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EARL.

It is good poesy-marry and good prophecy too. Hark ye, master mayor; I have some whit repented me that I was wrought upon by those old Knights of Ghent to proffer terms of such easy acquittance.

MAYOR.

When your highness is graciously pleased to give away your advantages, it is not for such as I to say you do wrong; but every man in Bruges, that is well affected to your highness, said that three hundred heads was too little.

EARL.

By my faith they said true; and Gilbert Matthew told me no less; but I was persuaded by the old Knights. I was too easy with them. Where is Gilbert Matthew?

Here, my lord.

GILBERT.

EARL.

Come hither, Gilbert. I have bethought me, Gilbert, I almost sinn'd against true chivalry

To let yon rabble off.

GILBERT.

Your highness says it.

EARL.

Thoud'st tell me 'twas not by thy counsel,—well.

GILBERT.

As many heads of each insurgent craft

Would not have been denied. A hundred nail'd
Like weasels to the gates of each wall'd town
Thorough the States of Flanders-that had been

A warning wholesome and significant

To the good towns.

EARL.

A salutary caution.

I would the bargain were to make again.

Why, so now! who comes here? the good Sir Walter.

Enter SIR WALTER D'ARLON.

D'Arlon, I never see thee but with joy.
What new adventure hast thou been upon?
We miss thee oft at court, but thy return
Is ever with new honours at thy heels.
What captives follow thee to Bruges to-night?
Or hast thou turn'd base metal into gold,
And bring'st their ransoms ?—either way is well.

My lord, I come alone.

D'ARLON.

EARL.

Why, still thou'rt welcome.

D'ARLON.

Yet there is something following at my heels
Which hardly shall your highness in like sort
Make welcome here.

EARL.

Why, say'st thou? what is that?

D'ARLON.

Ill rumours, my good lord.

EARL.

And of what import?

D'ARLON.

The rebels are alive again and fresh.

The messengers of peace lie stabb'd to death
Upon the steps i' the market-place.

EARL.

Not so!

It cannot be,-D'Arlon, it must be false.

D'ARLON.

I fear, my lord, it will not so be found.

EARL.

Nay, nay, so stripped of every thing-so bare
As we had made them-scarce a leader left,
And those that were so wild and scant of skill!

D'ARLON.

That were an ugly breach if not repair'd.
They've made young Artevelde their chief.

EARL.

God help them!

A man that as much knowledge has of war
As I of brewing mead! God help their souls!
A bookish nursling of the monks-a meacock!

D'ARLON.

My lord, I'm fearful you mistake the man.
If my accounts be true, the life he's led
Served rather in its transit to eclipse

Than to show forth his nature; and, that pass'd,
You'll now behold him as he truly is,
One of a cold and of a constant mind,
Not quicken'd into ardent action soon,
Nor prompt for petty enterprise; yet bold,
Fierce when need is, and capable of all things.

EARL.

And hath he slain the knights?

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I tell thee it is false; it cannot be.

Thou, Gilbert Matthew, how think'st thou o' the tale?

GILBERT.

My lord, it may be there's some stir at Ghent,
Which rumour, floating like a mist before,
Augments to this.

EARL.

Thou deem'st it to be nothing.

GILBERT.

I deem of Ghent as of a fly in winter
That in a gleam of sunshine creeping forth
Kicks with stiff legs a feeble stroke or two
And falls upon its back. My lord, 'tis nothing.

EARL.

Gilbert, thy wisdom never was at fault.
Thou art a comfortable councillor.

Sirrah, what tidings?

[To an Attendant who enters.

ATTENDANT.

Sir, the Lord of Occo

Came with his men at arms before the walls.
Apprised that he was driven forth of Ghent,
The warders have admitted him, and here
He waits your pleasure.

EARL.

Bid him in at once.

He comes like confirmation. Oh Ghent Ghent !

Oh ye ungracious people!

Enter the LORD OF OCCO.

Speak, Sir Guy.

Out with the worst, for I have guess'd it all.
Fame was here first as breathless as you are.

OCCO.

'Tis the worst fortune ever yet befel me

To be the bearer of this heavy news.

Our friends are slain, the White-Hoods hold the town,
And he, the homicide whose bloody hand
Despatch'd the peaceful knights, is lord of all.

EARL.

Oh that unhappy people! hear me, God!
Hear me ye host of heaven, and all good men!
If e'er I lift the wine-cup to my lips,

If ever other than a soldier's bed

Contain me, or if any pleasant sport

Inveigle off my heart while that town stands,
May I be driven from my royalties

To dwell with beasts like him that sinned of old!
Rise, sirs, and feast no more. My Lord of Occo,
Such entertainment as such times afford
We'll give you. Bid my chamberlain see to it.
Adieu, sirs; when the walls of Ghent lie flat
Our revel we resume.

D'ARLON.

Leave me, my lord,

The entertainment of your friends from Ghent.

My house will hold them.—[Aside.] Grant me this, my

lord;

They need a supervisor.

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