Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private

wrongs,

Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,
Have ever made me sour my patient cheek,
Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face.—
I am the last of noble Edward's sons,

Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first:
In war was never lion raged more fierce,
In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely gentleman.
His face thou hast; for even so looked he
Accomplished with the number of thy hours:
But when he frowned, it was against the French,
And not against his friends: his noble hand
Did win what he did spend, 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.

O 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 (pleased
Not to be pardoned) am content withal.
Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands
The royalties and rights of banished Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead; and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt just; and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir:
Is not his heir a well-deserving son?-
Take Hereford's rights away, and take from time
His charters and his customary rights:
Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day :
Be not thyself; for how art thou a king
But by fair sequence and succession ?—
Now, afore God, (God forbid I say true!)
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's rights,
Call in the letters-patent that he hath
By his attorneys-general to sue
His livery, and deny his offered homage,
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head;
You lose a thousand well-disposéd hearts,
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich. Think what you will: we seize into
our hands

His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands. York. I'll not be by the while. My liege,

We will for Ireland: and 't is time, I trow.
And we create, in absence of ourself,
Our uncle York lord governor of England;
For he is just, and always loved us well.—
Come on, our Queen: to-morrow must we part:
Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [Flourish.
[Exeunt KING, QUEEN, BUSHY, Aumerle,
GREEN, and BAGOT.

North. Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.

Ross. And living too; for now his son is duke.
Willo. Barely in title, not in revenue.
North. Richly in both, if justice had her right.
Ross. My heart is great: but it must break
with silence,

Ere 't be disburdened with a liberal tongue.

North. Nay, speak thy mind: and let him

ne'er speak more

That speaks thy words again, to do thee harm! Willo. Tends that thou 'dst speak to the Duke

of Hereford?

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

Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.
Ross. 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. Now, afore heaven, 't is shame such wrongs are borne

In him (a royal prince) and many more
Of noble blood in this declining land.
The King is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers and what they will inform,
Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us all,
That will the King severely prosecute
'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.
Ross. The commons hath he pilled with grievous

taxes,

And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he

fined

For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts. Willo. And daily new exactions are devised: As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what. But what, o' God's name, doth become of this? North. Wars have not wasted it; for warred he hath not,

But basely yielded upon compromise

That which his ancestors achieved with blows: More hath he spent in peace than they in wars. Ross. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in

farm.

Willo. The King's grown bankrupt, like a broken man.

North. Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.

Ross. He hath not money for these Irish wars (His burdenous taxations notwithstanding), But by the robbing of the banished duke.

I

North. His noble kinsman :-most degenerate

king!

But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm:
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

Ross. We see the very wreck that we must

suffer:

And unavoided is the danger now,

For suffering so the causes of our wreck.

North. Not so: even through the hollow eyes of death

spy life peering; but I dare not say How near the tidings of our comfort is.

Willo. Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours.

Ross. Be confident to speak, Northumberland. We three are but thyself; and speaking so, Thy words are but as thoughts: therefore be bold. North. Then thus:-I have from Port le Blanc (a bay

In Britanny) received intelligence

That Harry Hereford, Reignold Lord Cobham
(The son of Richard Earl of Arundel),
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston,
Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and
Francis Quoint,-

All these, well furnished by the Duke of Bretagne
With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And shortly mean to touch our northern shore:
Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay
The first departure of the King for Ireland.
If, then, we shall shake off our slavish yoke,
Imp out our drooping country's broken wing,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemished crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt,
And make high majesty look like itself,
Away with me, in post to Ravenspurg:
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay and be secret, and myself will go.

Ross. To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them
that fear.

Willo. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.-The same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter QUEEN, BUSHY, and BAGOT. Bushy. Madam, your majesty is too much sad: You promised, when you parted with the King, To lay aside life-harming heaviness, And entertain a cheerful disposition.

Queen. To please the King, I did: to please myself

I cannot do it yet I know no cause
Why I should welcome such a guest as grief,
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest
As my sweet Richard :—yet again, methinks,
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb,
Is coming towards me, and my inward soul
With nothing trembles: at something it grieves,
More than with parting from my lord the King.
Bushy. Each substance of a grief hath twenty

shadows,

Which shew like grief itself, but are not so:
For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects:
Like perspectives, which rightly gazed upon
Shew nothing but confusion; eyed awry,
Distinguish form:-so your sweet majesty,
Looking awry upon your lord's departure,
Finds shapes of griefs, more than himself, to wail:
Which, looked on as it is, is nought but shadows
Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious queen,
More than your lord's departure weep not:

Here am I left to underprop his land;
Who, weak with age, cannot support myself.—
Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made:
Now shall he try his friends that flattered him.

Enter a Servant.

Serv. My lord, your son was gone before I came. York. He was ?-why so!-go all which way it will!

The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold, And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloster : Bid her send me presently a thousand pounds. Hold, take my ring.

Serv. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship: To-day, as I came by, I called there :But I shall grieve you to report the rest. York. What is it, knave?

Serv. An hour before I came the duchess died. York. God for his mercy! what a tide of woes Comes rushing on this woeful land at once! I know not what to do.-I would to God (So my untruth had not provoked him to it), The King had cut off my head with my brother's!— What, are there posts despatched for Ireland?— How shall we do for money for these wars?— Come, sister,-cousin, I would say: pray pardon me.

Go, fellow [to the Servant], get thee home; provide some carts,

And bring away the armour that is there.-
[Exit Servant.

Gentlemen, will you go muster men? If I know
How or which way to order these affairs,
Thus disorderly thrust into my hands,
Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen :
The one's my sovereign, whom both
my oath
And duty bids defend; the other, again,
Is my kinsman, whom the King hath wronged;
Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.
Well, somewhat we must do.-Come, cousin, I'll
Dispose of you.-Gentlemen, go muster up your

Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them, By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate. Bushy. Wherein the King stands generally condemned.

Bagot. If judgment lie in them, then so do we; Because we ever have been near the King. Green. Well, I'll for refuge straight to Bristol Castle;

The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy. Thither will I with you: for little office The hateful commons will perform for us, Except, like curs, to tear us all in pieces.— Will you go along with us?

Bagot. No; I'll to Ireland to his Majesty. Farewell: if heart's presages be not vain, We three here part that ne'er shall meet again. Bushy. That's as York thrives to beat back

SCENE III.-The Wilds in Glostershire. Enter BOLINGBROKE and NORTHUMBERLAND, with Forces.

Boling. How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now?
North. Believe me, noble lord,

I am a stranger here in Glostershire.
These high wild hills and rough uneven ways
Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome:
And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,
Making the hard way sweet and délectable.
But I bethink me what a weary way
From Ravenspurg to Cotswold will be found
In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company;
Which, I protest, hath very much beguiled
The tediousness and process of my travel:
But theirs is sweetened with the hope to have
The present benefit which I possess:
And hope to joy, is little less in joy
Than hope enjoyed. By this the weary lords
Shall make their way seem short as mine hath
done

By sight of what I have,-your noble company.
Boling. Of much less value is my company
Than your good words.-But who comes here?

Enter HARRY PERCY.

North. It is my son, young Harry Percy;

He was not so resolved when last we spake together.

Percy. Because your lordship was proclaiméd traitor.

But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurg,
To offer service to the Duke of Hereford;
And sent me o'er by Berkley, to discover
What power the Duke of York had levied there:
Then with direction to repair to Ravenspurg.
North. Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford,
boy?

Percy. No, my good lord; for that is not forgot

Which ne'er I did remember: to my knowledge, I never in my life did look on him.

North. Then learn to know him now: this is

the duke.

Percy. My gracious lord, I tender you my service,

Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young;
Which elder days shall ripen, and confirm
To more approved service and desert.

Boling. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure
I count myself in nothing else so happy
As in a soul remembering my good friends:
And, as my fortune ripens with thy love,
It shall be still thy true love's recompense.
My heart this covenant makes; my hand thus

seals it.

North. How far is it to Berkley; and what

stir

Keeps good old York there, with his men of war? Percy. There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees,

Manned with three hundred men, as I have heard:

And in it are the lords of York, Berkley, and Seymour :

None else of name and noble estimate.

Enter Ross and WILLOUGHBY.

North. Here come the lords of Ross and Willoughby,

Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste. Boling. Welcome, my lords. I wot your love

pursues

A banished traitor: all my treasury

Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enriched, Shall be your love and labour's recompense. Ross. Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.

Willo. And far surmounts our labour to attain it.

Boling. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor;

Which, till my infant fortune comes to years, Stands for my bounty.-But who comes here? Enter BERKley.

North. It is my lord of Berkley, as I guess. Berk. My lord of Hereford, my message is to

you.

Boling. My lord, my answer is to "Lancaster;" And I am come to seek that name in England: And I must find that title in your tongue, Before I make reply to aught you say.

Berk. Mistake me not, my lord: 't is not my meaning

To raze one title of your honour out.
Το you, my lord, I come (what lord you will)
From the most gracious regent of this land,
The Duke of York; to know what pricks you on
To take advantage of the absent time,
And fright our native peace with self-born arms.

Enter YORK, attended.

Boling. I shall not need transport my words by you:

Here comes his grace in person. My noble uncle! [Kneels.

York. Shew me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,

Whose duty is deceivable and false.
Boling. My gracious uncle!—

York. Tut, tut!

Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle:
I am no traitor's uncle: and that word grace,
In an ungracious mouth, is but profane.
Why have those banished and forbidden legs
Dared once to touch a dust of England's ground?
But then more why;-why have they dared to

march

So many
miles upon her peaceful bosom ;
Frighting her pale-faced villages with war,
And ostentation of despiséd arms?
Com'st thou because the anointed king is hence?
Why, foolish boy, the King is left behind,
And in my loyal bosom lies his power.
Were I but now the lord of such hot youth,
As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself,
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of

men,

From forth the ranks of many thousand French; O, then, how quickly should this arm of mine,