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 reason 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 to bad,
And thine abundant goodness shall excuse
This deadly blot, in thy digressing 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'ns 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.* ^note

Boling.
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 this forgiveness prosper may;
This fester'd joint cut off, the rest is sound;
This let alone, will all the rest confound.

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