Dutch.
O King, believe not this hard-hearted man;
Love, loving not itself, none other can.

York.
Thou frantick woman, what dost thou do here?
Shall thy old dugs once more a traytor rear?

Dutch.
Sweet York, be patient; hear me, gentle Liege. [Kneels.

Boling.
Rise up, good aunt.

Dutch.
Not yet, I thee beseech;
For ever will I kneel upon my knees,
And never see day that the happy sees,
'Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,
By pard'ning Rutland, my transgressing boy.

Aum.
Unto my mother's pray'rs I bend my knee. [Kneels.

York.
Against them Both, my true joints bended be. [Kneels.
^{1 note}Ill may'st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!

Dutch.
Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face;
His eyes do drop no tears, his prayr's in jest;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:
He prays but faintly, and would be deny'd;
We pray with heart and soul, and all beside.
His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;
Our knees shall kneel, till to the ground they grow.

His pray'rs are full of false hypocrisie,
Ours of true zeal, and deep integrity;
Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them crave
That mercy, which true prayers ought to have.

Boling.
Good aunt, stand up.

Dutch.
Nay, do not say, stand up,
But pardon first; say afterwards, stand up.
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon should be the first word of thy speech.
I never long'd to hear a word till now:
Say, Pardon, King; let pity teach thee how.

Boling.
Good aunt, stand up.

Dutch.
I do not sue to stand,
Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.

Boling.
I pardon him, as heav'n shall pardon me.

Dutch.
O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
Yet am I sick for fear; speak it again:
Twice saying pardon, doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon strong.
The word is short, but not so short as sweet;
No word like pardon, for Kings mouths so meet.

York.
Speak it in French, King; say, Pardonnez moy.

Dutch.
Dost thou teach pardon, pardon to destroy?
Ah, my sow'r husband, my hard-hearted lord,
That set'st the word it self, against the word.
Speak pardon, as 'tis current in our land;
The chopping French we do not understand.
Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there:
Or, in thy piteous heart, plant thou thine ear;
That, hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,
Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse.

Boling.
With all my heart
I pardon him.

Dutch.
A God on earth thou art.

Boling.
But for our trusty brother-in-law,—the Abbot,—
With all the rest of that consorted crew,
Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.

Good Uncle, help to order several Powers
To Oxford, or where-e'er these traytors are.
They shall not live within this world, I swear;
But I will have them, if I once know where.
Uncle, farewel; and cousin too, adieu;
Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.

Dutch.
Come, my old son; I pray heav'n make thee new. [Exeunt.

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