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!

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*.

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 Francis
Quoint,

All these well furnish'd by the duke of Bretagne,

Perish by confidence in our security,

VOL. IV.

G

With eight tall* ships, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expediencet,
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,
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 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 [Exeunt.

there.

SCENE II.

The same. A room in the palace.

Enter Queen, Busby, 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 my.
self,

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,

• Stout.

Supply with new feathers.

+ Expedition.

$ Gilding.

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 pérspectives*, 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; more's
not seen;

Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye,

Which, for things true, weeps things imaginary.
Queen. It may 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 conceitt, 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 woe, I wot‡.

• Pictures.
Know.

+ Fanciful conception.

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*,

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

worse,

The lord Northumberland, his young son Henry

Percy,

The lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,
With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.
Bushy. Why have you not proclaim'd Northum-
berland,

And all the rest of the revolting faction,
Traitors?

Green. We have: whereon the earl of Worcester

Hath broke his staff, resign'd his stewardship,
And all the household servants fled with him

To Bolingbroke.

Queen. So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,

And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir:

Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy;

And I, a gasping new-deliver'd mother,

Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join'd.

Bushy. Despair not, madam.

Queen.

Who shall hinder me?

Drawn it back.

I will despair, and be at enmity

With cozening hope; he is a flatterer,

A parasite, a keeper-back of death,

Who gently would dissolve the bands of life
Which false hope lingers in extremity.

Enter York.

Green. Here comes the duke of York. Queen. With signs of war about his aged neck; O, full of careful business are his looks!

Uncle,

For heaven's sake, speak comfortable words.

York. Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts:
Comfort's in heaven; and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but crosses, care, and grief.
Your husband he is gone to save far off,
Whilst others come to make him lose at home:
Here am I left to underprop his land;

Who, weak with age, cannot support myself:-
Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made;
Now shall he try his friends that flatter'd him.

Enter a Servant.

Serv. My lord, your son was gone before I came. York. He was?-Why, so!-go all which way it

will!

The nobles they are fled, the commons cold,
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.-
Sirrah,

Get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloster;

Bid her send me presently a thousand pound :

Hold, take my ring.

Serv. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship: To-day, as I came by, I called there;

But I shall grieve you to report the rest.

York. What is it, knave?

Serv. An hour before I came, the duchess died.

York. God for his mercy! what a tide of woes