The king is in his closet, malcontent,
   For what I know not, but he gave in charge,
   Till after dinner, none should interrupt him;
   The Countess Salisbury, and her father Warwick. 
   Artois, and all, look underneath the brows;

on receiving, I say, this ominous intimation, the prompt and statesmanlike sagacity of Audley leads him at once as by intuition to the inference thus eloquently expressed in a strain of thrilling and exalted poetry;

   Undoubtedly, then something is amiss.

Who can read this without a reminiscence of Sir Christopher Hatton’s characteristically cautious conclusion at sight of the military preparations arrayed against the immediate advent of the Armada?

   I cannot but surmise—­forgive, my friend,
   If the conjecture’s rash—­I cannot but
   Surmise the state some danger apprehends!

With the entrance of the King the tone of this scene naturally rises—­“in good time,” as most readers will say.  His brief interview with the two nobles has at least the merit of ease and animation.

   Derby.  Befall my sovereign all my sovereign’s wish!

   Edward.  Ah, that thou wert a witch, to make it so!

   Derby.  The emperor greeteth you.

   Edward.  Would it were the countess!

   Derby.  And hath accorded to your highness’ suit.

   Edward.  Thou liest, she hath not:  But I would she had!

   Audley.  All love and duty to my lord the king!

   Edward. Well, all but one is none:—­What news with you?

   Audley.  I have, my liege, levied those horse and foot,
   According to your charge, and brought them hither.

   Edward.  Then let those foot trudge hence upon those horse
   According to their discharge, and begone.—­

   Derby.  I’ll look upon the countess’ mind
   Anon.

   Derby.  The countess’ mind, my liege?

   Edward.  I mean, the emperor:—­Leave me alone.

   Audley.  What’s in his mind?

   Derby.  Let’s leave him to his humour.

   [Exeunt DERBY and AUDLEY

Edward.  Thus from the heart’s abundance speaks the tongue Countess for emperor:  And indeed, why not?  She is as imperator over me; And I to her Am as a kneeling vassal, that observes The pleasure or displeasure of her eye.

In this little scene there is perhaps on the whole more general likeness to Shakespeare’s earliest manner than we can trace in any other passage of the play.  But how much of Shakespeare’s earliest manner may be accounted the special and exclusive property of Shakespeare?

After this dismissal of the two nobles, the pimping poeticule, Villon manque or (whom shall we call him?) reussi, reappears with a message to Caesar (as the King is pleased to style himself) from “the more than Cleopatra’s match” (as he designates the Countess), to intimate that “ere night she will resolve his majesty.”  Hereupon an unseasonable “drum within” provokes Edward to the following remonstrance: