Gloucest.
Why droops the noble York,—
And Warwick;—ever wont to cheer his Friends?—
Or, does the Discomposure in My Looks,
Where Signs of inward Grief and Indignation
Appear confus'd, transform you to My Likeness?

York.
What generous Breast, but saddens, with your Highness!

Warw.
What pitying Eye, seeing what We beheld,
But wept;—as Gloucester's crimeless Consort pass'd,
In Penance rude, along the flinty Streets!—

York.
And ever, when some rugged Pebble wounds
Her tender-feeling Feet, the abject Rabble
Scoff, as she starts with Anguish of the Pain;
And, bid her be advised, how she treads:—

Warw.
While pale, and red, by Turns, with guiltless Shame,
To Earth she bends,—sometimes to Heaven she lifts,
Her ruefull Eyes,—profuse of gushing Tears.—

Gloucest.
No more; my Friends.—Distraction to my Soul!—
I apprehend you, well: And, you have rouz'd
My couching Rage.—Reproach me, then: And say;
Yet, Gloucester lives?—Yet, Gloucester is a Prince!—
Yet, Gloucester is Protectour!—But, I do renounce
My ignominious Patience:—Yes; I will retrieve
My past Neglect; and vindicate my Love.

Warw.
But;—She is gone: A mournfull, widow'd Exile!

Gloucest.
They shall recall her:—E're I sleep, dispatch
Their Orders.—I will go my self; will bring
Her back, in Triumph!—Will demand such Vengeance,

That Beaufort, and the Queen, shall rue my Wrath:
Shall curse their Malice; their Success: And feel,
That injur'd Patience, kindled into Rage,
Is fierce;—is fatal, as the long-pent Thunder,
That shoots the destin'd Bolt with double Fury!

York.
Let Gloucester but resolve; We come, determin'd,
To stand the foremost Champions in your Cause.

Warw.
It is the King's,—it is the Nation's, Cause!
Both abus'd, by a restless, base-designing, Faction.—
O, call to Mind, the mighty Host of Friends,
Who Wait but Your Command.—

Gloucest.
There lies my Dread!—And, I retract my Rage.
  The King's, the Nation's, Cause is, Now, at Venture:
And, Heaven forbid, My Wrongs, however grievous,
Should stir the People up to rude Commotions.
  Rather, let Gloucester's Friends, and chiefly You,
And Salisbury (for his Wisdome justly famed)
Assist, to still the Murmurs of the People;
And reconcile the Commons to the King.

Warw.
We, and our Followers, are prepar'd, to forward
Those Measures, the Protectour shall approve.

York.
Must, then, your Vertue suffer?—

Gloucest.
Oh, my Friends!—
Let not My Sufferings interfere with Aught,
That may concern the Happiness of Thousands.
  Why, was I born a Prince?—Why, singled out
To ward the King?—The Pilot of the State,
Just foundering in continual Storms of Faction!
  Had Providence dispos'd my Lot, more humble;
Not placed me high, within the publick View;
But, led me in the private Paths of Life:
Then,—Eleanor,—Thy Happiness, Thy Wrongs,

Thine every Wish, had been my chief Regard!
  Excuse, my Lords, this Weakness, in your Friend.—
My ruffled Thoughts are, yet, unapt for Business.
This Evening (when I shall be more compos'd)
Expect me, to consult against to Morrow.

York.
Your Highness will appoint the Hour.

Gloucest.
At Eight.

York.
The Place.

Gloucest.
At Warwick's.

Warw.
Thither, will I assemble
A Band of Patriots;—Men, approv'd by Gloucester.

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