Lady.
Madam, your majesty is too much sad:
You promis'd, when you parted with the king,
To lay aside self-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, yet at something grieves,
More than with parting from my lord the king.

Lady.
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, rightly gaz'd upon,
Shew 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 they are, are nought but shadows
Of what it is not. Weep not then, my queen.

Queen.
It may be so; but yet my inward soul
Persuades me otherwise. Howe'er it be,
I cannot but be sad.

Enter Green.

Green.
Heaven save your majesty.
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:
Then wherefore dost thou hope, he is not shipp'd?

Green.
The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself,
And with uplifted arms is safe arriv'd
At Ravenspurg.

Queen.
Now heaven forbid!

Green.
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.

Queen.
Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland,
And all of that 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.”

Green.
Despair not, madam.

Queen.
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. [Flourish.] Enter York, Bushy, Bagot, &c.
Uncle, for heaven's sake, comfortable words.

York.
Should I do so, I should bely 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 this 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 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 sold,
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.
God for his mercy! what a tide of woes
Comes rushing on this woeful land at once!
What, are there posts dispatch'd for Ireland?
Gentlemen, will ye 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,
The one's 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 me 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. [Exeunt Green, Bagot, Bushy, &c.

Queen.
Oh, noble York, my heart is drown'd with grief,
Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes;
My body round engirt with misery,
For what's more miserable than discontent?
Oh, my lov'd Richard!
What low'ring star now envies thy estate,
That these great lords, with haughty Bolingbroke,
Do seek subversion of thy harmless life!
Thou never did'st them wrong, nor no man wrong;
And as the dam runs lowing up and down,
Looking the way her harmless young one went,
And can do nought but wail her darling loss.
Even so myself bewail my Richard's case—
With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimm'd eyes
Look after him, and cannot do him good,
So mighty are his vowed enemies.
His fortunes I will weep, and 'twixt each groan,
My bursting heart will make our sorrows known. [Flourish.] [Exeunt. END OF ACT II.

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