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.

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