ARTEVELDE. To speak with me! I marvel on what errand Van den Bosch Can seek Van Artevelde. Say I attend him. SCENE VI.-The Market-place, at the entrance of the The Provost of the Clothiers with several principal Burghers and the Chaplain of that craft. PROVOST. Him! did ye say? Choose him for Captain? So! The latest time o' the day is twelve o' the clock; A BURGHER. Nay, Provost, nay; He is a worthy and a mild good man, And we have need of such. CHAPLAIN. He's what you say; But 'tis not mildness of the man that rules Makes the mild regimen. D PROVOST. Who's to rule the fierce ? 'I prithee, Van den Bosch, cut not that throat; CHAPLAIN. Truly the tender mercies of the weak, [Exeunt all but two Burghers. FIRST BURGHER. The scaffold, as I see, is newly wet; Who was the last that suffer'd? SECOND BURGHER. What, to-day? I know not; but the brave Van Borselen's blood (God rest his soul!) can scarcely yet be dry, That suffer'd yesterday. FIRST BURGHER. For treason, was't not? SECOND BURGHER. Ay; the treason of the times; the being rich; His wealth was wanted. FIRST BURGHER. Hath he not an heir? SECOND BURGHER. A bold one if he claim the inheritance. Come, pass we in. SCENE VII.-The House Van Artevelde. ARTEVELDE and VAN DEN BOSCH. ARTEVELDE. This is a mighty matter, Van den Bosch, VAN DEN BOSCH. The people shall elect thee with one voice. So to be rid of some that they like less. Thy father bore, when Flanders, prosperous then, ARTEVELDE. They may remember it—and, Van den Bosch, From which their common weal had sprung and flourish'd. VAN DEN BOSCH. Nay, Master Philip, let the past be past. ARTEVELDE. Here on the doorstead of my father's house How long he fought, how falsely came like friends Who slew my father—yea, who slew their own, VAN DEN BOSCH. Why, what if Jacques Artevelde was kill'd? ARTEVELDE. They cannot render back The golden bowl that's broken at the fountain, And it were well to wring the payment from them VAN DEN BOSCH. Then will I call the people to the Square ARTEVELDE. Not so fast. Your vessel, Van den Bosch, hath felt the storm : She rolls dismasted in an ugly swell, And you would make a jury-mast of me Whereon to spread the tatters of your canvas. And what am I?-Why I am as the oak Wherefore should this be added to the wreck? VAN DEN BOSCH. I pray you, speak it in the Burghers' tongue; ARTEVELDE. The question, to be plain, is briefly this: |