Bol.
How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now?

North.
I am a stranger here in Glocestershire.
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 delectable.”
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.

Bol.
Of much less value is my company
Than your good words.—But who comes here? Enter Harry Percy.

North.
It is my son, my lord, 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?

Percy.
No, my good lord, he hath forsook the court,

Broken his staff of office, and dispers'd
The household of the king.

North.
What was his reason?
He was not so resolv'd, when last we spake together.

Percy.
Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.
But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurg,
To offer service to the duke of Hereford;
And sent me o'er by Berkely, to discover
What power the duke of York hath levy'd there,
Then with direction to repair to Ravenspurg.

North.
Have you forgot the duke of Hereford, boy?

Percy.
No, my good lord, for that is not forgot
Which ne'er I did remember: to my knowledge,
I never in my life did look on him.

North.
Then learn to know him now: this is the duke.

Percy.
My gracious lord, I tender you my service,
Such as it is, being tender, raw and young;
Which elder days shall ripen, and confirm
To more approved service and desert.

Bol.
I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure,
I count myself in nothing else so happy,
As in a soul, remembering my good friends;
And, as my fortune ripens with thy love,
It shall be still thy true love's recompense:
My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.

North.
How far is't to Berkley? and what stir
Keeps good old York there, with his warlike men?

Percy.
There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees,
Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard,
And in it are the lords—York, Berkley, Seymour—
None else of name and noble estimate. Enter Ross and Willoughby.

North.
Here come the lords of Ross and Willoughby.

Bol.
Welcome, my friends, I wot your love pursue
A banish'd traitor: all my treasury
Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich'd,
Shall be your love and labour's recompense.

Ross.
Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.

Will.
And far surmounts our labours to attain it.

Bol.
Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor,
Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,
Stands for my bounty—But who now comes here? Enter Berkley.

North.
It is my lord of Berkley, as I guess.

Berk.
My lord of Hereford, my message is to you.

Bol.
My lord, my answer is—to Lancaster;
And I am come to seek that name in England;
And I must find that title in your tongue,
Before I make reply to aught you say.

Berk.
Mistake me not, my lord, 'tis not my meaning,
To raze one title of your honour out:

To you, my lord, I come (what lord you will)
From the most gracious Regent of this land,
The duke of York, to know what pricks you on
To take advantage of the absent time,
And fright our native peace with self-born arms?

Bol.
I shall not need transport my words by you:
Here comes his grace in person—Noble uncle! [Kneels.] Enter York, attended.

York.
Shew me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,
Whose duty is deceivable and false.

Bol.
My gracious uncle!—

York.
I am no traitor's uncle; and that word—grace,
In an ungracious mouth, is but prophane.
Why have those banish'd and forbidden legs
Dar'd once to touch a dust of England's ground?
And more than so—why have they dar'd to march
So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,
Frighting her pale-fac'd villages with war?
Cam'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,
Rescu'd 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, chastise thee,
And minister correction to thy fault.

Bol.
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 banished man, and here art come
Before the expiration of thy time,
In braving arms against thy sovereign.

Bol.
As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford;
But as I come, I come for Lancaster.
And, noble uncle, I beseech your grace,
Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye:
You are my father, for, methinks, in you I see
Old Gaunt alive: O, then, my father,
Will you permit that I shall stand condemn'd
A wand'ring vagabond; my rights and royalties
Pluck'd from my arms perforce, and giv'n away
To upstart unthrifts? wherefore was I born?
If that my cousin king, be king of England,
It must be granted, I am duke of Lancaster.
I am deny'd to see my livery here,
And yet my letters patent give me leave;
My father's goods are all distrain'd and sold.
What would you have me do? I am a subject,
And challenge law: Attorneys are deny'd me,
And therefore personally I lay my claim
To my inheritance of free descent.

North.
The noble duke hath been too much abus'd.

Ross.
It stands your grace upon, to do him right.

York.
My lords of England, let me tell you this,—
I have had a feeling of my cousin's wrongs,
And labour'd all I could to do him right;
But in this kind to come, in braving arms,
Be his own carver, and cut out his way,
To find out right with wrong—it may not be:

And you that do abet him in this kind,
Cherish rebellion, and are rebels all.

North.
The noble duke hath sworn his coming is
But for his own: and, for the right of that,
We all have strongly sworn to give him aid,
And let him ne'er see joy, that breaks his oath.

York.
Well, well, I see the issue of these arms;
I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,
Because my power is weak, and all ill left,
But if I could, by Him that gave me life,
I would attach you all, and make you stoop,
Unto the sovereign mercy of the king:
But, since I cannot, be it known to you,
I do remain as neuter. So fare you well;
Unless you please to enter in the castle,
And there repose you for a while or so.

Bol.
An offer, uncle, that we will accept;
But we must win your grace to go with us,
To Bristol castle; which, they say, is held
By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices,
The caterpillars of the commonwealth,
Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.

York.
It may be, I'll go with you: Yet I'll bethink me,
For I am loth to break our country's laws.
Nor friends, nor foes, to me welcome you are,
Things past redress, are now with me past care. [March.] [Exeunt.

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