Join with the present Sickness that I have,
And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too-long-wither'd flower.
Live in thy fhame, but die not fhame with thee!
These words hereafter thy tormentors be!
Convey me to my Bed, then to my Grave:
Love they to live, that love and honour have.

[Exit, borne out.
K. Rich. And let them die, that Age and Sullens have;
For both haft thou, and both become the Grave.
York. I do befeech your Majefty, impute
His words to wayward ficklinefs, and age:
He loves you, on my life; and holds you dear
As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.

K. Rich. Right, you fay true; as Hereford's love, fo his;

As theirs, fo mine; and all be, as it is.

Enter Northumberland.

North. My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majefty.

K. Rich. What fays old Gaunt?

North. Nay, nothing; all is faid :

His tongue is now a ftringlefs inftrument,

Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

York. Be York the next, that must be bankrupt fo! Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich. The ripeft fruit firft falls, and fo doth he; His time is spent, our pilgrimage muft be:

So much for that. Now for our Irish wars;

We must fupplant those rough rug-headed Kerns,
Which live like venom, where no venom elfe,
But only they, have privilege to live.

And, for thefe great affairs do ask fome charge,
Towards our affiftance we do feize to us
The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did ftand poffeft.
York. How long fhall I be patient? Oh, how long
Shall tender Duty make me fuffer wrong?
Not Glofter's death, not Hereford's Banifhment,

Not

Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own difgrace,
Have ever made me fow'r my patient cheek;
Or bend one wrinkle on my Sovereign's face.
I am the last of noble Edward's fons,

Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was firft :
In war, was never Lion rag'd more fierce;
In peace, was never gentle Lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely Gentleman;
His face thou haft, for even fo look'd he,
Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours.
But when he frown'd, it was against the French,
And not against his friends: His noble hand
Did win what he did fpend; and spent not That,
Which his triumphant father's hand had won.
His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
Oh, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,
Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich. Why, uncle, what's the matter?
York. O my Liege,

Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas'd
Not to be pardon'd, am content withal.

Seek you to feize, and gripe into your hands,
The Royalties and Rights of banifh'd Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt juft, and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir ?
Is not his heir a well-deferving fon?

Take Hereford's Rights away, and take from time
His Charters, and his customary Rights.
Let not to morrow then enfue to day;
Be not thy felf. For how art thou a King,
But by fair fequence and fucceffion?

If you do wrongfully feize Hereford's Right,
Call in his letters patents that he hath,
By his attorneys-general to fue

His livery, and deny his offer'd homage;
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head;

B 3

You

You lofe a thousand well-difpofed hearts;

And prick my tender patience to thofe thoughts,
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich. Think, what you will; we feize into our hands

His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.

York. I'll not be by, the while; my Liege, farewel: What will enfue hereof, there's none can tell. But by bad courfes may be understood,

That their events can never fall out good.

[Exit.

K. Rich. Go, Busby, to the Earl of Wiltshire flraight,

Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,

To fee this bufinefs done: To morrow next
We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow.
And we create, in absence of our self,

Our uncle York Lord-governor of England:
For he is juft, and always lov'd us well.

Come on, our Queen; to morrow muft we part;
Be merry, for our time of Stay is fhort.

[Flourish. [Exeunt, King, Queen, &c.

Manent Northumberland, Willoughby, and Rofs.

North. Well, Lords, the Duke of Lancafter is dead.
Rofs. And living too, for 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, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er fpeak

more,

That speaks thy words again to do thee harm.

Willo. Tends, what you'd fpeak, to the Duke of Hereford?

If it be fo, out with it boldly, man:

Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.
Rofs. 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.

North. Now, afore heav'n, it's fhame, fuch wrongs

are borne

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

'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.
Rofs. The Commons hath he pill'd with grievous Taxes,
And loft their hearts; the Nobles he hath fin'd
For ancient quarrels, and quite loit their hearts.
Willo. And daily new exactions are devis'd;
As Blanks, Benevolences, I wot not what;
But what o' God's name doth become of this?
North. Wars have not wafted it, for warr'd he hath

not,

But bafely yielded upon compromise

That, which his Ancestors atchiev'd with blows:
More hath he spent in peace, than they in wars.

Rofs. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the Realm in farm,
Willo. The King's grown bankrupt, like a broken

man.

North. Reproach, and diffolution, hangeth over him. Rofs. He hath not mony for these Irish wars, (His burthenous taxations notwithstanding) But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.

North. His noble Kinfman-moft degenerate King! But, lords, we hear this fearful tempeft fing,

Yet feek no fhelter to avoid the ftorm:

We fee the wind fit fore upon our fails,

And yet we strike not, but fecurely perish.

Rofs. We fee the very wreck, that we must suffer ; And unavoided is the danger now,

For fuff'ring fo the causes of our wreck.

North. Not fo: ev'n through the hollow eyes of Death

I fpy life peering; but I dare not say,

How near the tydings of our comfort is.

Willo. Nay, let us fhare thy thoughts, as thou doft

ours.

B 4

Rofs.

Rofs. Be confident to fpeak, Northumberland'; We three are but thy fel, and speaking fo, Thy words are but as thoughts, therefore be bold. North. Then thus, my friends. I have from Port le Blanc,

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, Sir John Rainfton,

Sir John Norberie, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis
Coines,

All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Bretagne,
With eight tall fhips, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And shortly 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 fhall 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 Scepter's gilt,
And make high Majefty look like it felf:
Away with me in poft to Ravenfpurg.
But if you faint, as fearing to do fo,
Stay, and be fecret, and my felf will go.

Rofs. To horse, to horse; urge Doubts to them that fear.

Wille. Hold out my horfe, and I will first be there.

SCENE, the Court.

Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot.

Bubby. M

[Exeunt.

Adam, your Majefty is much too fad :

You promis'd, when you parted with the

King,

To lay afide self harming heaviness,

And entertain a chearful difpofition.

Queen. To please the King, I did; to please my self,

I