QUEEN.  A plague upon this counterfeiting quean.

MAT.  God’s blessed mercy! will you still be mad,
And wrong a noble virgin with vile speech?

SAL.  Let me alone.  Matilda, maiden fair,
Thou virgin spouse, true Huntington’s just heir,
Wilt thou come hither? and I do protest,
The queen and I, to mitigate this war,
Will do what thou wouldst have.

MAT.  I come.

BRUCE.  You shall not go.  Sound, drums, to war! 
Alack, alack, for woe! 
Well, God for us! sith it will needs be so.

[Alarum, fight, stay.

SAL.  What stay you for?

BRUCE.  Matilda’s cries do stay us.

MAT.  Salisbury, I come in hope of thy defence.

BRUCE.  First will I die, ere you shall yield yourself
To any coward lord that serves the king.

SAL.  Coward, proud boy!  Thou find’st me no such beast,
And thou shalt rue in earnest this rude jest.

    [Fight again.  MATILDA taken, led by the hair
    by two Soldiers.

SAL.  Rude hands! how hale you virtuous honour forth! 
You do not well:  away! 
Now, by my faith, ye do not well, I say. 
Take her, fair queen, use her as she deserves: 
She’s fair, she’s noble, chaste, and debonair. 
I must, according to due course of war,
See that our soldiers scatter not too far,
Lest, what care won, our negligence may lose.
          
                              [Exit.

QUEEN.  Is this the Helen, this the paragon,
That makes the English Ilion[329] flame so fast?

MAT.  I am not she; you see I am not she: 
I am not ravish’d yet, as Helen was. 
I know not what will come of John’s desire,
That rages like the sea, that burns like fire.

QUEEN.  Plain John, proud Joan!  I’ll tear your painted face. 
Thus, thus I’ll use you. [Scratches her.

    Enter SALISBURY.

MAT.  Do, do what you will.

SAL.  How goes this gear? ha! foul fall so foul deed![330]
Poor chaste child of Fitzwater, dost thou bleed? 
By God’s bless’d mother! this is more than need;
And more, I tell you true, than I would bear,
Were not the danger of the camp so near.

    Enter a MESSENGER.

MES.  My lord, the foes have gathered head: 
Lord Bruce, the father, joineth with the son.

SAL.  Why, here’s the matter:  we must spend our time
To keep your nails from scratching innocence,
Which should have been bestow’d for our defence. 
What shall we now do?  Help me, holy God! 
The foe is come, and we are out of rank.

        [Skirmish:  QUEEN taken, MATILDA rescued.

    Enter OLD BRUCE wounded, led by his Son, and LEICESTER.

BRUCE.  Is the field ours?

YOUNG B. Ay, thanks to noble Leicester.

BRUCE.  Give God thanks, son:  be careful to thy mother;
Commend me to Fitzwater; love thy brother,
If either arms or prayers may him recover.