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 pleafe; if not, I pleas'd
Not to be pardon'd, am content withal.
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 deferve 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 enfue to-day;
Be not thyself, for how art thou a king,
But by fair fequence and fucceffion?
Now, afore God (God forbid, I say true!)
If you do wrongfully feize Hereford's rights,
Call in the letters patents that he hath
By his attornies-general to fue

His livery, and deny his offer'd homage,

You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,
You lose a thousand well-difpofed 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, farewell: What will enfue hereof, there's none can tell;

But by bad courses may be understood,

That their events can never fall out good.

[Exit.

K. Rich. Go, Bushy, to the earl of Wiltshire straight;

Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,

To fee this business: To-morrow next
We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow;
And we create, in absence of ourself,

Our uncle York lord governor of England,
For he is juft, and always lov'd 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.
Rofs. And living too; for now his fon is duke.
Willo. Barely in title, not in revenue.

North. Richly in both, if justice had her right.

Rofs. My heart is great; but it must break with filence, Ere't be difburden'd with a liberal tongue.

North. Nay, fpeak 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 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;

Unless you call it good, to pity him,

Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

North. Now, afore heaven, 'tis fhame, fuch wrongs are

borne,

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,
Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us all,

That

That will the king feverely prosecute

'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.
Rofs. The commons hath he pill'd with grievous taxes,-
And 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, benevolencès, and I wot not what :
But what, o'God's name, doth become of this?

North. Wars have not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not, But bafely yielded upon compromise

That which his ancestors achiev'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 dissolution, hangeth over him. Rofs. He hath not money for these Irish wars, His burdenous taxations notwithstanding, But by the robbing of the banish'd duke.

North. His noble kinfman :-Moft degenerate king! But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,

Yet feek no shelter to avoid the ftorm:

We see the wind fit fore upon our fails,

And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

Rofs. We fee the very wreck that we must suffer; And unavoided is the danger now,

For fuffering fo the caufes of our wreck.

North. Not fo; even through the hollow eyes of death, I 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 doft ours. Rofs. Be confident to speak, Northumberland:

We three are but thyself; and, speaking so,

Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore, be bold.

North.

North. Then thus:-I have from Porte le Blanc, a

bay

In Britany, receiv'd intelligence,

That Harry Hereford, Reignold lord Cobham,

The fon of Richard Earl of Arundel,

That late broke from the duke of Exeter,
His brother, archbishop late of Canterbury,

Sir Thomas Erpingham, fir John Ramfton,

Sir John Norbery, fir Robert Waterton, and Francis
Quoint,-

All thefe, well furnish'd by the duke of Bretagne,
With eight tall fhips, 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 departing of the king for Ireland.
If then we shall shake off our flavish yoke,
Imp out our drooping country's broken wing,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our scepter's gilt,
And make high majefty look like itself,
Away, with me, in poft to Ravenfpurg:
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,

Stay, and be fecret, and myself will go.

Rofs. To horfe, to horfe! urge doubts to them that fear.

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

[Exeunt.

SCENE

SCENE II.

The fame. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Queen, BUSHY, and BAGOT.

Busby. Madam, your majesty is too much fad :
You promis'd, when you parted with the king,
To lay afide life-harming heaviness,
And entertain a cheerful difpofition.

Queen. To please the king, I did; to please myself,
I cannot do it; yet I know no cause
Why I should welcome fuch a guest as grief,
Save bidding farewell to fo fweet a guest
As my sweet Richard: Yet, again, methinks,
Same unborn forrow, ripe in fortune's womb,
Is coming towards me; and my inward foul
With nothing trembles: at fomething it grieves,
More than with parting from my lord the king.
Bufby. Each fubftance of a grief hath twenty fhadows,
Which show like grief itself, but are not so:
For forrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects;
Like pérfpectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon,
Show nothing but confufion; ey'd awry,
Distinguish form: fo your fweet majesty,
Looking awry upon your lord's departure,
Finds shapes of grief, more than himself, to wail;
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 forrow's eye,

Which, for things true, weeps things imaginary.
D

Queen.