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

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