Aum. If God prevent me not, I purpose fo.

Tork. What Seal is that that hangs without thy Bofom ? Yea, look'ft thou pale? Let me fee the Writing. Aum. My Lord, 'tis nothing.

York. No matter then who fees it.

I will be fatisfied, let me fee the Writing.
Aum. I do befeech your Grace to pardon me,
It is a matter of fmall Confequence,

Which for fome Reafons I would not have seen.
Tork. Which for fome Reafons, Sir, I mean to fee;
I fear, I fear.

Dutch. What should

you fear?

'Tis nothing but fome Bond, that he is enter'd into For gay Apparel, against the Triumph.

Tork. Bound to himfelf? What doth he with a Bond That he is bound to ? Wife, thou art a Fool.

Boy, let me fee the Writing.

Aum. I do befeech you pardon me, I may not fhew it.
York. I will be fatisfied, let me fee it, I fay.

[Snatches it, and reads. Treafon! foul Treafon! Villain, Traitor, Slave. Dutch. What's the matter, my Lord?

York. Hoa, who's within there? Saddle my Horfe. Heav'n for his Mercy; what Treachery is here? Dutch. Why, what is't, my Lord?

Tork. Give me my Boots I fay; faddle my Horse Now by my Honour, my Life, my Troth,

I will appeach the Villain.

Dutch. What is the matter?

Tork. Peace, foolish Woman.

Dutch. I will not peace: What is the matter, Son?
Aum. Good Mother be content, it is no more

Than my poor Life muft anfwer.

Dutch. Thy Life answer!

Enter Servant with Boots.

Tork. Bring my Boots, I will unto the King.

Duch. Strike him, Aumerle. Poor Boy, thou art amaz'd, Hence Villain, never more come in my Sight.

York. Give me my Boots, I fay.

Dutch. Why, York, what wilt thou do?

Wilt thou not hide the Trefpafs of thine own?
Have we more Sons? Or are we like to have?

Is

Is not my teeming date drunk up with Time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair Son from mine Age,
And rob me of a happy Mother's Name?

Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own?
Tork. Thou fond mad Woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark Confpiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the Sacrament,
And interchangeably have fet their Hands
To kill the King at Oxford.

Dutch. He fhall be none:

We'll keep him here; then what is that to him?

Tork Away fond Woman, were he twenty times my

Son, I would appeach him.

Dutch. Hadft thou groan'd for him as I have done, Thou wouldst be more pitiful:

But now I know thy Mind; thou doft fufpect

That I have been difloyal to thy Bed,

And that he is a Baftard, not thy Son:

Sweet Tork, 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 Horse,

Spur poft, and get before him to the King,
And beg thy Pardon, e'er he do accuse thee.
I'll not be long behind; though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as faft as York:
And never will I rife up from the Ground,

'Till Bullingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away, be gone. [Exe.

Enter Bullingbroke, Percy, and other Lords. Bulling. Can no Man tell of my unthrifty Son? 'Tis full three Months fince I did fee him laft.

If

any Plague hang over us, 'tis he:

I would to Heav'n, my Lords, he might be found.
Enquire at London, 'mongst the Taverns there:

For

For there, they fay, he daily doth frequent,
With unreftrained loofe Companions

Even fuch, they fay, as ftand in narrow Lanes,
And rob our Watch, and beat our Paffengers,
Which he, young, wanton, and effeminate Boy,
Takes on the point of Honour, to fupport

So diffolute a Crew.

Percy. My Lord, fome two Days fince I faw the Prince, And told him of thefe Triumphs held at Oxford.

Bulling. And what faid the Gallant?

Percy. His Anfwer was; he would unto the Stews, And from the common'ft Creature pluck a Glove And wear it as a Favour, and with that

He would unhorfe the luftieft Challenger.

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

Aum. Where is the King?

Bulling. What means our Coufin, that he ftares And looks fo wildly?

Aum. God fave your Grace. I do befeech your Majefty To have fome conference with your Grace alone.

Bulling. 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, e'er I rife or fpeak.

Bulling. Intended or committed was this Fault? If on the firft, how heinous e'er 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.

Bulling. Have thy defire.

York. My Liege beware, look to thy felf,

Thou haft a Traitor in thy Prefence there.
Balling. Villain, I'll make thee safe.

[York within.

Aum. Stay thy revengeful Hand, thou haft no caufe to fear. Fork. Open the Door, fecure fool-hardy King:

Shall I for love fpeak Treason to thy Face?

Open the Door, or I will break it open.

Enter

Enter York..

Bulling. What is the matter, Uncle, fpeak, recover breath, Tell us how near is danger,

That we may arm us to encounter it.

Tork Perufe this Writing here, and thou shalt know
The reafon that my hafte forbids me show.

Aum. Remember as thou read'ft, thy Promise past:
I do repent me, read not my Name there,
My Heart is not confederate with my Hand.

Tork. It was, Villain, e'er thy Hand did fet it down.
I tore it from the Traitor's Bofom, King.
Fear, and not Love, begets his Penitence;
Forget to pity him, left thy Pity prove
A Serpent, that will fting thee to the Heart.

Bulling. Oh heinous, ftrong, and bold Confpiracy!
O loyal Father of a treacherous Son:

כי

Thou sheer, immaculate, and Silver Fountain,
From whence this Stream, through muddy Paffages
Hath had his Current, and defil'd himself.
Thy overflow of good, converts to bad,
And thine abundant goodness shall excuse
This deadly blot, in thy digreffing Son.
Tork. So fhall my Virtue be his Vice's Bawd,
And he shall spend mine Honour with his Shame;
As thriftless Sons their fcraping Father's Gold.
Mine Honour lives when his Difhonour dies,
Or my fham'd Life in his Dishonour lyes :
Thou kill'ft me in his Life, giving him breath,
The Traitor lives, the true Man's put to Death.
[Dutchess within.

Dutch. What ho, my Liege! for Heav'ns fake let me in. Bulling. What thrill-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.

Bulling. Our Scene is alter'd from a ferious thing,
And now chang'd to the Beggar, and the King:
My dangerous Coufin, let your Mother in,
I know the's come to pray for your foul Sin.
York. If thou do pardon, wh foever pray,
More Sins for this forgiveness, profper may,

This fefter'd Joint cut off the reft refts found,
This let alone, will all the reft confound.
Enter Dutchess..

Dutch. O King, believe not this hard-hearted Man,
Love, loving not it felf, none other can.

York. Thou frantick Woman, what doft thou do here? Shall thy old Dugs once more a Traitor rear?

Dutch. Sweet York be patient; hear me gentle Liege. [Kneels.
Bulling. Rife up, good Aunt.

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 pardoning Rutland, my tranfgreffing Boy.

Aum. Unto my Mother's Prayers, I bend my Knee. [Kneels.
York. Against them both, my true Joints bended be. [Kneels.
Dutch. Pleads he in earneft? Look upon his Face;
His Eyes do drop no Tears, his Prayers are in jeft;
His Words come from his Mouth, ours from our Breafts:
He prays but faintly, and would be deny'd;

We pray with Heart and Soul, and all befide,
His weary Joints would gladly rife, I know;

Our Knees fhall kneel, 'till to the Ground they grow.
His Prayers are full of falfe Hypocrifie,
Ours of true Zeal, and deep Integrity:

Our Prayers do out-pray his, then let them have
That Mercy, which true Prayers ought to have,
Bulling. Good Aunt ftand up.

Dutch. Nay, do not fay ftand up,

But pardon firft, and afterwards ftand up.
And if I were thy Nurse, thy Tongue to teach,
Pardon fhould be the firft Word of thy Speech.
I never long'd to hear a Word 'till now:
Say pardon, King, let pity teach thee how.
The Word is fhort, but not fo fhort as fweet,
No Word like Pardon, for Kings Mouths fo meet.
York. Speak it in French, King, fay Pardon'ne moy.
Dutch. Doft thou teach Pardon, Pardon to deftroy?
Ah my fowre Husband, my hard-hearted Lord,
That fet'ft the Word it felf, against the Word.
Speak Pardon as 'tis currant in our Land,

The