Puslapio vaizdai

Willo. Nay, let us fhare thy thoughts, as thou doft ours. Rofs. Be confident to speak, Northumberland; We three are but thy felf, and fpeaking fo,

Thy words are but as thoughts, therefore be bold. [Blanc,
North. Then thus, my friends. I have from Port le
A bay in Bretagne, had intelligence,

That Harry Hereford, Rainald Lord Cobham,
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham,


with Sir John Rainfton, 3/And Sir John Norberie, Sir Robert Waterton, And Francis Coines,

All thefe well furnish'd by the Duke of Bretagne,
With eight tall fhips, three thoufand 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 fhake 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 Ravenfpurg.
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.

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The Court of ENGLAND.

Enter Queen, Bufhy, and Bagot.

Adam, your Majefty is much too fad:

Busby. MA

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 fhould welcome fuch a guest 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.
Bulby. 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 Majefty
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 false forrow's eye,

Which for things true, weeps things imaginary.
Queen. It may be fo; but yet my inward foul
Perfuades me otherwife: how-e'er it be,

I cannot

I cannot but be fad; moft heavy fad.

Busby. 'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious Lady. Queen. 'Tis nothing lefs; conceit is ftill deriv'd From fome fore-father grief; mine is not fo, b But what it is not known; 'tis nameless woe.

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Green. Heav'n fave your Majefty! and well met, gentleI hope the King is not yet fhipt for Ireland.

[men: 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 strongly hath fet footing in this land.
The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself;
And with up-lifted arms is safe arrived
At Ravenfpurg.

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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.

Busby. Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland, And all of that revolted faction, traitors?


Green. We have: whereon the Earl of Worcester

heavy fad.

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

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Hath broke his staff, refign'd his stewardship,
And all the houfhold fervants filed 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,
With falfe hopes linger, in extremity.


Enter York.

Green. Here comes the Duke of York.
Queen. With figns of war about his aged neck;
Oh, full of careful business are his looks.
Uncle, for heav'n's fake, comfortable words.

York. Should I do fo, I fhould belie my thoughts;
Comfort's in heav'n, and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but croffes, care and grief.
Your husband 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 shall 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 Plafbie, to my fifter Glo'fter;
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.

York. What is't?

Serv. An hour before I came, the Dutchefs dy'd,
York. Heav'n for his mercy! what a tide of woes
'Comes rufhing 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 fhall we do for mony for these wars?

Come, fifter; (coufin, I would fay ;) pray, pardon me.
Go, fellow, get thee home, provide fome carts,

[To the Servant.
And bring away the armour that is there.
Gentlemen, will you go and muster men?
If I know how to order these affairs,
Disorderly thus thrust into my hands,

Never believe me. They are both my kinfmen;
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 Conscience and my kindred bid to right.
Well, fomewhat we muft do: come, coufin, I'll
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.

[Exeunt York and Queen.

S Come

6 bids

7 bids.


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