Gaunt.
Will the King come, that I may breathe my last
In wholesom Counsel to his unstaid Youth?

York.
Vex not your self, nor strive not with your Breath,
For all in vain comes Counsel to his Ear.

Gaunt.
Oh but, they say, the Tongues of dying Men
Inforce Attention like deep Harmony:
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,

For they breath Truth, that breath their words in pain.
He that no more must say, is listen'd more,
Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
More are Mens ends markt than their lives before,
The setting Sun, and Musick in the close;
At the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance, more than things long past;
Though Richard my life's Counsel would not hear,
My Death's sad Tale may yet undeaf his Ear.

York.
No, it is stopt with other flatt'ring Sounds,
As praises of his State; then there are found
Lascivious Meeters, to whose venom sound
The open Ears of Youth do always listen.
Report of Fashions in proud Italy,
Whose Manners still our tardy apish Nation
Limps after in base Imitation.
Where doth the World thrust forth a Vanity,
So it be new, there's no respect how vile,
That is not quickly buz'd into their Ears?
That all too late comes Counsel to be heard,
Where Will doth mutiny with Wits regard:
Direct not him, whose way himself will chuse,
'Tis Breath thou lack'st, and that Breath wilt thou lose.

Gaunt.
Methinks I am a Prophet new inspir'd,
And thus expiring, do foretel of him,
His rash fierce Blaze of Riot cannot last;
For violent Fires soon burn 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 Cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon it self.
This Royal Throne of Kings, this scepter'd Isle,
This Earth of Majesty, this Seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demy Paradise,
This Fortress built by Nature for her self,
Against Infection, and the Hand of War;
This happy Breed of Men, this little World,
This precious Stone set in the Silver Sea,
Which serves it in the Office of a Wall,
Or as a Moat defensive to a House,

Against the envy of less happier Lands,
This blessed Plot, this Earth, this Realm, this England,
This Nurse, this teeming Womb of Royal Kings,
Fear'd for their Breed, and famous for their Birth,
Renowned for their Deeds, as far from home,
For Christian Service, and true Chivalry,
As is the Sepulchre in stubborn Jury
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 Leas'd out, I dye pronouncing it,
Like to a Tenement or pelting Farm;
England bound in with the triumphant Sea,
Whose rocky Shore beats back the envious Siege
Of watry Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With Inky Blots, and rotten Parchment Bonds.
That England that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful Conquest of it self.
Ah! would the Scandal vanish with my Life,
How happy then were my ensuing Death! Enter King Richard, Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Ross, and Willoughby.

York.
The King is come, deal mildly with his Youth;
For young hot Colts, being rag'd, do rage the more.

Queen.
How fares our noble Uncle, Lancaster?

K. Rich.
What comfort, Man? How is't with aged Gaunt?

Gaunt.
Oh 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 watcht,
Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt;
The Pleasure that some Fathers feed upon,
Is my strict Fast, I mean my Childrens looks,
And therein fasting thou hast 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 it self:
Since thou dost seek to kill my Name in me,

I mock my Name, great King, to flatter thee.

K. Rich.
Should dying Men flatter those that live?

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

K. Rich.
Thou now a dying, say'st thou flatter'st me.

Gaunt.
Oh no, thou dy'st, though I the sicker be.

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

Gaunt.
Now he that made me, knows I see thee ill:
Ill in my self to see, and in thee seeing ill.
Thy Death-bed is no lesser than the Land,
Wherein thou liest in Reputation sick;
And thou, too careless Patient as thou art,
Committ'st 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 Hand,
And yet ingaged in so small a Verge,
The waste is no whit lesser than thy Land.
Oh 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 possest,
Which art possest now to depose thy self.
Why, Cousin, wert thou Regent of the World,
It were a shame to let this 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, and not King:
Thy state of Law, is bondslave to the Law,
And—

K. Rich.
And thou, a lunatick lean-witted Fool,
Presuming on an Agues privilege,
Dar'st with thy frozen Admonition
Make pale our Cheek, chasing the Royal Blood
With fury, from his Native Residence:
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 Shoulders.

Gaunt.
Oh spare me not, my Brother Edward's Son,
For that I was his Father Edward's Son:
That Blood already, like the Pelican,

Thou hast tapt out, and drunkenly carows'd.
My Brother Glo'ster, plain well meaning Soul,
Whom fair befal in Heav'n 'mongst happy Souls,
May be a President and Witness good,
That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's Blood:
Join with the present Sickness that I have,
And thy unkindness be like crooked Age,
To crop at once a too long wither'd Flower.
Live in thy shame, but dye 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.

K. Rich.
And let them die, that Age and Sullens have,
For both hast thou, and both become the Grave.

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

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

North.
My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty.

K. Rich.
What say's he?

North.
Nay nothing, 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 wo.

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 rough rug-headed Kerns,
Which live like Venom, where no Venom else
But only they, have privilege to live.
And for these great Affairs do ask some charge,
Towards our Assistance, we do seize to us
The Plate, Coin, and Revenues, and Moveables,
Whereof our Uncle Gaunt did stand possest.

York.
How long shall I be patient? Oh how long
Shall tender Duty make me suffer wrong?
Not Glo'ster's Death, not Hereford's Banishment,

Nor Gaunt's Rebukes, nor England's private Wrongs;
Nor the prevention of poor Bullingbroke,
About his Marriage, nor my own Disgrace,
Have ever made me sower my patient Cheek,
Or bend one Wrinkle on my Soveraign's Face.
I am the last of noble Edward's Sons,
Of whom thy Father, Prince of Wales, was first:
In Wars was never Lion rag'd 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 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 Kindreds Blood,
But bloody with the Enemies of his Kin:
Oh Richard, York is too far gone with Grief,
Or else he never would compare between.

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

York.
Oh, my Liege, pardon me if you please; if not,
I, pleas'd not to be pardon'd, am content with all:
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 away, and take from Time
His Charters, and his customary Rights.
Let not to Morrow then ensue to Day,
Be not thy self. For how art thou a King
But by fair Sequence and Succession?
Now afore God, God forbid I say true,
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's Right,
Call in his 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 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 into our Hands,
His Plate, his Goods, his Mony, and his Lands.

York.
I'll not be by the while; My Leige, farewel:
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 Bushie to the Earl of Wiltshire streight,
Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,
To see this Business done: To morrow next
We will for Ireland, and 'tis time I trow;
And we create, in absence of our self,
Our Uncle York Lord Governor of England:
For he is just, and always lov'd us well.
Come on our Queen, to Morrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [Flourish. [Exeunt King, Queen, &c. Manet Northumberland, Willoughby, and Ross.

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.

North.
Richly in both, if Justice had her Right.

Ross.
My Heart is great; but it must break with silence,
E'r't be disburthen'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'dst speak to the Duke 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 Heav'n, it's Shame such Wrongs are born,
In him a Royal Prince, and many more,
Of noble Blood in this declining Land;
The King is not himself, but basely led
By Flatterers; and what they will inform
Meerly in Hate 'gainst any of us all,
That will the King severely prosecute
Gainst us, our Lives, our Children, and our Heirs.

Ross.
The Commons hath he pill'd with grievous Taxes,
And quite lost their Hearts; the Nobles hath he fin'd
For ancient Quarrels, and quite lost their Hearts.

Willo.
And daily new Exactions are devis'd;
As Blanks, Benevolences, and I wot not what:
But what o'God's Name doth become of this?

North.
Wars have not wasted it, for war'd he hath not,
But basely yielded upon Compromise,
That which his Ancestors atchiev'd with Blows:
More hath he spent in Peace, than they in Wars.

Ross.
The Earl of Wiltshire hath the Realm in Farm.

Willo.
The King's grown Bankrupt, like a broken Man.

North.
Reproach and Dissolution hangeth over him.

Ross.
He hath not Mony for these Irish Wars,
H s 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,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

Ross.
We see the very Wreck that we must suffer,
A d unavoided is the Danger now,
For suffering so the Causes of our Wreck.

North.
Not so: Even through the hollow Eyes of Death,
I spie Life peering; 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 thy self, and speaking so,
Thy Words are but as Thoughts, therefore be bold.

North.
Then thus: I have from Port le Blan,
A Bay in Britain, receiv'd Intelligence,
That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainald Lord Cobham,
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
His Brother Archbishop, late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Rainston,
Sir John Norberie, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Quoint,
All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Britain,
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 e'er this, but that they stay
The first departing of the King for Ireland.
If then we shall shake off our slavish Yoke,
Imp out our drooping Country's broken Wing,
Redeem from broken Pawn the blemish'd Crown,
Wipe off the Dust that hides our Scepter's Gilt,
And make high Majesty look like it self,
Away with me in haste to Ravenspurg;
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay, and be secret, and my self 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. SCENE II. Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot.

Bushy.
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 chearful Disposition.

Queen.
To please the King, I did; to please my self
I cannot do it; yet I know no Cause
Why I should welcome such a Guest as Grief,
Save bidding farewel 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
Which nothing trembles at, something it grieves,
More than with parting from my Lord the King.

Bushy.
Each Substance of a Grief hath twenty Shadows,
Which shews like Grief it self, but is 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,
Find Shapes of Grief, more than himself to wail,

Which look'd on as it is, is nought but Shadows
Of what it is not; then thrice gracious Queen,
More than your Lord's Departure weep not, more's not seen:
Or if it be, 'tis with false Sorrow's Eye,
Which for things true, weep things imaginary.

Queen.
It may be so; but yet my inward Soul
Persuades me it is otherwise: How-e'er it be,
I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad,
As though on thinking on no Thought I think,
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

Bushy.
'Tis nothing but Conceit, my gracious Lady.

Queen.
'Tis nothing less; Conceit is still deriv'd
From some fore-father Grief, mine is not so,
For nothing hath begot my something Grief;
Or something, hath the nothing that I grieve,
'Tis in Reversion that I do possess;
But what it is, that is not yet known, what
I cannot Name, 'tis nameless Wo I wot. Enter Green.

Green.
Heav'n save your Majesty, and well met Gentlemen:
I hope the King is not yet shipt for Ireland.

Queen.
Why hop'st thou so? 'Tis better hope he is:
For his Designs crave haste, good Hope,
Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipt?

Green.
That he, our Hope, might have retir'd his Power,
And driven into despair an Enemies Hope,
Who strongly hath set footing in this Land.
The banish'd Bullingbroke repeals himself;
And with up-lifted Arms is safe arriv'd
At Ravenspurg.

Queen.
Now God in Heav'n forbid.

Green.
O, Madam, 'tis too true; and what is worse,
The Lord Northumberland, his young Son Henry Percy,
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 the rest of that revolted Faction, Traitors?

Green.
We have: Whereupon the Earl of Worcester
Hath broke his Staff, resign'd his Stewardship,
And all the Houshold Servants fled with him to Bullingbroke.

Queen.
So Green, thou art the Midwife of my Woe,

And Bullingbroke my Sorrows dismal Heir:
Now hath my Soul brought forth her Prodigy,
And I a gasping new delivered Mother,
Have Wo to Wo, Sorrow to Sorrow join'd.

Bushy.
Despair not, Madam.

Queen.
Who shall hinder me?
I will despair, and be at enmity
With cozening Hope; he is a Flatterer,
A Parasite, a keeper back of Death,
Who gently would dissolve the Bands of Life,
Which false Hopes linger in Extremity. Enter York.

Green.
Here comes the Duke of York.

Queen.
With Signs of War about his aged Neck,
Oh full of careful Business are his Looks:
Uncle, for Heav'n sake speak comfortable Words.

York.
Comfort's in Heav'n, 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 his Land;
Who, weak with Age, cannot support my self:
Now comes his sick Hour that his Surfeit made,
Now shall he try his Friends that flattered him. Enter a 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 they are cold,
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.
Sirrah, get thee to Plashie, to my Sister Glo'ster;
Bid her send me presently a thousand Pound:
Hold, take my Ring.

Ser.
My Lord, I had forgot
To tell your Lordship, to Day I came by, and call'd there,
But I shall grieve you to report the rest.

York.
What is't, Knave?

Serv.
An Hour before I came, the Dutchess dy'd.

York.
Heav'n for his Mercy, what a Tide of Woes
Come rushing on this woful Land at once?
I know not what to do: I would to Heav'n,
So my Untruth had not provok'd him to it,

The King had cut off my Head with my Brother's.
What, are there Posts dispatch'd for Ireland?
How shall we do for Mony for these Wars?
Come Sister, (Cousin, I would say,) pray pardon me.
Go Fellow, get thee home, provide some Carts, [To the Servant.
And bring away the Armour that is there.
Gentlemen, will you muster Men?
If I know how, or which way to order these Affairs
Thus disorderly thrust into my Hands,
Never believe me. Both are my Kinsmen;
Th' one is my Soveraign, whom both my Oath
And Duty bids defend; th' other again
Is my Kinsman, 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, go muster up your Men,
And meet me presently at Barkley Castle:
I should to Plashie too, but time will not permit;
All is uneven, and every thing is left at six and seven. [Exeunt York and Queen.

Bushy.
The Wind sits fair for News to go to Ireland,
But none returns; for us to levy Power
Proportionable to th' Enemy, is all impossible.

Green.
Besides, our nearness to the King in love,
Is near the Hate of those love not the King.

Bagot.
And that's the wavering Commons, for their Love
Lies in their Purses, and whoso empties them,
By so much fills their Hearts with deadly hate.

Bushy.
Wherein the King stands generally condemn'd.

Bagot.
If Judgment lye in them, then so do we,
Because we have been ever near the King.

Green.
Well; I will for Refuge streight to Bristol Castle,
The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy.
Thither will I with you; for little Office
Will the hateful Commons perform for us,
Except like Curs, to tear us all in Pieces:
Will you go along with us?

Bagot.
No, I will to Ireland to his Majesty.
Farewel: If Heart Presages be not vain,
We three here part, that ne'er shall meet again.

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

Green.
Alas poor Duke, the Task he undertakes

Is numbring Sands, and drinking Oceans dry,
Where one on his Side fights, thousands will flye.

Bushy.
Farewel at once, for once, for all, and ever.

Green.
Well, we may meet again.

Bagot.
I fear me never. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter Bullingbroke, and Northumberland.

Bulling.
How far is it, my Lord, to Barkley now?

Noth.
Believe me, noble Lord,
I am a Stranger here in Glo'stershire.
These high wild Hills, and rough uneven Ways,
Draw out our Miles, and make them wearisome:
And yet our fair Discourse hath been as Sugar,
Making the hard Way sweet and delectable.
But I bethink me what a weary Way
From Ravenspurg to Cottshold 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:
But theirs is sweetned with the Hope to have
The present Benefit that I possess:
And hope to joy, is little less in Joy,
Than Hope enjoy'd: By this, the weary Lords
Shall make their Way seem short, as mine hath done,
By sight of what I have, your noble Company.

Bulling.
Of much less Value is my Company,
Than your good Words: But who comes here? Enter Percy.

North.
It is my Son, young Harry Percy,
Sent from my Brother Worcester: Whencesoever
Harry, how fares your Uncle?

Percy.
I had thought, my Lord, to have learn'd hi
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 disperst
The Houshold of the King.

North.
What was his Reason?

He was not so resolv'd, when we last 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 over by Barkley, to discover
What Power the Duke of York had 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.

Bulling.
I thank thee, gentle Percy, and be sure
I count my self in nothing else so happy,
As in a Soul remembring my good Friends:
And as my Fortune ripens with thy Love,
It shall be still thy true Love's Recompence,
My Heart this Covenant makes, my Hand thus seals it.

North.
How far is it to Barkley? and what stir
Keeps good old York there with his Men of War?

Percy.
There stands the Castle by yond Tuft of Trees,
Mann'd with three hundred Men, as I have heard.
And in it are the Lords of York, Barkley, and Seymour;
None else of Name, and noble Estimate. Enter Ross and Willoughby.

North.
Here comes the Lords of Ross and Willoughby.
Bloody with spurring, fiery red with haste.

Bulling.
Welcome, my Lords; I wot your Love pursues
A banisht Traitor; all my Treasury
Is yet but unfelt Thanks, which more enrich'd,
Shall be your Love and Labours Recompence.

Ross.
Your Presence makes us rich, most noble Lord.

Willo.
And far surmounts our Labour to attain it.

Bulling.
Evermore Thanks, th' Exchequer of the poor,
Which 'till my infant-fortune comes to Years,
Stand for my Bounty. But who comes here?

Enter Barkley.

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

Bark.
My Lord of Hereford, my Message is to you.

Bulling.
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 Town,
Before I make reply to ought you say.

Bark.
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 glorious 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. Enter York.

Bulling.
I shall not need transport my Words by you,
Here comes his Grace in Person. My noble Uncle. [Kneels.

York.
Shew me thy humble Heart, and not thy Knee,
Whose Duty is deceivable and false.

Bulling.
My gracious Uncle.

York.
Tut, tut, Grace me no Grace, nor Uncle me,
I am no Traitor's Uncle; and that Word Grace,
In an ungracious Mouth, is but prophane.
Why have these banish'd, and forbidden Legs,
Dar'd once to touch a Dust of England's Ground?
But more then, why, why have they dar'd to march
So many Miles upon her peaceful Bosom,
Frighting her pale-fac'd Villages with War,
And Ostentation of despised Arms?
Com'st thou because th' anointed King is hence?
Why, foolish Boy, the King is left behind,
And in my loyal Bosom lyes his Power.
Were I but now the Lord of such hot Youth,
As when brave Gaunt, thy Father, and my self
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of Men,
From forth the Ranks of many thousand French;
Oh then, how quickly should this Arm of mine,
Now Prisoner to the Palsie, chastise thee,
And minister Correction to thy Fault.

Bulling.
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 banish'd Man, and here art come
Before th' Expiration of thy time,
In braving Arms against thy Soveraign.

Bulling.
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. Oh then, my Father,
Will you permit that I shall stand condemn'd
A wandring Vagabond; my Rights and Royalties
Pluckt from my Arms perforce, and given 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.
You have a Son, Aumerle, my noble Kinsman,
Had you first dy'd, and he been thus trod down,
He should have found his Uncle Gaunt a Father,
To rowze his Wrongs, and chase them to the Bay.
I am deny'd to sue my Livery here,
And yet my Letters Patents give me leave:
My Father's Goods are all distrain'd and sold,
And these and all, are all miss imploy'd.
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 mine Inheritance of free Descent.

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

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 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 Wrongs, 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 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 Soveraign 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 this Night.

Bulling.
An Offer, Uncle, that we will accept:
But we must win your Grace to go with us
To Bristow-Castle, which they say is held
By Bushy, Bagot, and their Complices,
The Caterpillars of the Common-wealth,
Which I have sworn to weed, and pluck away.

York.
It may be I will go with you, but yet I'll pause,
For I am loath to break our Country's Laws:
Nor Friends, nor Foes, to me welcome you are,
Things past redress, are now with me past Care. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. Enter Salisbury, and a Captain.

Cap.
My Lord of Salisbury, we have staid ten Days,
And hardly kept your Countrymen together,
And yet we hear no Tidings from the King;
Therefore we all disperse our selves: Farewel.

Salis.
Stay yet another Day, thou trusty Welchman,
The King reposeth all his Confidence in thee.

Cap.
'Tis thought the King is dead, we will not stay,
The Bay-Trees in our Country are all wither'd,
And Meteors fright the fixed Stars of Heav'n?
The pale-fac'd Moon looks bloody on the Earth,
And lean-look'd Prophets whisper fearful Change;
Rich Men look sad, and Ruffians dance and leap;
The one in Fear to lose what they enjoy,

The other to enjoy by Rage and War:
These Signs forerun the Death of Kings.
Farewel; our Countrymen are gone and fled,
As well assur'd, Richard their King is dead. [Exit.

Salis.
Ah Richard, with Eyes of heavy Mind,
I see thy Glory like a shooting Star,
Fall to the base Earth from the Firmament:
Thy Sun sets weeping in the lowly West,
Witnessing Storms to come, Wo, and Unrest:
Thy Friends are fled to wait upon thy Foes,
And crosly to thy good, all Fortune goes. [Exit.

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