Boling.
What is the matter, uncle? speak, take breath:
Tell us how near is danger,

That we may arm us to encounter it.

York.
Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know
The Treason that my haste forbids me show.

Aum.
Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise past:
I do repent me, read not my name there,
My heart is not confed'rate with my hand.

York.
Villain, it was, ere thy hand set it down.
I tore it from the traytor's bosom, King,
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence;
Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove
A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.

Boling.
O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!
O loyal father of a treach'rous son!
Thou clear, immaculate, and silver fountain,
From whence this stream, through muddy passages,
Hath had his current, and defil'd himself,
Thy overflow of good converts (a) ^note the bad;
And thine abundant goodness shall excuse
This deadly blot, in thy disgressing son.

York.
So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd,
And he shall spend mine honour with his shame;
As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold.
Mine honour lives, when his dishonour dies:
Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies:
Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath,
The traytor lives, the true man's put to death. [Dutchess within.

Dutch.
What ho, my Liege! for heav'n's sake, let me in.

Boling.
What shrill-voic'd Suppliant makes this eager cry?

Dutch.
A woman, and thine aunt, great King, 'tis I.
Speak with me, pity me, open the door;
A beggar begs that never begg'd before.

Boling.
Our Scene is alter'd from a serious thing,
And now chang'd to the Beggar, and the King:

My dang'rous Cousin, let your mother in;
I know, she's come to pray for your foul sin.

York.
If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
More sins for his forgiveness prosper may;
This fester'd joint cut off, the rest is sound;
This, let alone, will all the rest confound.

Previous section

Next section