Enter AUMErle. Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle. York. Aumerle that was, But that is lost, for being Richard's friend, And, madam, you must call him Rutland now: And lasting fealty to the new-made king. Duch. Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now, That strew the green lap of the new-come spring? Au. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not. God knows, I had as lief be none, as one. York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time, Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime. What news from Oxford? hold those justs1 and triumphs? Au. For aught I know, my lord, they do. York. You will be there, I know. Au. If God prevent it not, I purpose so. York. What seal is that, that hangs without thy bosom? Yea, look'st thou pale? let me see the writing. Au. My lord, 'tis nothing. York. No matter then who sees it. I will be satisfied; let me see the writing. 1 Tilts and tournaments. Au. I do beseech your grace to pardon me. It is a matter of small consequence, Which for some reasons I would not have seen. York. Which, for some reasons, sir, I mean to see. I fear, I fear, Duch. What should you fear? 'Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter'd into For gay apparel, 'gainst the triumph day. York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool. Boy, let me see the writing. Au. I do beseech you, pardon me; I show it. may not York. I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say. [snatches it, and reads. Treason! foul treason!—villain! traitor! slave! Duch. What is the matter, my lord? York. Ho! who is within there? [Enter a Servant.] Saddle my horse. God for his mercy! what treachery is here! Duch. Why, what is it, my lord? York. Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse : Now by mine honor, by my life, by my troth, I will appeach the villain. Duch. [Exit Servant. What's the matter? York. Peace, foolish woman. Duch. I will not peace.-What is the matter, son? Au. Good mother, be content; it is no more Than my poor life must answer. Duch. Thy life answer! Re-enter Servant, with boots. York. Bring me my boots; I will unto the king. Duch. Strike him, Aumerle.-Poor boy, thou art amazed. Hence, villain; never more come in my sight. York. Give me my boots, I say. [to the Servant. Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own? Is he not like thee? is he not thine own? Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy? A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament, To kill the king at Oxford. Duch. He shall be none; We'll keep him here: then what is that to him? York. Away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son, I would appeach him. Duch. Hadst thou groan'd for him, As I have done, thou wouldest be more pitiful. |