Willo. Tends that thou'dst speak, to th' Duke of

Hereford?

If it be so, out with it boldly, man;

Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.
Roos. No good at all that I can do for him,
Unless you call it good to pity him,

Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

North. Now, afore God, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne

In him, a royal Prince, and many more
Of noble blood in this declining land.
The King is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers; and what they will inform,
Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us all,
That will the King severely prosecute,

'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs. Roos. The Commons hath he pill'd with grievous

taxes,

And lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fin'd
For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.

Willo. And daily new exactions are devis'd;
As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what:
But what, o' God's name, doth become of this?
North. Wars have not wasted it, for warr'd he
hath not,

But basely yielded upon compromise

That which his ancestors achiev'd with blows:
More hath he spent in peace, than they in wars.
Roos. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in
farm.

Willo. The King's grown bankrupt, like a broken

man.

North. Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.

Roos. He hath not money for these Irish wars,

His burthenous taxations notwithstanding,

But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.

North. His noble kinsman: most degenerate King! But, Lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing, Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm:

We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,

And yet we strike not, but securely perish.
Roos. We

suffer;

see the very wrack that we must

And unavoided is the danger now,

For suffering so the causes of our wrack.

North. Not so: even through the hollow eyes of death,

I spy life peering; but I dare not say
How near the tidings of our comfort is.

Willo. Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours.

Roos. Be confident to speak, Northumberland: We three are but thyself; and, speaking so,

Thy words are but as thoughts: therefore, be bold. North. Then thus. -I have from Port le Blanc, a bay

In Brittany, receiv'd intelligence,

That Harry, Duke of Hereford, Reginald Lord Cobham,

That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,

His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,

Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston,

Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis
Quoint,

All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Bretagne,
With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And shortly mean to touch our northern shore:
Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay

The first departing of the King for Ireland.
If, then, we shall shake off our slavish yoke,
Imp out our drooping country's broken wing,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt,
And make high Majesty look like itself,
Away with me in post to Ravenspurg;
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay and be secret, and myself will go.

Roos. To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them that fear.

Willo. Hold out my horse, and I will first be

there.

SCENE II.

[Exeunt.

The Same. An Apartment in the Palace.

Enter QUEEN, BUSHY, and Bagot.

Bushy. Madam, your Majesty is too much sad: You promis'd, when you parted with the King, To lay aside life-harming heaviness, And entertain a cheerful disposition.

Queen. To please the King, I did; to please myself,

I cannot do it; yet I know no cause

Why I should welcome such a guest as grief,
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest
As my sweet Richard. Yet, again, methinks,
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb,
Is coming towards me; and my inward soul
With nothing trembles: at some thing it grieves,
More than with parting from my lord, the King.
Bushy. Each substance of a grief hath twenty
shadows,

Which shew like grief itself, but are not so:

For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects:
Like perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon,
Shew nothing but confusion: ey'd awry,
Distinguish form: so your sweet Majesty,
Looking awry upon your lord's departure,
Finds shapes of grief more than himself to wail;
Which, look'd on as it is, is nought but shadows
Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious Queen,
More than your lord's departure weep not: more's
not seen;

Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye,

Which for things true weeps things imaginary.

Queen. It may be so; but yet my inward soul Persuades me it is otherwise: howe'er it be, I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad,

As, though on thinking, on no thought I think,Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

Bushy. "Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.

Queen. 'Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv'd
From some forefather grief: mine is not so;
For nothing hath begot my something grief;
Or something hath the nothing that I grieve:
"Tis in reversion that I do possess,

But what it is, that is not yet known; what
I cannot name: 'tis nameless woe. I wot.

Enter GREEN.

Green. God save your Majesty!—and well met, gentlemen.

I hope the King is not yet shipp'd for Ireland.

Queen. Why hop'st thou so? 'tis better hope he is, For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope; Then, wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipped?

Green.

That he, our hope, might have retir'd his

power,

And driven into despair an enemy's hope,
Who strongly hath set footing in this land.
The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself,
And with uplifted arms is safe arriv'd

At Ravenspurg.

Queen.

Now, God in Heaven forbid !

Green. Ah, Madam, 'tis too true! and what is

worse,

The Lord Northumberland, his son, young Henry

Percy,

The Lords of Roos, Beaumond, and Willoughby,
With all their pow'rful friends, are fled to him.

Bushy. Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland,

And all the rest of the revolted faction, traitors?
Green. We have: whereupon the Earl of Worcester
Hath broken his staff, resign'd his stewardship,
And all the household servants fled with him

To Bolingbroke.

Queen. So, Green, thou art the midwife to my

woe,

And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir:

Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy,
And I, a gasping new-deliver'd mother,

Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join'd.
Bushy. Despair not, Madam.
Queen.

Who shall hinder me

I will despair, and be at enmity

With cozening hope: he is a flatterer,

A parasite, a keeper-back of death,

Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,
Which false hope lingers in extremity.

Green. Here comes the Duke of York.