Call in the letters patents that he hath
By his attornies-general to sue

His livery, and deny his offer'd homage,
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,
You lose a thousand well-disposed 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 ensue 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 see 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 just, 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.

Ross. And living too; for now his son is duke.
Willo. Barely in title, not in revenue.

North. Richly in both, if justice had her right.
Ross. My heart is great; but it must break with
silence,

Ere't be disburden'd with a liberal2 tongue.

North. Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more,

That speaks thy words again, to do thee harm!

(1) Taking possession.

(2) Free.

Willo. Tends that thou'dst speak, to the duke of Hereford?

If it be so, out with it boldly, man;

Quick is mine car to hear of good towards him.
Ross. 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 shame, such wrongs are borne,

In him a royal prince, and many more
Of noble blood in this declining land.
The king is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers; and what they will inform,
Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us all,
That will the king severely prosecute

'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs. Ross. The commons hath he pill'd2 with grievous

taxes,

And lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fin'd, For ancient quarrels, and quite lost 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 wasted it, for warr'd he hath not,

But basely yielded upon compromise,

That which his ancestors achiev'd with blows: More hath he spent in peace, than they in wars. Ross. 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.

Ross. He hath not money for these Irish wars, His burdenous taxations notwithstanding,

But by the robbing of the banish'd duke.

North. His noble kinsman: most degenerate king! (2) Pillaged.

(1) Deprived.

But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm:
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.1
Ross. We see the very wreck that we must suffer;
And unavoided is the danger now,

For suffering so the causes of our wreck.

North. Not so; 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 dost ours.

Ross. Be confident to speak, Northumberland: We three are but thyself; and, speaking so, Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore, be bold. North. Then thus :-I have, from Port le Blanc, a bay

In Brittany, received intelligence,

That Harry Hereford, Reignold lord Cobham
[The son of Richard earl of Arundel,]
That late broke from the duke of Exeter,
His brother, archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, sir John Ramston,
Sir John Norbery, sir Robert Waterton, and Fran-
cis Quoint,-

All these well furnish'd by the duke of Bretagne,
With eight tall2 ships, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,3
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 slavish yoke,
Imp4 out our drooping country's broken wing,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt,5

(1) Perish by confidence in our security.
(2) Stout.
(3) Expedition.
(4) Supply with new feathers.

(5) Gilding.

And make high majesty look like itself,
Away, with me, in post to Ravenspurg:
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay, and be secret, and myself will go.

Ross. To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them

that fear.

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

there.

[Exeunt SCENE II-The same. A room in the palace Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot.

Bushy. Madam, your majesty is too much sad. You promis'd, when you parted with the king, To lay aside life-harming heaviness, And entertain a cheerful disposition.

Queen. To please the king, I did; to please myself, I cannot do it; yet I know no cause

Why I should welcome such a guest as grief,
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest
As my sweet Richard: Yet, again, methinks,
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb,
Is coming towards me; and my inward soul
With nothing trembles: at something it grieves,
More than with parting from my lord the king.
Bushy. Each substance of a grief hath twenty
shadows,

Which show like grief itself, but are not so:
For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects;
Like perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon,
Show nothing but confusion; ey'd awry,
Distinguish form: so your sweet 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; mcre's

not seen;

(1) Pictures.

Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye,
Which, for things true, weeps things imaginary.
Queen. It may be so; but yet my inward soul,
Persuades me, it is otherwise: Howe'er it be,
I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad,

As, though, in thinking, on no thought I think,-
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.
Bushy. 'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious
lady.

Queen. 'Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv'd
From some fore-father grief; mine is not so;
For nothing hath begot my something grief;
Or something hath the nothing that I grieve:
'Tis in reversion that I do possess;

But what it is, that is not yet known; what
I cannot name; 'tis nameless wo, I wot.2

Enter Green.

Green. God save your majesty !—and well met, gentlemen:

:

I hope, the king is not yet shipp'd for Ireland. Queen. Why hop'st thou so? 'tis better hope,

he is;

For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope;
Then wherefore dost thou hope, he is not shipp'd?
Green. That he, our hope, might have retired
his power,3

And driven into despair an enemy's hope,
Who strongly hath set footing in this land:
The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself,
And with uplifted arms is safe arriv'd
At Ravenspurg.

Queen.

Now God in heaven forbid ! Green. O, madam, 'tis too true: and that is