That will the King feverely profecute
'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.
Rofs. The Commons hath he pill'd with grievous taxes,
And loft their hearts; the Nobles hath he fin'd
For ancient quarrels, and quite loft their hearts.
Willo. And daily new exactions are devis'd;
As blanks, benevolences, I wot not what :
But what o' God's name doth become of this?
North. Wars have not wafted it, for warr'd he hath not, But bafely yielded upon compromife
That which his ancestors atchiev'd with blows:
More hath he spent in peace, than they in wars.
Rofs. The Earl of Wiltfire hath the realm in farm.
Willo. The King's grown bankrupt, like a broken man.
North. Reproach and diffolution hang o'er him.
Rofs. He hath not mony for thefe Irish wars,
(His burthenous taxations notwithstanding)
But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.
North. His noble kinsman
But, Lords, we hear this fearful tempeft fing,
Yet feek no fhelter to avoid the ftorm :
We fee the wind fit fore upon our fails,
And yet we ftrike not, but fecurely perish.
Rofs. We fee the very wreck that we must fuffer, And unavoidable the danger now,
For fuff'ring fo the causes of our wreck.
North. Not fo: ev'n through the hollow eyes of death
I fpy life peering; but I dare not say
How near the tidings of our comfort are.
Willo. Nay, let us fhare thy thoughts, as thou doft ours. Rofs. Be confident to fpeak, Northumberland;
We three are but thy felf, and speaking fo,
Thy words are but as thoughts, therefore be bold.
North. Then thus, my friends. I have from Port le Blanc, A bay in Bretagne, had intelligence,
That Harry Hereford, Rainal Lord Cobham,
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, with Sir John Rainfton,
And Sir John Norberie, Sir Robert Waterton,
All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Bretagne,
With eight tall fhips, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And fhortly mean to touch our northern fhore ;
Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay
The first departing of the King for Ireland.
If then we will shake off our flavish yoak,
Imp out our drooping country's broken wing,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown,
Wipe off the duft that hides our fcepter's gilt,
And make high Majefty look like it felf:
Away with me in hafte to Ravenspurg.
But if you faint, as fearing to do fo,
Stay, and be fecret, and my felf will go.
Rofs. To horfe, to horfe! urge doubts to them that fear.
Willo. Hold out my horfe, and I will first be there. [Exe.
SCENE V. The Court of England.
Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot,
Bufby. Madam, your Majefty is much too fad :
You promis'd, when you parted with the King,
To lay afide felf-harming heaviness,
And entertain a chearful difpofition.
Queen. To please the King, I did; to please my self, I cannot do it; yet I know no cause
Why I should welcome fuch a gueft as grief,
Save bidding farewel to fo fweet a guest
As my fweet Richard: yet again methinks
Some unborn forrow, ripe in fortune's womb,
Is coming tow'rd me; and my inward foul
With nothing trembles, yet at fomething grieves,
More than with parting from my Lord the King.
Bufby. Each fubftance of a grief hath twenty fhadows,'
Which fhew like grief it felf, but are not fo
For forrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire, to many objects,
Like perfpectives, which rightly gaz'd upon
Shew nothing but confufion; ey'd awry,
Distinguish form. So your fweet Majesty
Looking awry upon your Lord's departure,
Finds fhapes of grief, more than himself to wail,
Which look'd on as they are, are nought but shadows
Of what they are not; gracious Queen, then weep not
More than your Lord's departure; more's not feen:
Or if it be, 'tis with falfe forrow's eye,
Which for things true, weeps things imaginary.
Queen. It may be fo; but yet my inward foud
Perfuades me otherwife: how-e'er it be,
I cannot but be fad; moft heavy fad. *
Busby. 'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious Lady
Queen. 'Tis nothing lefs; conceit is still deriv'd
From fome fore-father grief; mine is not fo, t
But what it is not known; 'tis nameless woe.
SCENE VI. Enter Green.
Green. Heav'n fave your Majefty! and well met, gentle
I hope the King is not yet fhipt for Ireland.
Queen. Why hop'ft thou fo? 'tis better hope he is!
For his defigns crave hafte, his hafte good hope:
Then wherefore doft thou hope he is not fhipt?
Green. That he, our hope, might have retir'd his Power, And driv'n into despair an enemy
Who ftrongly hath fet footing in this land.
The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself;
And with up-lifted arms is fafe arriv'd
At Ravenspurg.
Queen. Now God in heav'n forbid !
Green. O, Madam, 'tis too true; and what is worse, The Lord Northumberland, his young fon Percy, The Lords of Rofs, Beaumond, and Willoughby, With all their pow'rful friends, are fled to him.
As though on thi king, on no thought I think,
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.
Buby is nothing-
For nothing hath begot my fomething grief;
Or fomething hath the nothing that I grieve,
"Tis in reverfion that I do poffets;
But what it is, that is not yet known, what
I cannot name, 'tis nameleis woe 1 wot.
Enter Green-
Busby. Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland,
And all of that revolted faction, traitors?
Green. We have: whereon the Earl of Worcester
Hath broke his staff, refign'd his ftewardship,
And all the houfhold fervants fled with him
To Bolingbroke.
Queen. So, Green, thou art the midwife of my woe,
And Bolingbroke my forrow's difmal heir :
Now hath my foul brought forth her prodigy,
And I, a gafping new-delivered mother,
Have woe to woe, forrow to forrow join'd.
Bufby. Defpair not, Madam.
Queen. Who fhall hinder me?
I will defpair, and be at enmity
With cozening hope; he is a flatterer,
A parafite, a keeper back of death,
Who gently would diffolve the bands of life,
Which falfe hopes linger, in extremity.
SCENE VII. Enter York.
Green. Here comes the Duke of York.
Queen. With figns of war about his aged neck
Oh, full of careful bufinefs are his looks.
Uncle, for heav'n's fake, comfortable words.
York. Should I do fo, I should belie&my thoughts;
Comfort's in heav'n, and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but croffes, care and grief.
Your hufoand he is gone to fave far off,
Whilft others come to make him lofe at home.
Here am I left to underprop his land;
Who, weak with age, cannot fupport my felf.
Now comes the fick hour after furfeit made;
Now fhall he try his friends that flatter'd him.
Enter a Servant.
Serv. My Lord, your fon was gone before I came.
York. He was; why, fo; go all which way it will!
The Nobles they are fled, the Commons cold,
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's fide.
Get thee to Plafie, to my fifter Glofter;
Bid her fend presently a thousand pound :
Hold, take my ring,
Serv. My Lord, I had forgot
To tell, to-day I came by, and call'd there,
But I fhall grieve you to report the rest.
Serv. An hour before I came, the Dutchefs dy'd.
York. Heav'n for his mercy! what a tide of woes
Comes rushing on this woful land at once!
I know not what to do: I would to heav'n,
(So my untruth had not provok'd him to it)
The King had cut off my head with my brother's.
What, are there pofts difpatch'd for Ireland?
How shall we do for mony for these wars ?
Come, fifter; (coufin, I would fay ;) pray, pardon me.
Go, fellow, get thee home, provide fome carts,
And bring away the armour that is there.
Gentlemen, will you go and muster men?
If I know how to order thefe affairs,
Disorderly thus thrust into my hands,
Never believe me. They are both my kinsmen ;
The one my Sovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bid defend; th' other again
My kinfman is, one whom the King hath wrong'd,
Whom confcience and my kindred bid to right.
Well, fomewhat we must do: come, coufin, I'l
Difpofe of you. Go mufter up your men,
And meet me presently at Barkley caftle :
I fhould to Plafbie too,
But time will not permit. All is uneven,
And every thing is left at fix and feven.
Busby. The wind fits fair for news to go to Ireland, But none returns; for us to levy power
Proportionable to the enemy,
Is all impoffible.
Green. Befides, our nearness to the King in love
Is near the hate of thofe, love not the King.
Bagot. And that's the wav'ring Commons, for their love
Lyes in their purfes; and who empties them,
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