Kent. Iden’s Garden.
(Jack Cade; Alexander Iden; Servants)
The famished Cade steals into Iden’s garden. Peacefully walking through, Iden comments how happy his life is away from all the bother at court. Cade threatens him and Iden kills him, learning who his victim is as he dies. Delighted at having killed the great rebel, Iden resolves to bring his head to the King. (48 lines)
Fie on ambitions! Fie on myself, that have a sword, and yet am ready to famish! These five days have I hid me in these woods and durst not peep out, for all the country is laid for me; but now am I so hungry that, if I might have a lease of my life for a thousand years, I could stay no longer. Wherefore, on a brick wall have I climb’d into this garden, to see if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet another while, which is not amiss to cool a man’s stomach this hot weather. And I think this word ’sallet’ was born to do me good; for many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pan had been cleft with a brown bill; and many a time, when I have been dry and bravely marching, it hath serv’d me instead of a quart pot to drink in; and now the word ‘sallet’ must serve me to feed on.
He lies down picking of herbs and eating them.
Enter Iden followed at a distance by his Servants.
Lord, who would live turmoiled in the court
And may enjoy such quiet walks as these?
This small inheritance my father left me
Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy.
I seek not to wax great by others’ waning,
Or gather wealth, I care not with what envy.
Sufficeth that I have maintains my state
And sends the poor well pleased from my gate.
Here’s the lord of the soil come to seize me for a stray, for entering his fee-simple without leave.—Ah, villain, thou wilt betray me, and get a thousand crowns of the King by carrying my head to him, but I’ll make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow my sword like a great pin, ere thou and I part.
Why, rude companion, whatsoe’er thou be,
I know thee not, why then should I betray thee?
Is’t not enough to break into my garden,
And like a thief to come to rob my grounds,
Climbing my walls in spite of me the owner,
But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms?
Brave thee? Ay, by the best blood that ever was broach’d, and beard thee too. Look on me well. I have eat no meat these five days, yet come thou and thy five men, and if I do not leave you all as dead as a doornail, I pray God I may never eat grass more.
Nay, it shall ne’er be said, while England stands,
That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent,
Took odds to combat a poor famish’d man.
Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine,
See if thou canst outface me with thy looks.
Set limb to limb, and thou art far the lesser;
Thy hand is but a finger to my fist,
Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon;
My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast,
And if mine arm be heaved in the air,
Thy grave is digg’d already in the earth.
As for words, whose greatness answers words,
Let this my sword report what speech forbears.
By my valor, the most complete champion that ever I heard! Steel, if thou turn the edge, or cut not out the burly-bon’d clown in chines of beef ere thou sleep in thy sheath, I beseech God on my knees thou mayst be turn’d to hobnails.
Here they fight and Cade falls down.
O, I am slain! Famine and no other hath slain me. Let ten thousand devils come against me, and give me but the ten meals I have lost, and I’d defy them all. Wither, garden, and be henceforth a burying-place to all that do dwell in this house, because the unconquer’d soul of Cade is fled.
Is’t Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor?
Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy deed,
And hang thee o’er my tomb when I am dead.
Ne’er shall this blood be wiped from thy point,
But thou shalt wear it as a herald’s coat,
To emblaze the honor that thy master got.
Iden, farewell, and be proud of thy victory. Tell Kent from me, she hath lost her best man, and exhort all the world to be cowards; for I, that never fear’d any, am vanquish’d by famine, not by valor.
How much thou wrong’st me, heaven be my judge.
Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee;
And as I thrust thy body in with my sword,
So wish I, I might thrust thy soul to hell.
Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels
Unto a dunghill, which shall be thy grave,
And there cut off thy most ungracious head,
Which I will bear in triumph to the King,
Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon.
Exit dragging out the body, with his Servants.