Dutch.
O King, believe not this hard-hearted man;
Love, loving not itself, none other can.

York.
Thou frantick woman, what dost thou do here?
Shall thy old dugs once more a traytor rear?

Dutch.
Sweet York, be patient; hear me, gentle Liege. [Kneels.

Boling.
Rise up, good aunt.

Dutch.
Not yet, I thee beseech;

For ever will I kneel upon my knees,
And never see day that the happy sees,
'Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,
By pard'ning Rutland, my transgressing boy.

Aum.
Unto my mother's pray'rs I bend my knee. [Kneels.

York.
Against them Both, my true joints bended be. [Kneels.
Ill may'st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!

Dutch.
Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face;
His eyes do drop no tears, his pray'r's in jest;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast;
He prays but faintly, and would be deny'd;
We pray with heart and soul, and all beside.
His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;
Our knees shall kneel, till to the ground they grow.
His pray'rs are full of false hypocrisy,
Ours of true zeal, and deep integrity;
Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them crave
That mercy, which true prayers ought to have.

Boling.
Good aunt, stand up.

Dutch.
Nay, do not say, stand up,
But pardon first; say afterwards, stand up.
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon should be the first word of thy speech.
I never long'd to hear a word till now,
Say, Pardon, King; let pity teach thee how.

Boling.
Good aunt, stand up.

Dutch.
I do not sue to stand,
Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.

Boling.
I pardon him, as heav'n shall pardon me.

Dutch.
O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
Yet am I sick for fear; speak it again,
Twice saying pardon, doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon strong.
The word is short, but not so short as sweet;
No word like pardon, for Kings mouths so meet.

York.
Speak it in French, King; say, Pardonnez moy.^{8 note}.

Dutch.
Dost thou teach pardon, pardon to destroy?
Ah, my sow'r husband, my hard-hearted lord,
That set'st the word it self, against the word;
Speak pardon, as 'tis current in our land,
The chopping French we do not understand.
Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there,
Or, in thy piteous heart, plant thou thine ear;
That, hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,
Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse.

Boling.
With all my heart
I pardon him.

Dutch.
A God on earth thou art.

Boling.
But for our trusty Brother-in-law, the Abbot,^{9 note}
With all the rest of that consorted crew,
Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.
Good Uncle, help to order several Powers
To Oxford, or where e'er these traytors are.
They shall not live within this world, I swear;
But I will have them, if I once know where.
Uncle, farewel; and cousin too, adieu;
Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.

Dutch.
Come, my old son; I pray heav'n make thee new. [Exeunt.

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