Shakespeare's First Folio Part 274

Nor. My Liege, olde Gaunt commends him to your Maiestie

Rich. What sayes he?

Nor. Nay nothing, all is said: His tongue is now a stringlesse instrument, Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent

Yor. Be Yorke the next, that must be bankrupt so, Though death be poore, it ends a mortall wo

Rich. The ripest fruit first fals, and so doth he, His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be: So much for that. Now for our Irish warres, We must supplant those rough rug-headed Kernes, Which liue like venom, where no venom else But onely they, haue priuiledge to liue.

And for these great affayres do aske some charge Towards our a.s.sistance, we do seize to vs The plate, coine, reuennewes, and moueables, Whereof our Vncle Gaunt did stand possest

Yor. How long shall I be patient? Oh how long Shall tender dutie make me suffer wrong?

Not Glousters death, nor Herfords banishment, Nor Gauntes rebukes, nor Englands priuate wrongs, Nor the preuention of poore Bullingbrooke, About his marriage, nor my owne disgrace Haue euer made me sowre my patient cheeke, Or bend one wrinckle on my Soueraignes face: I am the last of n.o.ble Edwards sonnes, Of whom thy Father Prince of Wales was first, In warre was neuer Lyon rag'd more fierce: In peace, was neuer gentle Lambe more milde, Then was that yong and Princely Gentleman, His face thou hast, for euen so look'd he Accomplish'd with the number of thy howers: But when he frown'd, it was against the French, And not against his friends: his n.o.ble hand Did win what he did spend: and spent not that Which his triumphant fathers hand had won: His hands were guilty of no kindreds blood, But b.l.o.o.d.y with the enemies of his kinne: Oh Richard, Yorke is too farre gone with greefe, Or else he neuer would compare betweene

Rich. Why Vncle, What's the matter?

Yor. Oh my Liege, pardon me if you please, if not I pleas'd not to be pardon'd, am content with all: Seeke you to seize, and gripe into your hands The Royalties and Rights of banish'd Herford?

Is not Gaunt dead? and doth not Herford liue?

Was not Gaunt iust? and is not Harry true?

Did not the one deserue to haue an heyre?

Is not his heyre a well-deseruing sonne?

Take Herfords rights away, and take from time His Charters, and his customarie rights: Let not to morrow then insue to day, Be not thy selfe. For how art thou a King But by faire sequence and succession?

Now afore G.o.d, G.o.d forbid I say true, If you do wrongfully seize Herfords right, Call in his Letters Patents that he hath By his Atturneyes generall, to sue His Liuerie, and denie his offer'd homage, You plucke a thousand dangers on your head, You loose a thousand well-disposed hearts, And p.r.i.c.ke my tender patience to those thoughts Which honor and allegeance cannot thinke

Ric. Thinke what you will: we seise into our hands, His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands

Yor. Ile not be by the while: My Liege farewell, What will ensue heereof, there's none can tell.

But by bad courses may be vnderstood, That their euents can neuer fall out good.

Enter.

Rich. Go Bushie to the Earle of Wiltshire streight, Bid him repaire to vs to Ely house, To see this businesse: to morrow next We will for Ireland, and 'tis time, I trow: And we create in absence of our selfe Our Vncle Yorke, Lord Gouernor of England: For he is iust, and alwayes lou'd vs well.

Come on our Queene, to morrow must we part, Be merry, for our time of stay is short.

Flourish.

Manet North. Willoughby, & Ross.

Nor. Well Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead

Ross. And liuing too, for now his sonne is Duke

Wil. Barely in t.i.tle, not in reuennew

Nor. Richly in both, if iustice had her right

Ross. My heart is great: but it must break with silence, Er't be disburthen'd with a liberall tongue

Nor. Nay speake thy mind: & let him ne'r speak more That speakes thy words againe to do thee harme

Wil. Tends that thou'dst speake to th' Du[ke]. of Hereford, If it be so, out with it boldly man, Quicke is mine eare to heare of good towards him

Ross. No good at all that I can do for him, Vnlesse you call it good to pitie him, Bereft and gelded of his patrimonie

Nor. Now afore heauen, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne.

In him a royall Prince, and many moe Of n.o.ble blood in this declining Land; The King is not himselfe, but basely led By Flatterers, and what they will informe Meerely in hate 'gainst any of vs all, That will the King seuerely prosecute 'Gainst vs, our liues, our children, and our heires

Ros. The Commons hath he pil'd with greeuous taxes And quite lost their hearts: the n.o.bles hath he finde For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts

Wil. And daily new exactions are deuis'd, As blankes, beneuolences, and I wot not what: But what o' G.o.ds name doth become of this?

Nor. Wars hath not wasted it, for war'd he hath not.

But basely yeelded vpon comprimize, That which his Ancestors atchieu'd with blowes: More hath he spent in peace, then they in warres

Ros. The Earle of Wiltshire hath the realme in Farme

Wil. The Kings growne bankrupt like a broken man

Nor. Reproach, and dissolution hangeth ouer him

Ros. He hath not monie for these Irish warres: (His burthenous taxations notwithstanding) But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke

Nor. His n.o.ble Kinsman, most degenerate King: But Lords, we heare this fearefull tempest sing, Yet seeke no shelter to auoid the storme: We see the winde sit sore vpon our sailes, And yet we strike not, but securely perish

Ros. We see the very wracke that we must suffer, And vnauoyded is the danger now For suffering so the causes of our wracke

Nor. Not so: euen through the hollow eyes of death, I spie life peering: but I dare not say How neere the tidings of our comfort is

Wil. Nay let vs share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours Ros. Be confident to speake Northumberland, We three, are but thy selfe, and speaking so, Thy words are but as thoughts, therefore be bold

Nor. Then thus: I haue from Port le Blan A Bay in Britaine, receiu'd intelligence, That Harry Duke of Herford, Rainald Lord Cobham, That late broke from the Duke of Exeter, His brother Archbishop, late of Canterbury, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir Iohn Rainston, Sir Iohn Norberie, & Sir Robert Waterton, & Francis Quoint, All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Britaine, With eight tall ships, three thousand men of warre Are making hither with all due expedience, And shortly meane to touch our Northerne sh.o.r.e: Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay The first departing of the King for Ireland.

If then we shall shake off our slauish yoake, Impe out our drooping Countries broken wing, Redeeme from broaking p.a.w.ne the blemish'd Crowne, Wipe off the dust that hides our Scepters gilt, And make high Maiestie looke like it selfe, Away with me in poste to Rauenspurgh, But if you faint, as fearing to do so, Stay, and be secret, and my selfe will go

Ros. To horse, to horse, vrge doubts to them y feare

Wil. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.

Exeunt.

Scena Secunda.

Enter Queene, Bushy, and Bagot.

Bush. Madam, your Maiesty is too much sad, You promis'd when you parted with the King, To lay aside selfe-harming heauinesse, And entertaine a cheerefull disposition

Qu. To please the King, I did: to please my selfe I cannot do it: yet I know no cause Why I should welcome such a guest as greefe, Saue bidding farewell to so sweet a guest As my sweet Richard; yet againe me thinkes, Some vnborne sorrow, ripe in fortunes wombe Is comming towards me, and my inward soule With nothing trembles, at something it greeues, More then with parting from my Lord the King

Bush. Each substance of a greefe hath twenty shadows Which shewes like greefe it selfe, but is not so: For sorrowes eye, glazed with blinding teares, Diuides one thing intire, to many obiects, Like perspectiues, which rightly gaz'd vpon Shew nothing but confusion, ey'd awry, Distinguish forme: so your sweet Maiestie Looking awry vpon your Lords departure, Finde shapes of greefe, more then himselfe to waile, Which look'd on as it is, is naught but shadowes Of what it is not: then thrice-gracious Queene, More then your Lords departure weep not, more's not seene; Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrowes eie, Which for things true, weepe things imaginary

Qu. It may be so: but yet my inward soule Perswades me it is otherwise: how ere it be, I cannot but be sad: so heauy sad, As though on thinking on no thought I thinke, Makes me with heauy nothing faint and shrinke

Bush. 'Tis nothing but conceit (my gracious Lady.) Qu. 'Tis nothing lesse: conceit is still deriu'd From some fore-father greefe, mine is not so, For nothing hath begot my something greefe, Or something, hath the nothing that I greeue, 'Tis in reuersion that I do possesse, But what it is, that is not yet knowne, what I cannot name, 'tis namelesse woe I wot.