For hork Lord-governor of England: Our uncle For he is juft, and always lov'd us well. Come on, our Queen; to morrow muft we part; [Flourish. [Exeunt, King, Queen, &c. S C E NE IV. Manent Northumberland, Willoughby, and Rofs. North. Well, Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead. Rofs. And living too, fór now his fon is Duke. Willo. Barely in title, not in revenue. North. Richly in both, if justice had her right. Rofs. My heart is great; but it must break with filence, Ere't be disburthen'd with a lib'ral tongue. North. Nay, fpeak thy mind; and let him ne'er That speaks thy words again to do thee harm. If it be fo, out with it boldly, man: Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him. Bereft and gelded of his patrimony. North. Now, afore heav'n, it's fhame, fuch wrongs In him a royal Prince, and many more 'Gainft us, our lives, our children, and our heirs. Rofs. The Commons hath he pill'd with grievous Taxes, And And loft their hearts; the Nobles he hath fin'd But bafely yielded upon compromife That, which his Ancestors atchiev'd with blows: Refs. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the Realm in farm. man. North. Reproach, and diffolution, hangeth over him. North. His noble Kinfman-moft degenerate King! We fee the wind fit fore upon our fails, Rofs. We fee the very wreck, that we must suffer; For fuff'ring fo the causes of our wreck. [Death [ours. Willo. Nay, let us fhare thy thoughts, as thou doft We three are but thy felf, and speaking fo, A bay in Bretagne, had intelligence, That Harry Hereford, Rainald lord Cobham, That late broke from the Duke of Exeter, VOL. IV. His His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury, Sir John Norberie, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Bretagne, Stay, and be fecret, and my felf will go. [fear. Rofs. To horfe, to horfe; urge Doubts to them that Willo. Hold out my horfe, and I will first be there. SCENE V. The COURT. Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot. [Exeunt. Busky. M You promis'd, when you parted with the Adam, your Majefty is much too fad: King, To lay afide felf-harming heavinefs, Queen. To please the King, I did; to please my self, Is Is coming tow❜rd me; and my inward foul I cannot but be fad; fo heavy-fad, As, though, on thinking, on no thought I think, 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; 3 With nothing trembles, yet at fomething grieves,] The following line requires that this fhould be read juft the contrary way, With fomething trembles, yet at nothing grieves, 4 Like Perfpectives, which rightly gaz'd upon, Shew nothing but confufion; ey'd awry, Diftinguifh form.] This is a fine fimilitade, and the thing meant is this. Amongt mathematical recreations, there is one in Optics, in which a figure is drawn, wherein all the rules of Perspective are inverted: fo that, if held in the fame pofition with thofe pictures which are drawn according to the rules of Perfpective, it can prefent nothing but confufion: and to be feen in form, and under a regular Appearance, it must be look'd upon from a contrary ftation: or, as Shakespear fays, ey'd awry. D 2 For For nothing hath begot my fomething grief; But what it is, that is not yet known, what SC E N E Enter Green. VI. Green. Heav'n fave your Majefty! and well met, gentlemen: 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 shipt? Green. That he, our hope, might have retir'd his Power; And driv'n into defpair an enemy's Hope, 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 Hath broke his staff, refign'd his Stewardship; 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, |