FITZ.  Ay, then, Matilda, thou dost lose
The former glory of thy chaste resolves. 
These seven years hast thou bid[342] a martyr’s pains,
Resisting in thyself lust-growing fire,
For, being mortal, sure thou hast desire;
And five sad winters have their full course run,
Since thou didst bury noble Huntington. 
In these years many months and many days
Have been consum’d thy virtues to consume. 
Gifts have been heralds; panders did presume
To tempt thy chaste ears with their unchaste tongues: 
All in effect working to no effect;
For I was still the watchman of thy tower,
The keeper of foul worms from my fair flower. 
But now no more, no more Fitzwater may
Defend his poor lamb from the lion’s prey—­
Thy order and thy holy prayers may. 
To help thee thou hast privilege by law;
Therefore be resolute, and nobly die! 
Abhor base lust, defend thy chastity.

KING.  Despatch, Fitzwater:  hinder not thy child: 
Many preferments do on her await.

FITZ.  Ay, girl, I know thou shalt be offer’d wealth,
Which is a shrewd enticement in sad want,
Great honours to lift up thy low estate,
And glorious titles to eternise thee. 
All these do but gild over ugly shame;
Such wealth, my child, foreruns releaseless need,
Such honour ever proves dishonourate. 
For titles, none comes near a virtuous name: 
O, keep it ever, as thou hast done yet! 
And though these dark times should forget thy praise,
An age will come that shall eternise it. 
Bid me farewell, and speak it in a word.

MAT.  Farewell, dear father.

FITZ.  O, farewell, sweet child. 
My liege, farewell:  Leicester, Richmond, Hubert,
Chester and Mowbray, friends and foes, farewell. 
Matilda, see thou keep thy spotless fame,
And live eternis’d, else die soon with shame.
          
                              [Exit.

MAT.  Amen, amen:  father, adieu, adieu! 
Grief dwells with me, sweet comfort follow you!

ABB.  Come, daughter, come.  This is a woful sight,
When good endeavours are oppress’d by might.

[Exeunt from above ABBESS, MATILDA.

KING.  Ah, Hubert! seest thou not the sun go down,
Cloudy and dark?  Matilda, stay! one word. 
She shakes her head, and scornfully says nay.

RICH.  How cheer’st thou, Leicester?

LEI.  Mad, man, at my state,
That cannot raise true honour ruinate.

    Enter MESSENGER.

KING.  I will not be disdain’d.  I vow to see
Quick vengeance on this girl for scorning me.

MES.  Young Bruce, my lord, hath gotten Windsor Castle,
Slain Blunt your constable, and those that kept it;
And finding in a tower his mother dead,
With his young brother starv’d and famished,
That every one may see the rueful sight,
In the thick wall he a wide window makes;
And as he found them, so he lets them be,
A spectacle to every comer-by,
That heaven and earth your tyrant shame may see. 
All people cursing, crying fie upon,
The tyrant, merciless, inhuman John.