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At Stony-Stratford they do rest to-night:
To-morrow, or next day, they will be here.
Duch. I long with all my heart to fee the Prince;
I hope he is much grown fince last I saw him.
Queen. But I hear, not; they say my fon of York
Has almost overta'en him in his growth

York. Ay, mother; but I would not have it fo.
Duch. Why, my young cousin, it is good to grow.
York. Grandam, one night as we did fit at fupper,

My uncle Rivers talk'd how I did grow
More than my brother. Ay, quoth my uncle Glo'ster, -
Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace.
And fince, methinks I would not grow fo faft,
Because sweet flow'rs are flow, and weeds make hafte.
Duch. Good faith, good faith, the saying did not
[hold

In him that did object the fame to thee.
He was the wretched'st thing when he was young;
So long a growing, and so leifurely,

That if his rule were true, he should be gracious.
York. And fo no doubt he is, my gracious Madam.
Duch. I hope he is; but yet let mothers doubt.
York. Now, by my troth, if I had been remember'd,
I could have giv'n my uncle's Grace a flout
To touch his growth nearer than he touch'd mine.
Duch. How, my young York? I pr'ythee, let me

hear it.

York. Marry, they say my unele grew fo fast, That he could gnaw a cruft at two hours old; 'Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth. Grandam, this would have been a biting jest. Duch. I pr'ythee, pretty York, who told thee this? York. Grandam, his nurse.

Duch. His nurse! why, she was dead ere thou wast

born.

York. If 'twere not the, I cannot tell who told me. Queen. A parlous boy--go to, you are too fhrewd. Duch. Good Madam, be not angry with a child. Queen Pitchers have ears.

Enter a Meffenger.

Arch. Here comes a messenger. What news? Mef. Such news, my Lord, as grieves me to report.

S 3

Queen.

Queen. How doth the Prince?

Meff. Well, Madam, and in health.

Duch. What is thy news?

Meff. Lord Rivers and Lord Gray are fent to Pom-With them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners. [fret, Duch. Who hath committed them?

Meff. The mighty Dukes,

Glo'fter and Buckingham.

Arch. For what offence?

Mes. The sum of all I can I have disclos'd.
Why, or for what, the nobles were committed,
Is all unknown to me, my gracious Lady.

Queen. Ah me! I fee the ruin of my house;
The tyger now hath seiz'd the gentle hind.
Infulting tyranny begins to jut
Upon the innocent and awless throne:
Welcome, destruction, blood, and massacre !
I fee, as in a map, the end of all.

Duch. Accurfed and unquiet wrangling days!
How many of you have mine eyes bebeld?
My husband lost his life to get the crown,
And often up and down my fons were toss'd,
For me to joy and weep their gain and loss:
And being feated, and domeftic broils
Clean overblown, themselves the conquerors
Make war upon themselves, blood against blood,
Self against felf; O most prepofterous

And frantic outrage! end thy damned spleen ;
Or let me die, to look on death no more.

Queen Come, come, my boy, we will to fanctuary. Madam, farewel.

Duch. Stay, I will go with you.
Queen. You have no caufe.

Arch. My gracious Lady, go,

And thither bear your treasure and your goods.
For my part, I'll resign unto your Grace
The feal I keep; and fo betide it me,
As well I tender you, and all of your's!
Go, I'll conduct you to the fanctuary.

[Exeunt.

ACT

ACT

III.

SCENE

I.

In London.

The Trumpets found. Enter Prince of Wales, the Dukes of Glouceiter and Buckingham, Archbishop, with others. Elcome, fweet Prince, to London, to your

Buck.

W

chamber *.

Glo. Welcome, dear coufin, my thoughts' fovereign; The weary way hath made you melancholy. Prince. No, uncle, but our croffes on the way Have made it tedious, wearitome, and heavy. I want more uncles here to welcome me.

Glo. Sweet Prince, th' untainted virtue of your years Hath not yet div'd into the world's deceit : Nor more can you diftinguish of a man, Than of his outward shew, which, God he knows, Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart. Those uncles which you want, were dangerous: Your Grace attended to their fugar'd words, But look'd not on the poison of their hearts; God keep you from them, and from such false friends! Prince. God keep me from false friends! but they

were none

Glo. My Lord, the Mayor of London comes to greet

you.

Enter Lord Mayor.

Mayor. God bless your Grace with health and happy

days!

[all:

Prince. I thank you, good my Lord, and thank you I thought my mother and my brother York Would long ere this have met us on the way. Fie, what a flug is Hastings! that he comes not To tell us whether they will come or no.

Enter Lord Hastings.

Buch. And in good time here comes the sweating

Prince. Welcome, my Lord. What, will our mother

Lord.

come?

* London was anciently called Camera regia, Mr. Pope.

Haft.

Haft. On what occafion, God he knows, not I,
The Queen your mother, and your brother York,
Have taken fanctuary; the tender Prince
Would fain have come with me to meet your Grace,
But by his mother was perforce with-held.

Buck Fie, what an indirect and peevish course
Is this of her's? Lord Cardinal, will your Grace
Perfuade the Queen to fend the Duke of York
Unto his princely brother presently?
If the deny, Lord Hastings, you go with him,
And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce.

Arch. My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory
Can from his mother win the Duke of York,
Anon expect him here; but if she be
Obdurate to intreaties, God forbid
We should infringe the holy privilege
Of fanctuary! not for all this land
Would I be guilty of so deep a fin.

Buck. You are too senseless-obstinate, my Lord,
Too ceremonious and traditional *.
Weigh it but with the greenness of his age,
You break not sanctuary, in feizing him.
The benefit thereof is always granted

To those whose dealings have deferv'd the place,
And those who have the wit to claim the place;
This prince hath neither claim'd it, nor deserv'd it;
Therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it.
Then taking him from thence that is not there,
You break no privilege nor charter there.
Oft have I heard of fanctuary-men,
But fanctuary-children ne'er till now.

Arch. My Lord, you shall o'er-rule my mind for once; Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me? Haft. I go, my Lord.

[Exeunt Archbishop and Hastings.

Prince. Good Lords. make all the speedy hafte you

Say, uncle Glo'lter, if our brother come,
Where shall we fojourn till our coronation?

Glo. Where it feems beit unto you Royal self.

If I may counfel you, fome day or two

[may

+ Ceremonious, for fuperftitious; traditional, for adherent to old cuf

toms.

Your

Your Highness shall repose you at the Tower:
Then where you please, and shall be thought most fit
For your best health and recreation.

Prince. I do not like the Tower of any place.
Did Julius Cæfar build that place, my Lord?
Buck. He did, my gracious Lord, begin that place
Which fince succeeding ages have re-built.

Prince. Is it upon record? or else reported Succeflively from age to age he built it? Buck. Upon record, my gracious Lord. Prince. But fay, my Lord, it were not register'd,. Methinks the truth should live from age to age, As 'twere intail'd to all pofterity,

Even to the general all-ending day.

Glo. So wife, fo young, they say, do ne'er live long. Prince. What ay you. uncle?

Glo. I fay, without characters Fame lives long.

Thus like the formal-wife Antiquity

I moralize two meanings in one word.

} Afide.

Prince. That Julius Cæfar was a famous man;
With what his valour did inrich his wit,
His wit fet down to make his valour live.
Death made no conquest of this conqueror;
For now he lives in fame, though not in life.
I'll tell you what, my coufin Buckingham.
Buck. What, my gracious Lord ?
Prince. An' if I live until I be a man,
I'll win our ancient right in France again,
Or die a foldier, as I liv'd a King

:

Glo. Short fummer lightly has a forward spring.. Enter York, Haftings, and Archbishop.

Buck. Now in good time here comes the Duke of

York. Prince. Richard of York, how fares our Noble brother?

York. Well, my dread Lord, fo must I call you now. Prince. Ay, brother, to our grief, as it is your's; Too late he dy'd that might have kept that title, Which by his death hath loft much majetty.

Glo. How fares our coufin, Noble Lord of York? York. I thank you, gentle uncle. O my Lord,

You

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