But now I know thy mind; thou doft fuspect,
That I have been difloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy fon:

Sweet York, fweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Nor like to me, nor any of my kin,

And yet I love him.

York. Make way, unruly woman.

[Exit.

Dutch. After, Aumerle; mount thee upon his horfe;
Spur poft, and get before him to the King,
And beg thy pardon, ere he do accuse thee.
I'll not be long behind; though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:
And never will I rife up from the ground,

'Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away. [Exeunt.

Changes to the Court at Windfor-Caftle.

Enter Bolingbroke, Percy, and other Lords.

Boling. Tis full three months, fince I did fee him

AN no man tell of my unthrifty fon?

If any plague hang over us, 'tis he:

[laft.

I would to heav'n, my lords, he might be found.
Enquire at London, 'mong the taverns there:
For there, they fay, he daily doth frequent,
With unrestrained loofe Companions:
Even fuch, they fay, as ftand in narrow lanes,
And beat our watch, and rob our passengers:
While he, young, wanton, and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour, to support
So diffolute a Crew.

[Prince,
Percy. My lord, fome two days fince I faw the
And told him of thefe Triumphs held at Oxford.
Boling. And what faid the Gallant?

Percy His anfwer was, he would unto the Stews, And from the common'ft Creature pluck a glove,

And

And wear it as a favour, and with that
He would unhorse the luftieft Challenger.

Boling. As diffolute, as defp'rate; yet through both
I fee fome fparks of hope; which elder days
May happily bring forth. But who comes here?

Enter Aumerle.

Aum. Where is the King?

Boling. What means our Coufin, that he stares, And looks fo wildly?

Ejesty, Aum God fave your Grace. I do befeech your MaTo have fome conf'rence with your Grace alone. Boling. Withdraw your felves, and leave us here alone, What is the matter with our Coufin now?

Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth, [Kneels. My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, Unless a pardon, ere I rise or speak!

Boling. Intended, or committed, was this fault? If but the firft, how heinous ere it be,

To win thy after-love, I pardon thee.

Aum. Then give me leave that I may turn the key, That no man enter till the Tale be done.

Boling. Have thy defire.

[York within.

York. My Liege, beware, look to thy felf,

Thou haft a traitor in thy prefence there.

Boling. Villain, I'll make thee fafe.

[to fear.

Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand, thou haft no cause

York. Open the door, fecure, fool-hardy King: Shall I for love fpeak treafon to thy face?

Open the door, or i will break it open.

Boling. What is the matter, uncle? fpeak, take

Tell us how near is danger,.

G 2

[breath:

That

That we may arm us to encounter it.

York. Perufe this writing here, and thou shalt know The Treafon that my hafte forbids me show.

Aum. Remember, as thou read'ft, thy promise paft:
I do repent me, read not my name there,
My heart is not confed'rate with my hand.

York. Villain, it was, ere thy hand set it down.
I tore it from the traytor's bofom, King,
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence;
Forget to pity him, left thy pity prove
A ferpent that will fting thee to the heart.

Boling O heinous, ftrong, and bold confpiracy!
O loyal father of a treach'rous fon!

Thou clear, immaculate, and filver fountain,
From whence this ftream, through muddy paffages,
Hath had his current, and defil'd himself,
Thy overflow of good converts (a) the bad;
And thine abundant goodness shall excuse
This deadly blot, in thy digreffing fon.

York. So fhall my virtue be his vice's bawd,
And he shall spend mine honour with his fhame;
As thriftless fons their scraping fathers' gold.
Mine honour lives, when his difhonour dies:
Or my fham'd life in his difhonour lies:
Thou kill'ft me in his life; giving him breath,
The traytor lives, the true man's put to death.
[Dutchess within.
Dutch. What ho, my Liege! for heav'n's fake, let
me in.

Boling. What fhrill-voic'd Suppliant makes this eager cry?

Dutch. A woman, and thine aunt, great King, 'tis I. Speak with me, pity me, open the door; A beggar begs that never begg'd before.

Boling. Our Scene is alter'd from a serious thing, And now chang'd to the Beggar, and the King: [(a) the. Mr. Theobald-Vu'g. to. ]

My

My dang❜rous Coufin, let your mother in;
I know, fhe's come to pray for your foul fin.
York. If thou do pardon, whofoever pray,
More fins for his forgiveness profper may;
This fefter'd joint cut off, the rest is found;
This, let alone, will all the reft confound.

Dutch. O King, believe not this hard-hearted man; Love, loving not itself, none other can. [here? York. Thou frantick woman, what doft thou do Shall thy old dugs once more a traytor rear?

Dutch. Sweet Tork, be patient; hear me, gentle Liege.

Boling. Rife up, good aunt.

[Kneels.

Dutch. Not yet, I thee befeech; For ever will I kneel upon my knees, And never fee day that the happy fees, 'Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy, By pard'ning Rutland, my tranfgreffing boy. Aum. Unto my mother's pray'rs I bend my knee.

His

Kneels.

York. Against them Both, my true joints bended be.

[Kneels.

'Ill may'st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!
Dutch. Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face;
eyes do drop no tears, his prayr's in jeft;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:
He prays but faintly, and would be deny'd;
We pray with heart and foul, and all befide.
His weary joints would gladly rife, I know;
Our knees fhall kneel, till to the ground they grow.

Ill may ft thou thrive,] This line from the first Edition.

Mr. Pope.

His pray'rs are full of falfe hypocrifie,

Ours of true zeal, and deep integrity;1

Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them crave
That mercy, which true prayers ought to have.
Boling. Good aunt, ftand up.

Dutch. Nay, do not say, ftand up,
But pardon firft; fay afterwards, ftand up.
An if I were thy nurfe, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon fhould be the firft word of thy fpeech.
I never long'd to hear a word till now:
Say, Pardon, King; let pity teach thee how.
Boling. Good aunt, ftand up.

Dutch. I do not fue to stand,

Pardon is all the fuit I have in hand.

Boling. I pardon him, as heav'n fhall pardon me.
Dutch. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
Yet am I fick for fear; fpeak it again:
Twice faying pardon, doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon ftrong.

The word is fhort, but not so short as fweet;
No word like pardon, for Kings mouths fo meet.
York. Speak it in French, King; say, Pardonnez moy.-
Dutch. Doft thou teach pardon, pardon to destroy?
Ah, my fow'r husband, my hard-hearted lord,
That fet'ft the word it felf, against the word.
Speak pardon, as 'tis current in our land;
The chopping French we do not understand.
Thine eye begins to fpeak, fet thy tongue there:
Or, in thy piteous heart, plant thou thine ear;
That, hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,
Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse.
Boling. With all my heart

I pardon him.

Dutch. A God on earth thou art.

{Abbot,the

Boling. But for our trufty brother-in-law, With all the reft of that conforted crew, Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.

Good