Percy. My lord, some two days since I saw the prince;

And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford. Boling. And what said the gallant?

Percy. His answer was, he would unto the stews;

And from the common'st creature pluck a glove,
And wear it as a favour; and with that
He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.
Boling. As dissolute as desperate;
through both

I see some sparkles of a better hope,
Which elder days may happily bring forth.
But who comes here?

Enter AUMERLE, hastily.

Aum. Where is the king?
Boling. What means

yet,

Our cousin, that he stares and looks so wildly? Aum. God save your grace. I do beseech your majesty,

To have some conference with your grace alone. Boling. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.

[Exeunt PERCY and LORDS. What is the matter with our cousin now? Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth, [Kneels. My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, Unless a pardon, ere I rise, or speak.

Boling. Intended, or committed, was this If but the first, how heinous ere it be, [fault? To win thy after-love, I pardon thee.

Aum. Then give me leave that I may turn the key,

That no man enter till my tale be done.
Boling. Have thy desire.

[AUMERLE locks the door. York. [Within.] My liege, beware; look to thyself;

Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.
Boling. Villain, I'll make thee safe.

Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand;
Thou hast no cause to fear.

[Drawing.

York. [Within.] Open the door, secure, foolhardy king:

Shall I, for love, speak treason to thy face?
Open the door, or I will break it open.
[BOLINGBROKE opens the door.
Enter YORK.

Boling. What is the matter, uncle? speak; Recover breath; tell us how near is danger, That we may arm us to encounter it.

York. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know

The treason that my haste forbids me show. Aum. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise past:

I do repent me; read not my name there,
My heart is not confederate with my hand.
York. 'Twas, villain, ere thy hand did set it
down.-

I tore it from the traitor's bosom, king:
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence:
Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove
A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.
Boling. O heinous, strong, and bold conspi-
racy!-

Ooyal father of a treacherous son!

Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain, From whence this stream through muddy pas

Thy overflow of good converts to bad; And thy abundant goodness shall excuse This deadly blot in thy digressing son.

York. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd: And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,

As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold.
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,
Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies:
Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath,
The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.
Duch. [Within.] What ho, my liege! for
God's sake let me in.

Boling. What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes this eager cry?

Duch. 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.
Boling. Our scene is alter'd,-from a serious

thing,

And now chang'd to The Beggar and the King.
My dangerous cousin, let your mother in;
I know, she's come to pray for your foul sin.
York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
More sins, for this forgiveness, prosper may.
This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rests sound;
This, let alone, will all the rest confound.

Enter DUCHESS.

Duch. O king, believe not this hard-hearted

man;

Love, loving not itself, none other can. York. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou maket here?

Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear? Duch. Sweet York, be patient: Hear me, gentle liege. [Kneels

Boling. Rise up, good aunt,

Duch. Not yet, I thee beseech:

For ever will I kneel upon my knees,
And never see day that the happy sees,
Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,
By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.
Aum. Unto my mother's prayers, I bend my

knee.

[Kneels. York. Against them both, my true joints [Kneels.

bended be.

face;

Ill may'st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace! Duch. Pleads he in earnest? look upon his [jest; His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:

He prays but faintly, and would be denied ; We pray with heart, and soul, and all beside:

His weary joints would gladly rise, I know; Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they

grow;

His prayers are full of false hypocrisy ;
Ours of true zeal and deep integrity. [have
Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them
That mercy, which true prayers ought to have
Boling. Good aunt, stand up.

Duch. Nay, do not say-stand up;
But, pardon, first; and afterwards stand up.
And if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon-should be the first 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 short, but not so short as sweet;
No word like pardon, for kings' mouths s?

York. Speak it in French, king; say, pardonnez moy.*

Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?

Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord, That set'st the word itself against the word!Speak, pardon, as 'tis current in our land; The chopping French we do not understand. Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there:

Or, in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear; That, hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,

Pity may move thee, pardon to rehearse.
Boling. Good aunt, stand up.

Duch. I do not sue to stand,

Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.
Boling. I pardon him, as God shall pardon

A generation of still-breeding thoughts, And these same thoughts people this little world;"

In humours, like the people of this world, For no thought is contented. The better sort,

As thoughts of things divine,-are intermix'd
With scruples, and do set the word itself
Against the word:+

As thus,-Come little ones; and then again,-
It is as hard to come, as for a camel
To thread the posternt of a needle's eye.
Thought tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to content, flatter them-
selves,-

That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,
Who, sitting in the stocks refuge their
shame,-

That many have, and others must sit there:
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of such as have before endur'd the like,
Thus play I, in one person, many people,
And none contented: Sometimes am I king;
Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am: Then crushing penury
Persuades me I was better when a king;
Then am I king'd again: and, by-and-by,
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing:-But, whate'er
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is, [I am,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
With being nothing.-Music do I hear?

[Music. Ha, ha! keep time:-How sour sweet music is,

When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the music of men's lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
But, for the concord of my state and time,
To check time broke in a disorder'd string;
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
For now hath time made me his numb'ring
clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and, with sighs,
they jars

Their watches on to mine eyes, the outward watch,

Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,

Now, Sir, the sound, that tells what hour it is, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,

Which is the bell: So sighs, and tears, and groans, Show minutes, times, and hours but my

time

A deed of slander with thy fatal hand,
Upon my head, and all this famous land.
Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did
I this deed.

Boling. They love not poison that do poison need.

Nor do I tnee; though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer, love Lim murdered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for ty la-
Dour,

But neither my good word, nor princely favour: With Cain go wander through the shade of night.

And never show thy head by day nor light.-
Lords, I protest, my soul is ful of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me, to make me
grow:

Come, morrn with me for what I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent;*
I'll make a voyage to the Holy Lana,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand:-
March say after; grace my mournings
here,

In weeping after this untimely bier. [Exeunt. * Insediately.

ACT I.

SCENE 1.-London.-A Room in the Palace. Enter King HENRY, WESTMORELAND, Sir WALTER BLUNT, and others.

K. Hen. So shaken as we are, so wan with care,

Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenc'd in stronds* afar remote.
No more the thirsty Erinnyst of this soil
Shall daub her lips with her own children's
blood;

No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise ber flowrets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one substance bred,-
Did lately meet in the intestine shock
And furious close of civil butchery,
Shall now, in mutual, well-besecming ranks,
March all one way; and be no more oppos'd
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master. Therefore,
As far as to the sepulchre of Christ, [friends,
(Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross
We are impressed and engag'd to fight,),
Forthwith a powert of English shall we levy;
Whose arms were moulded in their mothers'
womb

To chase these pagans, in those holy fields,
Strands, banks of the sea. + The fury of discord.
• Force, army.

Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet,
Which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nail'd
For our advantage, on the bitter cross.
But this our purpose is a twelve-month old,
And bootless 'tis to tell you-we will go;
Therefore we meet not now:-Then let me
hear

Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
What yesternight our council did decree,
In forwarding this dear expedience.+

West. My liege, this haste was hot in ques tion,

And many límits of the charge set down
But yesternight: when, all athwart, there