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?
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 Comes rushing on this woeful land at once! I know not what to do:-I would to God, untruth had not provok'd him to it,) The king had cut off my head with my brother's.What, are there posts despatch'd for Ireland?— How shall we do for money for these wars?

(So my

Come, sister,-cousin, I would say: pray, pardon

me.

Go, fellow, [To the Servant.] get thee home, provide some carts,

And bring away the armour that is there.—

[Exit Servant. Gentlemen, will you go muster men? if I know How, or which way, to order these affairs, Thus thrust disorderly into my hands, Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen ;The one's my sovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend; the other, again, Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong'd; Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right. Well, somewhat we must do.-Come, cousin, I'll Dispose of you:-Go, muster up your men, And meet me presently at Berkley-castle.

I should to Plashy too ;

But time will not permit :-All is uneven,
And every thing is left at six and seven.

[Exeunt York and Queen.

Bushy. The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,

But none returns. For us to levy power,

Proportionable to the enemy,

Is all impossible.

Green. Besides, our nearness to the king in love, Is near the hate of those love not the king.

Bagot. And that's the wavering commons: for their love

Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them,
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.
Bushy. Wherein the king stands generally con-
demn'd.

Bagot. If judgment lie in them, then so do we;
Because we ever have been near the king.

Green. Well, I'll for refuge straight to Bristol castle;

The earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy. Thither will I with you: for little office The hateful commons will perform for us;

Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.—
Will you go along with us?

Bagot. No; I'll to Ireland to his majesty.
Farewell if heart's presages be not vain,

We three here part, that ne'er shall meet again. Bushy. That's as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.

Green. Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes, Is-numb'ring sands, and drinking oceans dry; Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly. Bushy. Farewell at once; for once, for all, and

ever.

Green. Well, we may meet again.

Bagot. I fear me, never.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.-The Wilds in Glostershire.

Enter BOLINGBROKE and Northumberland,
with forces.

Boling. How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now?
North. Believe me, noble lord,

I am a stranger here in Glostershire.

These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome;
And yet your
fair discourse hath been as sugar,
Making the hard way sweet and délectable.
But, I bethink me, what a weary way

From Ravenspurg to Cotswold, will be found
In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company;
Which, I protest, hath very much beguil'd
The tediousness and process of my travel:
But theirs is sweeten'd with the hope to have
The present benefit, which I possess:
And hope to joy, is little less in joy,
Than hope enjoy'd: by this the weary lords
Shall make their way seem short; as mine hath done
By sight of what I have, your noble company.
Boling. Of much less value is my company,
Than your good words. But who comes here?
Enter HARRY PERCY.

North. It is my son, young Harry Percy,
Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.
Harry, how fares your uncle?

Percy. I had thought, my lord, to have learn'd his

health of you.

North. Why, is he not with the queen?

Enter York, attended.

Boling. I shall not need transport my words by

you;

Here comes his grace in person. My noble uncle!

[Kneels.

York. Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,

Whose duty is deceivable and false.

Boling. My gracious uncle!

York. Tut, tut!

Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle :'
I am no traitor's uncle; and that word-
In an ungracious mouth, is but profane.

-grace,

Why have those banish'd and forbidden legs
Dar'd once to touch a dust of England's ground?
But then more why ;-Why have they dar'd to march
So many miles upon her peaceful bosom;

Frighting her pale-fac'd villages with war,

And ostentation of despised arms?

Com'st thou, because the anointed king is hence?
Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind,
And in my loyal bosom lies his power.

Were I but now the lord of such hot youth,
As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself,
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,
From forth the ranks of many thousand French;
O, then, how quickly should this arm of mine,
Now prisoner to the palsy, chástise thee,
And minister correction to thy fault!

Boling. My gracious uncle, let me know my fault;

On what condition stands it, and wherein?

York. Even in condition of the worst degree,

In gross rebellion, and detested treason:

Thou art a banish'd man, and here art come,

Before the expiration of thy time,

In braving arms against thy sovereign.