Where nothing lives but crosses, care, and grief. 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 cold, And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side. Sirrah, Get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloster; Bid her send me presently a thousand pound:- Serv. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship: To-day, as I came by, I called there : But I shall grieve you to report the rest. Serv. An hour before I came, the duchess died. (So my untruth had not provok'd him to it,) Go, fellow, [To the Servant.] get thee home, provide some carts, And bring away the armour that is there. [Exit Servant. But time will not permit :-All is uneven, [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 the 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, Bushy. Wherein the king stands generally con- Bagot. If judgment lie in them, then so do we, Because we ever have been near the king. Green. Well, I'll for refuge straight to Bristol castle; The earl of Wiltshire is already there. Bushy. Thither will I with you: for little office Bagot. No; I'll to Ireland to his majesty. We three here part, that ne'er shall meet again. Bushy. That's as York thrives to beat back Boling broke. Green. Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes Is-numb'ring sands, and drinking oceans dry; Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly. Bushy. Farewell at once; for once, for all, and ever. Green. Well, we may meet again. Bagot. I fear me, never. [Exeunt. SCENE III.-The Wilds in Glostershire. Enter BOLINGBROKE and NORTHUMBERLAND, with Boling. How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now? I am a stranger here in Glostershire. These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways, But, I bethink me, what a weary way From Ravenspurg to Cotswold, will be found And hope to joy, is little less in joy, Than hope enjoy'd: by this the weary lords Shall make their way seem short; as mine hath done By sight of what I have, your noble company. Boling. Of much less value is my company, Than your good words. But who comes here? Enter HARRY PERCY. North. It is my son, young Harry Percy, Percy. I had thought, my lord, to have learn'd his health of you. North. Why, is he not with the queen? Percy. No, my good lord; he hath forsook the court, Broken his staff of office, and dispers'd The household of the king. North. What was his reason? He was not so resolv'd, when last we spake together. Percy. Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor. But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurg, To offer service to the duke of Hereford; And sent me o'er by Berkley, to discover What power the duke of York had levied there; North. Have you forgot the duke of Hereford, boy? Percy. No, my good lord; for that is not forgot, Which ne'er I did remember: to my knowledge, I never in my life did look on him. North. Then learn to know him now; this is the duke. Percy. My gracious lord, I tender you my service, Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young; Which elder days shall ripen, and confirm To more approved service and desert. Boling. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure, I count myself in nothing else so happy, As in a soul rememb'ring my good friends; And, as my fortune ripens with thy love, It shall be still thy true love's recompense: My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it. North. How far is it to Berkley? And what stir Keeps good old York there, with his men of war? Percy. There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees, Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard: And in it are the lords of York, Berkley, and Seymour; None else of name, and noble estimate. Enter Ross and WILLOUGHBY. North. Here come the lords of Ross and Willoughby, Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste. Boling. Welcome, my lords: I wot, your love pur sues A banish'd traitor: all my treasury Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich'd, Ross. Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord. |