And Bullinbroke my Sorrows difmal Heir:
Now hath my Soul brought forth her Prodigy,
And I a gafping new delivered Mother,
Have Wo to Wo, and Sorrow to Sorrow join'd.
Busby. Defpair not, Madam.
Queen. Who fhall hinder me?
I will defpair, and be at enmity
With cozening Hope; he is a Flatterer,
A Parafite, a keeper back of Death,
Who gently would dissolve the Bands of Life,
Which falfe Hopes linger in Extremity.
Green. Here comes the Duke of York.
Queen. With Signs of War about his aged Neck,
Oh full of careful Bufinefs are his Looks:
Uncle, for Heav'n fake speak comfortable Words.
Tork, Comfort's in Heav'a, and we are on the Earth,
Where nothing lives but Croffes, Care and Grief;
Your Husband he is gone to fave far off,
Whilft others come to make him lofe at home.
Here am I left to underprop his Land;
Who, weak with Age, cannot fupport my felf;
Now comes his fick Hour that his Surfeit made,
Now fhall he try his Friends that flattered him.
Serv. My Lord, your Son was gone before I came.
York. He was; why fo, go all which way it will:
The Nobles they are fled, the Commons they are cold,
An will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's fide.
Sirah, get thee to Plafhie, to my Sifter Glofter;
Bid her fend me prefently a thoufand Pound:
Hold, take my Ring.
Ser. My Lord, I had forgot
To tell your Lordship, to Day I came by, and call'd there, But I fhall grieve you to report the rest.
Serv. An Hour before I came, the Dutchefs dy'd.
York. Heav'n for his Mercy, what a Tide of Woes Come rufhing on this waful Land at once?
I know not what to do: I would to Heav'n,
my Untruth had not provok'd him to it,
The King had cut off my Head with my Brother's.
What, are there Pofts difpatch'd for Ireland?
How fhall we do for Mony for these Wars?
Come Sifter, (Coufin, I would fay,) pray pardon me.
Go Fellow, get thee home, provide fome Carts, [To the Servant.
And bring away the Armour that is there,
Gentlemen, will you mufter Men?
If I know how, or which way to order thefe Affairs
Thus diforderly thruft into my Hands,
Never believe me. Both are my Kinsmen ;
Th' one is my Soveraign, whom both my Oath
And Duty bids defend; th' other again
Is my Kinfman, whom the King hath wrong'd,
Whom Confcience, and my Kindred bids to right.
Well, fomewhat we muft do: Come, Coufin,
I'll difpofe of you. Gentlemen, go mufter up your Men,
And meet me prefently at Barkley Caftle:
I should to Plafbie too, but time will not permit;
All is uneven, and every thing is left at fix and feven.
[Exeunt York and Queen.
Busby. The Wind fits fair for News to go to Ireland,
But none returns; for us to levy Power
-Proportionable to th'Enemy, is all impoffible.
Green. Befides, our nearness to the King in love, Is near the Hate of thofe love not the King.
Bagot. And that's the wavering Commons, for their Love Lies in their Purfes, and whofo empties them,
By fo much fills their Hearts with deadly hate.
Bushy. Wherein the King ftands generally condemn'd. Begot. If Judgment lye in them, then fo do we, Because we have been ever near the King.
Green. Well; I will for Refuge ftreight to Bristol Caftle, The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.
Busby. Thither will I with you; for little Office
Will the hateful Commons perform for us,
Except like Curs, to tear us all in Pieces:
Will you go along with us?
Bagot. No, I will to Ireland to his Majefty.
Farewel: If Heart Prefages be not vain,
We three here part, that ne'er fhall meet again.
Busby. That's as York thrives to beat back Bullingbroke:
Green. Alas poor Duke, the Task he undertakes
Is numbring Sands, and drinking Oceans dry,
Where one on his Side fights, thousands will flye.
Busby. Farewel at once, for once, for all, and ever.
Green. Well, we may meet again.
Enter Bullingbroke, and Northumberland. Bulling. How far is it, my Lord, to Barkley now? Noth. Believe me, noble Lord,
I am a Stranger here in Glo'fter fire.
These high wild Hills, and rough uneven Ways,
Draw out our Miles, and make them wear fome :
And yet our fair Difcourfe hath been as Sugar,
Making the hard Way fweet and delectable.
But I bethink me what a weary Way
From Ravenfpurg to Cottfhold will be found,
In Rofs and Willoughby, wanting your Company,
Which I proteft hath very much beguil'd
The Tedioufnefs and Procefs of my Travel:
But theirs is fweetned with the Hope to have
The present Benefit that I poffefs:
And hope to joy, is little lefs in Joy,
Than Hope enjoy'd: By this, the weary Lords
Shall make their Way feem fhort, as mine hath done,
By fight of what I have, your noble Company.
Bulling. Of much lefs Value is my Company,
Than your good Words: But who comes here?
Enter Percy.
North. It is my Son, young Harry Percy,
Sent from my Brother Worcester: Whencefoever,
Harry, how fares your Uncle?
Percy. I had thought, my Lord, to have learn'd his Health of you.
North. Why, is he not with the Queen?
Percy. No, my good Lord, he hath for fook the Court, Broken his Staff of Office, and difperft
The Houshold of the King.
North. What was his Reafon?
He was not fo refolv'd, when we laft fpake together.
Percy. Because your Lordship was proclaimed Traitor.
But he, my Lord, is gone to Ravenspurg,
To offer Service to the Duke of Hereford,
And fent me over by Barkley, to discover
What Power the Duke of York had levy'd there,
Then with Direction to repair to Ravenfpurg.
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 fhall ripen, and confirm
To more appoved Service and Defert.
Bulling. I thank thee, gentle Percy, and be fure
I count my felf in nothing else fo happy,
As in a Soul remembring my good Friends:
And as my Fortune ripens with thy Love,
It fhall be ftill thy true Love's Recompence,
My Heart this Covenant makes, my Hand thus feals it
North. How far is it to Barkley? and what stir
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 of York, Barkley and Seymour;
None else of Name, and noble Eftimate.
Enter Rofs and Willoughby.
North. Here comes the Lords of Rofs and Willoughby, Bloody with fpurring, fiery red with hafte.
Bulling. Welcome, my Lords; I wot your Love purfues A banifht Traitor; all my Treasury
Is yet but unfelt Thanks, which more enrich'd,
Shall be your Love and Labours Recompence.
Rofs. Your Prefence makes us rich, moft noble Lord.
Willo. And far furmounts our Labour to attain it.
Bulling. Evermore Thanks, th' Exchequer of the poor,
Which 'till my infant-fortune comes to Years,
Stand for my Bounty. But who comes here?
North. It is my Lord of Barkley, as I guess.
Bark. My Lord of Hereford, my Meffage is to you.
Bulling. My Lord, my Anfwer is to Lancaster,
And I am come to feek that Name in England,
And I muft find that Title in
your Town, Before I make reply to ought you fay.
Bark. Miftake me not, my Lord, 'tis not my meaning To raze one Title of your Honour out.
To you, my Lord, I come, what Lord you will,
From the moft glorious of this Land,
The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on
To take Advantage of the abfent time,
And fright our native Peace, with felf-born Arms.
Enter York.
Bulling. I fhall not need transport my Words by you, Here comes his Grace in Perfon. My noble Uncle. [Kneels. Tork. Shew me thy humble Heart, and not thy Knee, Whofe Duty is deceivable and falle.
Bulling. My gracious Uncle.
York. Tut, tut, Grace me no Grace, nor Uncle me,
I am no Traitor's Uncle; and that Word Grace,
In an ungracious Mouth, is but prophane.
Why have these banifh'd, and forbidden Legs,
Dar'd once to touch a Duft of England's Ground?
But more then, why, why have they dar'd to march
So many Miles upon her peaceful Bofom,
Frighting her pale-fac'd Villages with War,
And Oftentation of defpifed Arms?
Com'st thou because th' anointed King is hence?
Why, foolish Boy, the King is left behind,
And in my loyal Bofom lyes his Power.
Were I but now the Lord of fuch hot Youth,
As when brave Gaunt, thy Father, and my felf
Refcued the Black Prince, that young Mars of Men,
From forth the Ranks of many thoufand French;
Oh then, how quickly fhould this Arm of mine,
Now Prifoner to the Palfie, chaftife thee,
And minifter Corrcétion to thy Fault.
Bulling. My gracious Uncle, let me know my Fault,
On what Condition ftands it, and wherein ?
|