Bus.
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 chearful disposition.

Que.
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 farewel 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, yet at something grieves,
More than with parting from my lord the king.

Bus.
Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,
Which shew 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, wrily gaz'd upon,
Shew nothing but confusion, ey'd aright,
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 they are, are nought but shadows
Of what they are 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.

Que.
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,
'T makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

Bus.
'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.

Que.
'Tis nothing less: conceit it 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. Enter Green.

Gre.
Heav'n save your majesty!—and well met, gentlemen:—
I hope, the king is not yet shipp'd for Ireland.

Que.
Why hop'st thou so? 'tis better hope, he is;
For his design craves haste, his haste good hope;
Then wherefore dost thou hope, he is not shipp'd?

Gre.
That he, our hope, might have retir'd 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.

Que.
Now God in heaven forbid!

Gre.
Ah, madam, 'tis too true: and what is worse,—
The lord Northumberland, his young son Henry,
The lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,
With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.

Bus.
Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland,
And all the rest of the revolting faction,
Traitors?

Gre.
We have: whereon the earl of Worcester
Hath broke his staff, resign'd his stewardship,
And all the houshold servants fled with him.

Que.
So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,
And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir:
&blquo;Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy;
&blquo;And I, a gasping new-deliver'd mother,
&blquo;Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join'd.

Bus.
Despair not, madam.

Que.
Who shall hinder me?
I will despair, and be at enmity
With coz'ning 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.

Gre.
Here comes the duke of York.

Que.
With signs of war about his aged neck;
O, full of careful business are his looks!—
Uncle, for Heav'n's sake, comfortable words.

Yor.
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.

Ser.
My lord, your son was gone before I came.

Yor.
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.

Ser.
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.

Yor.
What is it, knave?

Ser.
An hour before I came, the dutchess dy'd.

Yor.
God for his mercy! what a tide of woes
Comes rushing on this woful land at once!
I know not what to do:—I would to God,
(So my untruth had not provok'd him to it)
The king had cut off my head with my brother's.—
What, are there posts dispatch'd for Ireland?
How shall we do for money for these wars?
Come, sister,—cousin, I would say; pray, pardon me.—
Go, fellow, [to the Ser.] get thee home, provide some carts,
And bring away the armour that is there.— [Exit Ser.
Gentlemen, will you muster men? if I know

How, or which way, to order these affairs,
Thus most disorderly thrust into my hands,
Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen;—
Th' one is my sovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bids defend; th' other again,
He 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, gentlemen.—
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.

Bus.
The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,
But none returns. For us to levy power,
Proportionable to the enemy,
Is all unpossible‡ ^note.

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

Bag.
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.

Bus.
Wherein the king stands generally condemn'd.

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

Gre.
Well, I'll for refuge straight to Bristol castle:
The earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bus.
Thither will I with you: for little office
The hateful commons will perform for us;
Except, like curs, to tear us all in pieces.—
Will you go along with us?

Bag.
No; I'll to Ireland to his majesty.
Farewel: if heart's presages be not vain,
We three here part, that ne'er shall meet again.

Bus.
That's as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.

Bag.
Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes
Is—numb'ring sands, and drinking oceans dry;
Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.

Farewel at once, for once, for all, and ever.

Bus.
Well, we may meet again.

Bag.
I fear me, never† ^note. [Exeunt.

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