Have woe to woe, forrow to forrow, join'd. 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 bely 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, Whilst others come to make him lose at home. Here am I left to underprop this Land; Who, weak with age, cannot fupport my Now comes the fick hour, that his furfeit made; Now fhall he try his friends, that flatter'd him. Enter a Servant. felf. 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. 5 Should I do fo, &c.] This line added from the first Edition. Serv. My lord, I had forgot To tell, to day I came by, and call'd there; Serv. An hour before I came, the Dutchefs dy'd. York. Heav'n for his mercy, what a tide of woes Come rushing on this woful land at once! I know not what to do: I would to heav'n, Never believe me. They are both my kinfmen; My kinfman is, One whom the King hath wrong'd; But time will not permit. All is uneven, And every thing is left at fix and feven. S [Exeunt York and Queen. Bufby. 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, Green. Befides, our Nearnefs 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 Lies in their purfes; and who empties them, Green. Well; I'll for Refuge ftraight to Bristol Castle; The Earl of Wiltshire is already there. Buby. Thither will I with you; for little office Bagot. No: I'll to Ireland to his Majesty. We three here part, that ne'er fhall meet again. Busby. That's as York thrives, to beat back Bolingbroke. Green. Alas, poor Duke! the task he undertakes Is numb'ring fands, and drinking oceans dry; Where one on his fide fights, thousands will fly. Busby. Farewel at once, for once, for all and ever. Green. Well, we may meet again. Bagot. I fear me, never. SCENE IX. [Exeunt. Changes to a wild Profpect in Glocestershire, Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland. Boling. HOW far is it, my lord, to Berkley now? Thefe high wild hills, and rough uneven ways, D 4 Making King Dick Making the hard way fweet and delectable. lords Shall make their way feem fhort, as mine hath done, North. It is my fon, young Harry Percy, Percy. I thought, my lord, t'have learn'd his health North. Why, is he not with the Queen? Percy. No, my good lord, he hath forfook the Court, Broken his staff of office, and difpers'd The Houshold of the King.. North. What was his reafon ? He was not fo refolv'd, when laft we fpake together. North. North. Then learn to know him now; this is the Duke. Percy. My gracious lord, I tender you my fervice, Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young, Which elder days fhall ripen and confirm To more approved fervice and defert. Boling. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be fure, I count my self in nothing else so happy, As in a foul remembring my good friends; And as my Fortune ripens with thy love, It shall be still thy true love's recompence. My heart this cov'nant makes, my hand thus feals it. North. How far is it to Berkley? and what ftir Keeps good old York there with his men of war? Percy. There ftands the Caftle by yond tuft of trees, Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard And in it are the lords, York, Berkley, Seymour; None elfe of name, and noble estimate. Enter Rofs and Willoughby. North. Here come the lords of Rofs and Willoughby, Bloody with fpurring, fiery-red with hafte.. Boling. Welcome, my lords; I wot, your love purfues A banish'd traitor; all my Treasury Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich'd, Rofs. Your prefence makes us rich, most noble lord. Which, 'till my infant-fortune comes to years, North. It is my lord of Berkley, as I guess. And |