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,
Ere't be disburthen'd with a lib'ral tongue.

North.
Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more
That speaks thy words again to do thee harm.

Willo.
Tends what you'd speak, to th' 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
Merely 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 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, I wot not what:
But what o'God's name doth become of this?

North.
Wars have not wasted it, for warr'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,
(His 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,
And unavoidable the Danger now,
For suff'ring so the causes of our wreck.

North.
Not so: ev'n through the hollow eyes of death
I spy 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, my friends. I have from Port le Blanc,
A bay in Bretagne, had intelligence,
That Harry 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 ^{f note}Coines,
All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Bretagne,

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 ere this, but that they stay
The first departing of the King for Ireland.
If then we will shake off our slavish yoak,
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.

Previous section

Next section