Nor Gaunt's Rebukes, nor England's private Wrongs;
Nor the prevention of poor Bullingbroke,
About his Marriage, nor my own Disgrace,
Have ever made me fower my patient Cheek,
Or bend one Wrinkle on my Soveraign's Face.
I am the laft of noble Edward's Sons,

Of whom thy Father, Prince of Wales, was firft:
In Wars 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 Kindreds Blood,
But bloody with the Enemies of his Kin;
Oh Richard, Tork is too far gone with Grief,
Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich. Why Uncle, what's the matter?

York. Oh, my Liege, pardon me if you please; if not, I, pleas'd not to be pardon'd, am content with all: Seek you to feize, and gripe into your Hands The Royalties and Rights of banish'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 Son? Take Hereford's Rights away, and take from Time His Charters, and his cuftomary Rights. Let not to Morrow then enfue to Day, Be not thy felf. For how art thou a King But by fair Sequence and Succeffion? Now afore God, God forbid I fay true, 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 thoufand Dangers on your Head, You lofe a thousand well difpofed Hearts,

And

And prick my tender Patience to those Thoughts
Which Honour and Allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich. Think what you will; we feize into our Hands, His Plate, his Goods, his Mony, and his Lands.

Tork, 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.

K. Rich. Go Bufbie to the Earl of Wiltshire ftreight,
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 abfence of our felf,
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 ftay is fhort.

[Exit.

[Flourish.

Exeunt King, Queen, &c. Manet Northumberland, Willoughby, and Rofs. North. Well, Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead. Rofs. And living too, for now his Son is Duke Willo. Barely in Title, not in Revenue.

North. Richly in both, if Juftice had her Right. Rofs. My Heart is great; but it muft break with filence, E'r't be disburthen'd with a liberal Tongue.

North. Nay, fpeak thy Mind; and let him ne'er speak more That fpeaks thy Words again to do thee harm.

Wille. Tends that thou'dft 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,

Unlefs you call it good to pity him,

Bereft and gelded of his Patrimony.

North. Now afore Heav'n, it's Shame fuch Wrongs are born, 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 Meerly 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 quite loft their Hearts; the Nobles hath he fin'd For ancient Quarrels, and quite loft their Hearts. Willo. And daily new Exactions are devis'd; As Blanks, Benevolences, and I wot not what: But what o'God's Name doth become of this?

North. Wars have not wafted it, for war'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 thefe 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 Shelter to avoid the Storm:

We fee the Wind fit fore upon our Sails,

And yet we ftrike not, but fecurely perish.

Rofs. We fee the very Wreck that we must suffer, And unavoided is the Danger now,

For fuffering fo the Causes of our Wreck.

North. Not fo: Even through the hollow Eyes of Death,

I fpie Life peering; but I dare not fay

How near the Tidings of our Comfort is.

Willo. Nay, let us fhare thy thoughts, as thou doft ours.
Rofs. Be confident to fpeak, Northumberland,

We three are but thy felf, and speaking so,
Thy Words are but as Thoughts, therefore be bold.
North. Then thus: I have from Port le Blan,

A Bay in Britain, receiv'd Intelligence,

That Harry Duke of 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 Quoiní,
All thete well furnish'd by the Duke of Britain,

With eight tall Ships, three thoufand Men of War,
Are making hither with all due Expedience,

And

And shortly mean to touch our Northern Shore ;
Perhaps they had e'er this, but that they stay
The firft departing of the King for Ireland.
If then we fhall thake off our flavish Yoak,
Imp out our drooping Country's broken Wing,
Redeem from broken Pawn the blemish'd Crown,
Wipe off the Duft that hides our Scepter's Gilt,
And make high Majefty look like it self,

Away with me in hafte to Ravenfpurg;

But if

you faint, as fearing to do fo,

Stay, and be fecret, and my felf will go.

Rofs. To Horse, to Horfe; urge Doubts to them that fear: Willo. Hold out my Horfe, and I will firft be there. [Exeunt:

SCENE II.

Enter Queen, Bufhy, and Bagot.

Busby. Madam, your Majefty is too much fad: You promis'd, when you parted with the King, To lay afide felf-harming Heavinefs,

And entertain a chearful Difpofition.

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

I cannot do it; yet I know no Caufe

Why I should welcome fuch a Guest as Grief,
Save bidding farewel to fo tweet a Guest
As my fweet Richard; yet again methinks
Some unborn Sorrow, ripe in Fortune's Womb,
Is coming toward, me, and my inward Soul
Which nothing trembles at, fomething it grieves,
More than with parting from my Lord the King.

felf

Ruby. Each Subftance of a Grief hath twenty Shadowsj Which thews like Grief it felf, but is not fo: For Sorrow's Eye, glazed with blinding Tears, Divides one thing entire, to many Obje&s, Like Perfpectives, which rightly gaz'd upon Shew nothing but Confufion ey'd awry, Diftinguish Form: So your fweet Majefty, Looking awry upon your Lord's Departure, Find Shapes of Grief, more than himself to wail,

H 2

Which

Which look'd 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, more's not feen:
Or if it be, 'tis with falfe Sorrow's Eye,
Which for things true, weep things imaginary.
Queen. It may be fo; but yet my inward Soul
Perfuades me it is otherwife: How-c'er it be,
I cannot but be fad; fo heavy fad,

As though on thinking on no Thought I think,
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and fhrink.
Buy. '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,
For nothing hath begot my fomething Grief;
Or fomething, hath the nothing that I grieve,
'Tis in Reverfion that I do poffefs;

But what it is, that is not yet known, what
I cannot Name, 'tis nameless Wo I wot.

Enter Green.

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, good Hope,

Then wherefore doft thou hope he is not fhipt?

Green. That he, our Hope, might have retir'd his Power, And driven into defpair an Enemies Hope,

Who ftrongly hath fet footing in this Land.
The banish'd Bullingbroke repeals himself;
And with up-lifted Arms is fafe arriv'd
At Ravenspurg.

Queen. Now God in Heav'n forbid.

Green. O, Madam, 'tis too true; and what is worse, The Lords Northumberland, his young Son Henry Percy, The Lords of Rofs, Beaumond, and Willoughby, With all their powerful Friends are fled to him. Bufby. Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland, And the reft of that revolted Faction, Traitors? Green. We have: Whereupon the Earl of Worcester Hath broke his Staff, refign'd his Stewardship,

And all the Houfhold Servants fled with him to Bulling broke. Queen. So Green, thou art the Midwife of my Woe,

And