his cruelty: 
The rein once got, he’s apt for villainy.

KING.  I know the villain is both rough and grim;
But as a tie-dog I will muzzle him. 
I’ll bring him up to fawn upon my friends. 
And worry dead my foes.  But to our masque. 
I mean this night to revel at the feast,
Where fair Matilda graceth every guest;
And if my hidden courtesy she grace,
Old Baynard’s Castle, good Fitzwater’s place,
John will make rich with royal England’s wealth: 
But if she do not, not those scatter’d bands,
Dropping from Austria and the Holy Land,
That boast so much of glorious victories,
Shall stop the inundations of those woes,
That like a deluge I will bring on them. 
I know the crew is there; banish all fears: 
If wrong’d, they shall be ours:  if welcome, theirs.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Enter FITZWATER and his son:  OLD BRUCE and
YOUNG BRUCE, and call forth MATILDA[307].

FITZ.  Why, how now, votary! still at your book? 
Ever in mourning weeds?  For shame, for shame! 
With better entertainment cheer our friends. 
Now, by the bless’d cross, you are much to blame
To cross our mirth thus:  you are much to blame,
I say.  Good lord! hath never woe enough
Of welladay?  Indeed, indeed,
Some sorrow fits, but this is more than need.

MAT.  Good father, pardon me: 
You saw I sat the supper and the banquet;
You know I cannot dance; discourse I shun,
By reason that my wit, but small before,
Comes far behind the ripe wits of our age.