Hast thou tapp'd out, and drunkenly carous'd.
My brother Gloster, plain well-meaning soul,
Whom fair befal in heaven 'mongst happy souls!
May be a precedent and witness good,

That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood.
Join with the present sickness that I have,
And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too-long withered flower.
Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee:
These words hereafter thy tormentors be !-
Convey me to my bed, then to my grave:
Love they to live, that love and honour have.

[Exit, borne out by his Attendants. K. Rich. And let them die, that age and sullens have,

For both hast thou, and both become the grave. York. I do beseech your majesty, impute his words

To wayward sickliness and age in him :
He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear
As Harry, duke of Hereford, were he here.

K. Rich. Right, you say true; as Hereford's love, so his :

As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.

North. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty.

K. Rich. What says he?

North. Nay, nothing; all is said.

His tongue is now a stringless instrument:
Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

York. Be York the next that must be bankrupt so! Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich. The ripest fruit first falls, and so dotl. he:
His time is spent; our pilgrimage must be.
So much for that.-Now for our Irish wars.
We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns,
Which live like venom, where no venom else,
But only they, hath privilege to live:
And for these great affairs do ask some charge,
Towards our assistance we do seize to us
The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess'd.
York. How long shall I be patient? Ah! how
long

Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?
Not Gloster's death, nor Hereford's banishment,
Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,
Have ever made me sour my patient cheek,
Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face.
I am the last of noble Edward's sons,

Of whom thy father, prince of Wales, was first :
In war was never lion rag'd more fierce,
In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely gentleman.
His face thou hast, for even so look'd he,
Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours;
But when he frown'd, it was against the French,
And not against his friends: his noble hand
Did win what he did spend, and spent not that
Which his triumphant father's hand had won :
His hands were guilty of no kindred blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
O, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,
Or else he never would compare between.
K. Rich. Why, uncle, what's the matter?
York.
O, my liege!
Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas'd

Not to be pardon'd, am content withal.
Seek you to seize, and gripe into your hands,
The royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir?
Is not his heir a well-deserving son?

Take Hereford's rights away, and take from time
His charters and his customary rights;
Let not to-morrow, then, ensue to-day;
Be not thyself; for how art thou a king,
But by fair sequence and succession?
Now, afore God (God forbid, I say true!)
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's rights,
Call in the letters patents that he hath
By his attornies-general to sue

His livery, and deny his offer'd homage,
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,
You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts.
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich. Think what you will: we seize into our hands

His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands. York. I'll not be by the while. My liege, farewell:

What will ensue hereof, there's none can tell;
But by bad courses may be understood,
That their events can never fall out good.
K. Rich. Go, Bushy, to the earl of Wiltshire
straight:

Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,

[Exit.

To see this business. To-morrow next
We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow:
And we create, in absence of ourself,
Our uncle York lord governor of England,
For he is just, and always lov'd us well.—
Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part:
Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [Flourish.
[Exeunt KING, QUEEN, BUSHY, AUMERLE,
GREEN, and BAGOT.

North. Well, lords, the duke of Lancaster is dea !.
Ross. And living too, for now his son is duke.
Willo. Barely in title, not in revenues.
North. Richly in both, if justice had her right.
Ross. My heart is great; but it must break
with silence,

Ere't be disburden'd with a liberal tongue.

North. Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more,

That speaks thy words again to do thee harm! Willo. Tends that thou'dst speak, to the 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 God, 'tis shame such wrongs

are borne

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 quite 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, and 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 noble ancestors achiev'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 money for these Irish wars, His burdenous 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 unavoided is the danger now,

For suffering so the causes of our wreck.

I

North. Not so: even through the hollow eyes of death,

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 thyself; and, speaking so, Thy words are but as thoughts: therefore, be bold. North. Then thus.-I have from Port le Blanc, a bay

In Britanny, receiv'd intelligence,

That Harry duke of Hereford, Reginald lord Cobham,

That late broke from the duke of Exeter,
His brother, archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, sir John Ramston,
Sir John Norbery, sir Robert Waterton, and Francis

Quoint,

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 shall shake off our slavish yoke,
Imp out our drooping country's broken wing,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt,
And make high majesty look like itself,
Away with me in post to Ravenspurg;
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay and be secret, and myself 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.

SCENE II.-The Same. An Apartment in the Palace.

Enter QUEEN, BUSHY, and BAGOT. Bushy. Madam, your majesty is too much sad: You promis'd, when you parted with the king,

To lay aside life-harming heaviness, And entertain a cheerful disposition.

Queen. To please the king, I did; to please myself,

I cannot do it; yet I know no cause
Why I should welcome such a guest as grief,
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest
As my sweet Richard. Yet, again, methinks,
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb,
Is coming towards me; and my inward soul
With nothing trembles: at some thing it grieves,
More than with parting from my lord, the king.

Bushy. Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,

Which show like grief itself, but are not so:
For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects;
Like perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon,
Show nothing but confusion: ey'd awry,
Distinguish form so your sweet majesty,
Looking awry upon your lord's departure,
Finds shapes of grief more than himself to wail;
Which, look'd on as it is, is nought but shadows
Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious queen,
More than your lord's departure weep not: more's

not seen;

Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye,
Which for things true weeps things imaginary.

Queen. It may be so; but yet my inward soul
Persuades me, it is otherwise: howe'er it be,
I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad,

As, though in thinking on no thought I think,— Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink. Bushy. 'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.

Queen. 'Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv'd
From some forefather grief; mine is not so,
For nothing hath begot my something grief;
Or something hath the nothing that I grieve:
'Tis in reversion that I do possess,

But what it is, that is not yet known; what
I cannot name: 'tis nameless woe, I wot.

Comfort's in heaven; and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but crosses, care, and grief.
Your husband, he is gone to save far off,
Whilst others come to make him lose at home:
Here am I left to underprop his land,
Who, weak with age, cannot support myself.
Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made;
Now shall he try his friends that flatter'd him.
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 they are 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.
Hold; take my ring.

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.

York. What is't, knave?

Serv. An hour before I came the duchess died. York. God for his mercy! what a tide of woes Comes rushing on this woeful land at once! I know not what to do:-I would to God, (So my untruth had not provok'd him to it,) The king had cut off my head with my brother's.What! are there no posts dispatch'd for Ireland ?How shall we do for money for these wars?Come, sister,-cousin. I would say: pray, pardon

me.

Go, fellow,[To the Servant.]-get thee home; provide some carts,

And bring away the armour that is there.-
[Exit Servant.
Gentlemen, will you go muster men?
If I know how, or which way, to order these affairs.
Thus disorderly thrust into my hands,
Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen :
Th' one is my sovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bids defend; th' other again,

Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong'd,
Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.
Well, somewhat we must do.-Come, cousin,
I'll dispose of you.-Gentlemen, go muster up
your men,

And meet me presently at Berkley.

I should to Plashy too,

But time will not permit.-All is uneven,
And every thing is left at six and seven.

[Exeunt YORK, and QUEEN.

Bushy. The wind sits fair for news to go for 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,
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.
Bushy. Wherein the king stands generally con-
demn'd.

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 Will the hateful commons perform for us, Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.— Will you go along with us?

Bagot. No; I will to Ireland to his majesty. Farewell if heart's presages be not vain, We three here part, that ne'er shall meet again. Bushy. That's as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.

Green. Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes Is numbering sands, and drinking oceans dry: Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly. Farewell at once; for once, for all, and ever. Bushy. Well, we may meet again. Bagot.

I fear me, never. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.-The Wilds in Glostershire.

Enter BOLINGBROKE, and NORTHUMBERLAND, with Forces.

Boling. How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now? North. Believe me, noble lord,

I am a stranger here in Glostershire.

These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome;
And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,
Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
But, I bethink me, what a weary way
From Ravenspurg to Cotswold will be found
In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company,
Which, I protest, hath very much beguil'd
The tediousness and process of my travel:

But theirs is sweeten'd with the hope to have
The present benefit which I possess:
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,
Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.—
Harry, how fares your uncle?

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

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 over by Berkley, to discover
What power the duke of York had levied there;
Then, with directions to repair to Ravenspurg.

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 remembering 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 yond' tuft of

To take advantage of the absent time,
And fright our native peace with self-borne arms.
Enter YORK, attended.

Boling. I shall not need transport my words by

you:

Here comes his grace in person. My noble uncle. [Kneels.

York. Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,

Whose duty is deceivable and false.

Boling. My gracious uncle

York. Tut, tut! grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle:

I am no traitor's uncle; and that word "grace,"
In an ungracious mouth, is but profane.
Why have those banish'd and forbidden legs
Dar'd once to touch a dust of England's ground?
But then, more why,-why have they dar'd to
march

So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,
Frighting her pale-fac'd villages with war,
And ostentation of despised arms?

Com'st thou because th' anointed king is hence?
Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind,
And in my loyal bosom lies his power.
Were I but now the lord of such hot youth,
As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself,
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,
From forth the ranks of many thousand French,

O! then, how quickly should this arm of mine,
Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee,
And minister correction to thy fault!

Boling. My gracious uncle, let me know my fault:

On what condition stands it, and wherein ?

York. Even in condition of the worst degree; In gross rebellion, and detested treason: Thou art a banish'd man, and here art come Before the expiration of thy time,

In braving arms against thy sovereign.
Boling. As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Here-
ford;

But as I come, I come for Lancaster.
And, noble uncle, I beseech your grace,
Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye:
You are my father, for, methinks, in you

I see old Gaunt alive: O! then, my father,
Will you permit that I shall stand condemn'd
A wandering vagabond, my rights and royalties
Pluck'd from my arms perforce, and given away
To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?
If that my cousin king be king of England,
It must be granted I am duke of Lancaster.
You have a son, Aumerle, my noble kinsman ;
Had you first died, and he been thus trod down,
He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father,
To rouse his wrongs, and chase them to the bay.
I am denied to sue my livery here,
And yet my letters patent give me leave: