Gaunt.
Will the king come, that I may breathe my last
In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?

York.
Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;
For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.

Gaunt.
O, but they say the tongues of dying men
Enforce attention like deep harmony:
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
He that no more must say is listen'd more
  Than they whom youth and ease have ^note taught to glose;
More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before:
  The setting sun, and music at the close ^note,
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last ^note,
Writ in remembrance more than things long past:
Though Richard my life's ^note counsel would not hear,
My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear. ^note

York.
No; it ^note is stopp'd with other flattering sounds ^note,
As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond ^note,

Lascivious metres ^note, to whose venom sound ^note
The open ear ^note of youth doth always listen;
Report ^note of fashions in proud Italy,
Whose manners still our tardy apish ^note nation
Limps after in base ^note imitation.
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity—
So it be new, there's no respect how vile—
That is not quickly buzz'd into his ^note ears?
Then ^note all too late comes counsel to be heard,
Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard.
Direct not him whose way himself will choose:
'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose ^note. ^note

Gaunt.
Methinks I am a prophet new inspired
And thus expiring do foretell of him:
His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,
For violent fires soon burn ^note out themselves;
Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;
He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder:
Light vanity, insatiate ^note cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise ^note;
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection ^note and the hand of war;

This happy breed of men ^note, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a ^note moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier ^note lands;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England ^note,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed and famous by ^note their birth, ^note
Renowned for ^note their deeds as far from home,
For Christian ^note service and true chivalry,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry ^note
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son;
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it,
Like to a tenement or ^note pelting farm:
England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege ^note
Of watery Neptune, is now ^note bound in with shame,
With inky blots ^note and rotten parchment bonds:
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Ah, ^note would the scandal vanish ^note with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!

Enter ^note King Richard and Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Ross, ^note and Willoughby. ^note

York.
The king is come: deal mildly with his youth;
For young hot colts being raged ^note do rage the more.

Queen.
How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?

K. Rich.
What comfort, man? how is't with aged Gaunt?

Gaunt.
O, how that name befits my composition!
Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old:
Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;
And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt?
For sleeping England long time have I watch'd;
Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt:
The pleasure that some fathers feed upon,
Is my strict fast; I mean, my children's looks;
And therein fasting, hast thou ^note made me gaunt:
Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,
Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.

K. Rich.
Can sick men play so nicely with their names?

Gaunt.
No, misery makes sport to mock itself:
Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,
I mock ^note my name, great king, to flatter thee.

K. Rich.
Should dying men flatter with ^note those that live?

Gaunt.
No, no, men living flatter those that die.

K. Rich.
Thou, now a-dying, say'st thou flatterest ^note me.

Gaunt.
O, no! thou diest, though I the sicker be.

K. Rich.
I am in health, I breathe, and see ^note thee ill.

Gaunt.
Now, He that made me knows I see thee ill ^note;

Ill in myself to see ^note, and ^note in thee seeing ill ^note.
Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land ^note
Wherein thou liest in reputation sick;
And thou, too careless patient as thou art,
Commit'st ^note thy anointed body to the cure
Of those physicians that first wounded thee:
A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head ^note;
And yet, incaged ^note in so small a verge,
The ^note waste is no whit lesser than thy land.
O, had thy grandsire with a prophet's eye
Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons,
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,
Deposing thee before thou wert possess'd,
Which ^note art possess'd now to depose thyself.
Why, cousin, wert ^note thou regent of the world,
It were a shame to let this ^note land by lease;
But for thy world enjoying but this land,
Is it not more than shame to shame it so?
Landlord of England art thou now, not ^note king:
Thy state of law ^note is bondslave to the law;
And thou—

K. Rich.
A lunatic ^note lean-witted fool,
Presuming on an ague's privilege,
Darest with thy frozen admonition
Make pale our cheek, chasing ^note the royal blood

With fury from his native residence. ^note
Now, by my seat's right royal majesty,
Wert thou not brother to great Edward's son,
This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head
Should run thy head from thy unreverent ^note shoulders.

Gaunt.
O, spare me not, my brother ^note Edward's son,
For that I was his father Edward's son;
That blood already, like the pelican,
Hast thou ^note tapp'd out ^note and drunkenly caroused:
My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul,
Whom fair befal in heaven 'mongst happy souls!
May be a precedent and witness good
That thou respect'st ^note not spilling Edward's blood:
Join with the present sickness that I have; ^note
And thy unkindness be like crooked age ^note,
To crop at once a too long wither'd flower.
Live ^note in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!
These words hereafter thy tormentors be!
Convey me to my bed, then to my grave:
Love they to live that love and honour have. [Exit, borne off by his Attendants ^note.

K. Rich.
And let them die that age and sullens have;
For both hast thou, and both become the grave ^note.

York. ^note
I do beseech ^note your majesty, impute his words
To wayward sickliness and age in him:
He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear
As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.

K. Rich.
Right, you say true: as Hereford's love, so his;
As theirs, so mine; and all ^note be as it is. Enter Northumberland. ^{note note}

North.
My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty.

K. Rich.
What says he? ^note

North.
Nay ^note, nothing ^note; all is said:
His tongue is now a stringless instrument;
Words life and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

York.
Be York the next that must be bankrupt so!
Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich.
The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he;
His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be.
So much for that. Now for our Irish wars:
We must supplant those ^note rough rug-headed kerns ^note,
Which live like venom where no venom else
But only they have ^note privilege to live.
And for these great affairs do ask some charge,
Towards our assistance we do seize to us
The plate, coin, revenues ^note and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess'd.

York.
How long shall I be patient? ah ^note, how long
Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?
Not Gloucester's death, nor ^note Hereford's banishment,
Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,

Have ever made me sour my patient cheek,
Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face.
I am the last of noble ^note Edward's sons,
Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first:
In war ^note was never lion raged ^note more fierce,
In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely gentleman.
His face thou hast, for even so look'd he,
Accomplish'd with the ^note number of thy hours;
But when he frown'd, it was against the French
And not against his friends; his noble hand
Did win what he did spend and spent not that
Which his triumphant father's hand had won;
His hands were guilty of no kindred ^note blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
O Richard! York is too far gone with grief,
Or else he never would compare between. ^note

K. Rich.
Why, uncle, what's the matter?

York.
O my liege,
Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleased
Not to be pardon'd, am content withal. ^{note note}
Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands
The royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir?
Is not his heir a well-deserving son?
Take Hereford's rights ^note away, and take from time
His charters and his customary rights;
Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day;
Be not thyself; for how art thou a king

But by fair sequence and succession?
Now, afore God—God forbid I say true!— ^note
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's rights ^note,
Call in the ^note letters patents that he hath
By his attorneys-general to sue
His livery and deny his offer'd homage,
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,
You lose ^note a thousand well-disposed hearts
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich.
Think what you will, we seize ^note into our hands
His plate, his goods, his money and his lands ^note.

York.
I'll not be by the while: my liege, farewell:
What will ensue hereof, there's none can tell;
But by bad courses may be understood
That their events can never fall out good. [Exit.

K. Rich.
Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight:
Bid him repair to us to Ely House
To see this business ^note. To-morrow next
We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow:
And we create, in absence of ourself,
Our uncle York lord governor of England;
For he is just and always loved us well.
Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [Flourish. Exeunt ^note King, Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green, and Bagot. ^note

North.
Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.

Ross.
And living too; for now his son is duke.

Willo.
Barely in title, not in revenue ^note.

North.
Richly in both, if justice had her right.

Ross.
My heart is great; but it must break with silence,
Ere't be disburden'd with a liberal tongue.

North.
Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more
That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!

Willo.
Tends that thou wouldst ^note speak to the Duke ^note of Hereford?
If it be so, out with it boldly, man;
Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.

Ross.
No good at all that I can do for him;
Unless you call it good to pity him,
Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

North.
Now, afore God ^note, 'tis ^note shame such wrongs are borne
In him a royal prince and many moe ^note
Of noble blood in this declining land.
The king is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers; and what they will inform,
Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us all,
That will the king severely prosecute
'Gainst ^note us, our lives ^note, our children, and our heirs.

Ross.
The commons hath he pill'd ^note with grievous taxes,
And quite ^note lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fined
For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts ^note.

Willo.
And daily new exactions are devised,
As blanks, benevolences, and I ^note wot not what:

But ^note what, o' ^note God's name, doth become of this?

North.
Wars have ^note not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not,
But basely yielded upon compromise
That which his noble ^note ancestors achieved with blows:
More hath he spent in peace than they in wars. ^note

Ross.
The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.

Willo.
The king's ^note grown bankrupt, like a broken man.

North.
Reproach and dissolution ^note hangeth over ^note him.

Ross.
He hath not money for these Irish wars,
His burthenous taxations notwithstanding,
But by the robbing of the banish'd duke.

North.
His noble kinsman: most degenerate king!
But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm;
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails ^note,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

Ross.
We see the very wreck that we must suffer;
And unavoided is ^note the danger now,
For suffering so the causes of our wreck.

North.
Not so; even through the hollow eyes of death
I spy ^note life peering ^note; but I dare not say
How near the tidings of our comfort is.

Willo.
Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours.

Ross.
Be confident to speak, Northumberland:
We three are but thyself; and, speaking so,
Thy words are but as thoughts ^note; therefore, be bold.

North. ^note
Then thus ^note: I have from Port le Blanc, a bay

In Brittany ^note, received ^note intelligence
That Harry Duke of ^note Hereford, Rainold ^note Lord Cobham,


That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
His brother ^note, Archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston ^note,
Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton and Francis Quoint ^note,
All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Bretagne
With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience
And shortly mean to touch our northern shore:
Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay
The first departing of the king for Ireland.
If then we shall shake off our slavish ^note yoke,
Imp out our drooping country's broken wing,
Redeem from broking ^note pawn the blemish'd crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our ^note sceptre's gilt ^note
And make high majesty look like itself,
Away with me in post ^note to Ravenspurgh;
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay and be secret, and myself will go.

Ross.
To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them that fear.

Willo.
Hold out my horse, and I will first be there. [Exeunt.

^note Scene II. [Footnote: The palace. ^note Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot.

Bushy.
Madam, your majesty is too much ^note sad:
You promised, when you parted with the king,
To lay aside life-harming ^note 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 ^note me, and my inward soul ^note
With nothing trembles: at ^note some thing ^{note note} it ^note grieves,
More than with parting from my lord the king.

Bushy.
Each substance of a grief hath ^note twenty shadows,
Which shows like grief itself, but is ^note not so;
For sorrow's eye ^note, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects;
Like perspectives, which, rightly gazed upon;
Show nothing but confusion, eyed awry ^note,
Distinguish ^note form: so your sweet majesty,

Looking awry upon your lord's departure,
Find ^note shapes of grief, more than himself, to wail;
Which, look'd on as it is, is ^note nought but shadows
Of what it is ^note not. Then, thrice-gracious queen ^note,
More than your lord's departure weep not ^note: more's ^note not seen;
Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye ^note,
Which for things true weeps ^note things imaginary.

Queen.
It may be so; but yet my inward soul
Persuades me it is ^note otherwise: howe'er it be ^note,
I cannot but be sad; so ^note heavy sad,
As, though ^note on thinking on ^note no ^note thought ^note I think,
Makes ^note me with heavy nothing faint and shrink ^note.

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

Queen.
'Tis nothing ^note less: conceit is still derived
From some forefather grief; mine is not so,
For nothing hath begot my something grief ^note;
Or ^note something hath the nothing that I grieve ^note:
'Tis in reversion that I do possess ^note;
But what it is, that is not yet known; what
I cannot name; 'tis nameless woe, I wot ^{note note}.

Enter Green ^note. ^note

Green.
God ^note save your majesty! and well met, gentlemen:
I hope the king is not yet shipp'd for Ireland.

Queen.
Why hopest thou so? 'tis better hope he is;
For his designs crave ^note haste, his haste ^note good hope:
Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp'd?

Green.
That he, our hope, might have retired his power,
And driven into despair an enemy's hope ^note,
Who strongly hath set footing in this land:
The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself,
And with uplifted arms is safe arrived
At Ravenspurgh ^{note note}.

Queen.
Now God in heaven forbid!

Green.
Ah ^note madam, 'tis too true: and that ^note is worse,
The Lord ^note Northumberland, his son young Henry ^note Percy ^note,
The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,
With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.

Bushy.
Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland
And all the rest ^note revolted ^note faction traitors?

Green.
We have: whereupon ^note the Earl of Worcester
Hath broke ^note his staff, resign'd his stewardship,
And all the household servants fled with him
To Bolingbroke ^{note note}.

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

Bushy.
Despair not, madam.

Queen.
Who shall hinder me?
I will despair, and be at enmity
With cozening ^note hope: he is a flatterer,
A parasite, a keeper back of death,
Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,
Which false hope lingers ^note in extremity. Enter York ^note. ^note

Green.
Here comes ^note the Duke of York.

Queen.
With signs of war about his aged neck;
O ^note, full of careful business are his looks!
Uncle, for God's ^note sake ^note, speak ^note comfortable words.

York.
Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts ^note:
Comfort's in heaven; and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but crosses, cares ^note and grief.
Your husband, he is gone to save far off,
Whilst others come to make him lose ^note at home:
Here am I left to underprop his land,
Who, weak with age, cannot support myself:
Now comes the ^note sick hour that his ^note surfeit made;
Now shall he try his friends that flatter'd ^note him.

Enter ^note a Servant.

Serv. ^note
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 they are cold ^note,
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.
Sirrah ^note, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester;
Bid her send me ^note presently a thousand pound:
Hold, take my ring.

Serv. ^note
My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship ^note,
To-day, as I came by, I ^note called there ^note;
But I shall grieve you to report ^note the rest.

York.
What is't, knave ^note?

Serv. ^note
An hour before I came, the duchess died.

York.
God ^note for his mercy! what a tide of woes
Comes ^note rushing on this woeful land at once!
I know not what to do: I would to God,
So my untruth had not provoked him to it,
The king had cut off my head with my brother's.
What, are there no ^note 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 ^note, get thee home, provide some carts
And bring away the armour that is there. [Exit ^note Servant.
Gentlemen, will you go ^note muster men?
If I know how or which way ^note to order these affairs

Thus thrust disorderly ^note into my hands,
Never believe me. Both are ^note my kinsmen ^note:
The one ^note is ^note my sovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bids defend; the other ^note again
Is my kinsman ^note, 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.
Gentlemen ^note, go, muster up your men ^note,
And meet me presently at Berkeley ^note.
I should to Plashy too;
But time will not permit: all is uneven,
And every thing is left at six and seven ^note. [Exeunt ^note York and Queen. ^note

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

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

Bagot.
And that's ^note the wavering commons: for their love
Lies in their purses, and whoso ^note empties them
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

Bushy.
Wherein ^note the king stands generally condemn'd.

Bagot.
If judgement lie in them, then so do we,
Because we ever have been ^note near the king.

Green.
Well ^note, I will ^note for refuge straight to Bristol ^note castle:
The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy.
Thither will I ^note with you; for little office
The hateful commons will ^note perform for us,
Except like curs to tear us all to pieces ^note.
Will you go along ^note with us?

Bagot.
No ^note; I will ^note to Ireland to his majesty.
Farewell: if heart's presages be not vain,
We three here part that ne'er ^note shall meet again.

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

Green. ^note
Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes
Is numbering sands and drinking oceans dry:
Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.
Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever.

Bushy.
Well, we may meet again. ^note

Bagot.
I fear me, never. [Exeunt. ^note

^note Scene III. [Footnote: Wilds ^note in Gloucestershire. Enter ^note Bolingbroke and Northumberland, with Forces.

Boling.
How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now?

North.
Believe me, noble lord, ^note
I am a stranger here ^note in Gloucestershire:
These high wild ^note hills and rough uneven ways
Draws out our miles, and makes ^note them wearisome;
And yet your ^note fair discourse hath been as sugar,
Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
But I bethink me what a weary way
From Ravenspurgh to Cotswold ^note will be found
In ^note Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company,
Which, I protest, hath very much beguiled
The tediousness and process of my travel:
But theirs is sweetened with the hope to have
The present benefit which ^note I possess;
And hope to joy ^note is little less in joy
Than hope enjoy'd: by this the weary lords
Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done ^note
By sight of what I have, your noble ^note company.

Boling.
Of much less value is my company ^note
Than your good words ^note. But who comes here?

Enter Henry ^note Percy.

North.
It is my son ^note, young Harry Percy,
Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever. ^note
Harry, how fares your uncle?

Percy.
I had ^note thought, my lord, to have learn'd ^note his health of you.

North.
Why ^note, is he not with the queen? ^note

Percy.
No, my good Lord; he hath forsook the court,
Broken his staff of office and dispersed
The household of the king.

North.
What was his reason?
He was not so resolved ^note when last we ^note spake together ^note.

Percy.
Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.
But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh,
To offer service to the Duke of Hereford,
And sent me over ^note by Berkeley, to discover
What power the Duke of York had levied there;
Then with directions ^note to repair to Ravenspurgh.

North.
Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy ^note?

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.

Boling.
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 ^note,
It shall be still thy true love's recompense:
My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.

North.
How far is it to Berkeley? and what stir
Keeps good old York there with his men of war?

Percy.
There stands the castle, by yon ^note tuft of trees,
Mann'd with three hundred ^note men, as I have heard;
And in it are the Lords of ^{note note} York, Berkeley, and ^note Seymour;
None else of name and noble estimate ^note. Enter ^note Ross and Willoughby.

North.
Here come ^note the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,
Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.

Boling.
Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursues
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.

Willo.
And far surmounts our labour to attain it.

Boling.
Evermore thanks ^note, the exchequer of the poor;
Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,
Stands for my bounty ^note. But who ^note comes here? Enter Berkeley. ^note

North.
It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess.

Berk.
My Lord of ^note Hereford, my message is to you ^note.

Boling.
My lord, my answer is—to ^note Lancaster;
And ^note I am come to seek that name in England;

And I must ^note find that title in your tongue ^note,
Before I make reply to aught you say.

Berk.
Mistake me not, my Lord; 'tis not my meaning
To raze ^note one title ^note of your honour out:
To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will,
From the most gracious regent of ^note this land,
The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on
To take advantage of the absent time ^note
And fright our native peace with self-born arms. Enter York attended. ^{note note}

Boling.
I shall not need transport my words by you;
Here comes his grace in person.
My noble ^note uncle! [Kneels. ^note

York.
Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,
Whose duty is deceiveable and false.

Boling.
My gracious uncle—

York.
Tut, tut!
Grace me no grace, nor uncle ^note me no uncle ^note:
I am no traitor's uncle; and ^note that word ^note ‘grace’
In an ungracious mouth is but profane.
Why have those ^note banish'd and forbidden legs
Dared once to touch a dust ^note of England's ground?
But then more ‘why?’ ^note why have they dared to march

So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,
Frighting her pale-faced villages with war
And ostentation of despised ^note arms?
Comest 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 ^note of such hot youth
As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself ^note
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,
From forth the ranks of many thousand ^note French,
O, then how quickly should this arm of mine,
Now prisoner to the palsy ^note, chastise thee
And minister correction to thy fault!

Boling.
My gracious uncle, let me know my fault:
On ^note what condition stands it and wherein?

York.
Even in the condition of the worst degree,
In gross rebellion and detested treason:
Thou art a banish'd man, and here art come
Before the expiration of thy time,
In braving arms against thy ^note sovereign.

Boling.
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 ^note methinks in you
I see old Gaunt alive; O, then, my ^note father,
Will you permit that I shall stand condemn'd
A wandering vagabond; my rights and royalties
Pluck'd from my arms perforce and given away
To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?
If that my cousin king be King of ^note England,
It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster.

You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin ^note;
Had you first died, and he been thus trod down,
He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father,
To rouse his wrongs ^note and chase them to the bay.
I am denied to sue my livery here,
And yet my letters-patents ^note give me leave:
My father's goods are all distrain'd and sold;
And these and all are all ^note amiss employ'd.
What would you have me do? I am a subject,
And I ^note challenge law: attorneys are denied me;
And therefore personally I lay my claim
To my ^note inheritance of free descent.

North.
The noble duke hath been too much abused.

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

Willo.
Base men by his endowments are made great.

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

North. ^note
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 ^note see joy that breaks that 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 ^note;
Unless you please to enter in the castle
And there ^note repose you for this night. ^note

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

York.
It may be I will go with you ^note: but yet I'll pause;
For I am loath to break our country's laws.
Nor friends ^note nor foes, to me welcome you ^note are:
Things past redress are now with me past care. [Exeunt. ^{note note} Scene IV. [Footnote: A camp in Wales. ^note Enter ^note Salisbury and a Welsh Captain.

Cap. ^note
My Lord of Salisbury, we have stay'd ten days,
And hardly kept our ^note countrymen together,
And yet we hear no tidings from the king;
Therefore we will ^note disperse ourselves: farewell.

Sal.
Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman:
The king reposeth all his ^note confidence ^note in thee ^note.

Cap.
'Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay.
The bay-trees in our country are all ^note wither'd
And ^note meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;
The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth
And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change;
Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and leap ^note,
The one in fear to lose what they enjoy,
The other to enjoy ^note by rage and war:
These signs ^note forerun the death or fall ^note of kings.
Farewell: our countrymen are gone and fled,
As well assured Richard their king is dead. [Exit. ^note

Sal.
Ah, Richard, with the ^note eyes of heavy mind
I see ^note thy glory like a shooting star
Fall to the base earth from the firmament.
Thy sun ^note sets weeping in the lowly west,
Witnessing storms to come, woe and unrest:
Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes,
And crossly to thy good all fortune goes. [Exit. ^note

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