The Project Gutenberg eBook ofRichard IIThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Richard IIAuthor: William ShakespeareRelease date: July 1, 2000 [eBook #2250]Most recently updated: May 23, 2019Language: English*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RICHARD II ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Richard IIAuthor: William ShakespeareRelease date: July 1, 2000 [eBook #2250]Most recently updated: May 23, 2019Language: English
Title: Richard II
Author: William Shakespeare
Author: William Shakespeare
Release date: July 1, 2000 [eBook #2250]Most recently updated: May 23, 2019
Language: English
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RICHARD II ***
Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's The first Part of
Henry the Sixt
Executive Director's Notes:
In addition to the notes below, and so you will *NOT* think all the spelling errors introduced by the printers of the time have been corrected, here are the first few lines of Hamlet, as they are presented herein:
Barnardo. Who's there?Fran. Nay answer me: Stand & vnfoldyour selfe
Bar. Long liue the King
***
As I understand it, the printers often ran out of certain words or letters they had often packed into a "cliche". . .this is the original meaning of the term cliche. . .and thus, being unwilling to unpack the cliches, and thus you will see some substitutions that look very odd. . .such as the exchanges of u for v, v for u, above. . .and you may wonder why they did it this way, presuming Shakespeare did not actually write the play in this manner. . . .
The answer is that they MAY have packed "liue" into a cliche at a time when they were out of "v"'s. . .possibly having used "vv" in place of some "w"'s, etc. This was a common practice of the day, as print was still quite expensive, and they didn't want to spend more on a wider selection of characters than they had to.
You will find a lot of these kinds of "errors" in this text, as I have mentioned in other times and places, many "scholars" have an extreme attachment to these errors, and many have accorded them a very high place in the "canon" of Shakespeare. My father read an assortment of these made available to him by Cambridge University in England for several months in a glass room constructed for the purpose. To the best of my knowledge he read ALL those available . . .in great detail. . .and determined from the various changes, that Shakespeare most likely did not write in nearly as many of a variety of errors we credit him for, even though he was in/famous for signing his name with several different spellings.
So, please take this into account when reading the comments below made by our volunteer who prepared this file: you may see errors that are "not" errors. . . .
So. . .with this caveat. . .we have NOT changed the canon errors, here is the Project Gutenberg Etext of Shakespeare's The first Part of Henry the Sixt.
Michael S. HartProject GutenbergExecutive Director
***
Scanner's Notes: What this is and isn't. This was taken from a copy of Shakespeare's first folio and it is as close as I can come in ASCII to the printed text.
The elongated S's have been changed to small s's and the conjoined ae have been changed to ae. I have left the spelling, punctuation, capitalization as close as possible to the printed text. I have corrected some spelling mistakes (I have put together a spelling dictionary devised from the spellings of the Geneva Bible and Shakespeare's First Folio and have unified spellings according to this template), typo's and expanded abbreviations as I have come across them. Everything within brackets [] is what I have added. So if you don't like that you can delete everything within the brackets if you want a purer Shakespeare.
Another thing that you should be aware of is that there are textual differences between various copies of the first folio. So there may be differences (other than what I have mentioned above) between this and other first folio editions. This is due to the printer's habit of setting the type and running off a number of copies and then proofing the printed copy and correcting the type and then continuing the printing run. The proof run wasn't thrown away but incorporated into the printed copies. This is just the way it is. The text I have used was a composite of more than 30 different First Folio editions' best pages.
If you find any scanning errors, out and out typos, punctuation errors, or if you disagree with my spelling choices please feel free to email me those errors. I wish to make this the best etext possible. My email address for right now are haradda@aol.com and davidr@inconnect.com. I hope that you enjoy this.
David Reed
The life and death of King Richard the Second
Actus Primus, Scaena Prima.
Enter King Richard, Iohn of Gaunt, with other Nobles andAttendants.
King Richard. Old Iohn of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,Hast thou according to thy oath and bandBrought hither Henry Herford thy bold son:Heere to make good y boistrous late appeale,Which then our leysure would not let vs heare,Against the Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Mowbray?Gaunt. I haue my Liege
King. Tell me moreouer, hast thou sounded him,If he appeale the Duke on ancient malice,Or worthily as a good subiect shouldOn some knowne ground of treacherie in him
Gaunt. As neere as I could sift him on that argument,On some apparant danger seene in him,Aym'd at your Highnesse, no inueterate malice
Kin. Then call them to our presence face to face,And frowning brow to brow, our selues will heareTh' accuser, and the accused, freely speake;High stomack'd are they both, and full of ire,In rage, deafe as the sea; hastie as fire.Enter Bullingbrooke and Mowbray.
Bul. Many yeares of happy dayes befallMy gracious Soueraigne, my most louing Liege
Mow. Each day still better others happinesse,Vntill the heauens enuying earths good hap,Adde an immortall title to your Crowne
King. We thanke you both, yet one but flatters vs,As well appeareth by the cause you come,Namely, to appeale each other of high treason.Coosin of Hereford, what dost thou obiectAgainst the Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Mowbray?Bul. First, heauen be the record to my speech,In the deuotion of a subiects loue,Tendering the precious safetie of my Prince,And free from other misbegotten hate,Come I appealant to this Princely presence.Now Thomas Mowbray do I turne to thee,And marke my greeting well: for what I speake,My body shall make good vpon this earth,Or my diuine soule answer it in heauen.Thou art a Traitor, and a Miscreant;Too good to be so, and too bad to liue,Since the more faire and christall is the skie,The vglier seeme the cloudes that in it flye:Once more, the more to aggrauate the note,With a foule Traitors name stuffe I thy throte,And wish (so please my Soueraigne) ere I moue,What my tong speaks, my right drawn sword may proueMow. Let not my cold words heere accuse my zeale:'Tis not the triall of a Womans warre,The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,Can arbitrate this cause betwixt vs twaine:The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this.Yet can I not of such tame patience boast,As to be husht, and nought at all to say.First the faire reuerence of your Highnesse curbes mee,From giuing reines and spurres to my free speech,Which else would post, vntill it had return'dThese tearmes of treason, doubly downe his throat.Setting aside his high bloods royalty,And let him be no Kinsman to my Liege,I do defie him, and I spit at him,Call him a slanderous Coward, and a Villaine:Which to maintaine, I would allow him oddes,And meete him, were I tide to runne afoote,Euen to the frozen ridges of the Alpes,Or any other ground inhabitable,Where euer Englishman durst set his foote.Meane time, let this defend my loyaltie,By all my hopes most falsely doth he lie
Bul. Pale trembling Coward, there I throw my gage,Disclaiming heere the kindred of a King,And lay aside my high bloods Royalty,Which feare, not reuerence makes thee to except.If guilty dread hath left thee so much strength,As to take vp mine Honors pawne, then stoope.By that, and all the rites of Knight-hood else,Will I make good against thee arme to arme,What I haue spoken, or thou canst deuise
Mow. I take it vp, and by that sword I sweare,Which gently laid my Knight-hood on my shoulder,Ile answer thee in any faire degree,Or Chiualrous designe of knightly triall:And when I mount, aliue may I not light,If I be Traitor, or vniustly fight
King. What doth our Cosin lay to Mowbraies charge?It must be great that can inherite vs,So much as of a thought of ill in him
Bul. Looke what I said, my life shall proue it true,That Mowbray hath receiu'd eight thousand Nobles,In name of lendings for your Highnesse Soldiers,The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments,Like a false Traitor, and iniurious Villaine.Besides I say, and will in battaile proue,Or heere, or elsewhere to the furthest VergeThat euer was suruey'd by English eye,That all the Treasons for these eighteene yeeresComplotted, and contriued in this Land,Fetch'd from false Mowbray their first head and spring.Further I say, and further will maintaineVpon his bad life, to make all this good.That he did plot the Duke of Glousters death,Suggest his soone beleeuing aduersaries,And consequently, like a Traitor Coward,Sluc'd out his innocent soule through streames of blood:Which blood, like sacrificing Abels cries,(Euen from the toonglesse cauernes of the earth)To me for iustice, and rough chasticement:And by the glorious worth of my discent,This arme shall do it, or this life be spent
King. How high a pitch his resolution soares:Thomas of Norfolke, what sayest thou to this?Mow. Oh let my Soueraigne turne away his face,And bid his eares a little while be deafe,Till I haue told this slander of his blood,How God, and good men, hate so foule a lyar
King. Mowbray, impartiall are our eyes and eares,Were he my brother, nay our kingdomes heyre,As he is but my fathers brothers sonne;Now by my Scepters awe, I make a vow,Such neighbour-neerenesse to our sacred blood,Should nothing priuiledge him, nor partializeThe vn-stooping firmenesse of my vpright soule.He is our subiect (Mowbray) so art thou,Free speech, and fearelesse, I to thee allow
Mow. Then Bullingbrooke, as low as to thy heart,Through the false passage of thy throat; thou lyest:Three parts of that receipt I had for Callice,Disburst I to his Highnesse souldiers;The other part reseru'd I by consent,For that my Soueraigne Liege was in my debt,Vpon remainder of a deere Accompt,Since last I went to France to fetch his Queene:Now swallow downe that Lye. For Glousters death,I slew him not; but (to mine owne disgrace)Neglected my sworne duty in that case:For you my noble Lord of Lancaster,The honourable Father to my foe,Once I did lay an ambush for your life,A trespasse that doth vex my greeued soule:But ere I last receiu'd the Sacrament,I did confesse it, and exactly begg'dYour Graces pardon, and I hope I had it.This is my fault: as for the rest appeal'd,It issues from the rancour of a Villaine,A recreant, and most degenerate Traitor,Which in my selfe I boldly will defend,And interchangeably hurle downe my gageVpon this ouer-weening Traitors foote,To proue my selfe a loyall Gentleman,Euen in the best blood chamber'd in his bosome.In hast whereof, most heartily I prayYour Highnesse to assigne our Triall day
King. Wrath-kindled Gentlemen be rul'd by me:Let's purge this choller without letting blood:This we prescribe, though no Physition,Deepe malice makes too deepe incision.Forget, forgiue, conclude, and be agreed,Our Doctors say, This is no time to bleed.Good Vnckle, let this end where it begun,Wee'l calme the Duke of Norfolke; you, your son
Gaunt. To be a make-peace shall become my age,Throw downe (my sonne) the Duke of Norfolkes gage
King. And Norfolke, throw downe his
Gaunt. When Harrie when? Obedience bids,Obedience bids I should not bid agen
King. Norfolke, throw downe, we bidde; there isno boote
Mow. My selfe I throw (dread Soueraigne) at thy foot.My life thou shalt command, but not my shame,The one my dutie owes, but my faire nameDespight of death, that liues vpon my graueTo darke dishonours vse, thou shalt not haue.I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffel'd heere,Pierc'd to the soule with slanders venom'd speare:The which no balme can cure, but his heart bloodWhich breath'd this poyson
King. Rage must be withstood:Giue me his gage: Lyons make Leopards tame
Mo. Yea, but not change his spots: take but my shame,And I resigne my gage. My deere, deere Lord,The purest treasure mortall times affordIs spotlesse reputation: that away,Men are but gilded loame, or painted clay.A Iewell in a ten times barr'd vp Chest,Is a bold spirit, in a loyall brest.Mine Honor is my life; both grow in one:Take Honor from me, and my life is done.Then (deere my Liege) mine Honor let me trie,In that I liue; and for that will I die
King. Coosin, throw downe your gage,Do you begin
Bul. Oh heauen defend my soule from such foule sin.Shall I seeme Crest-falne in my fathers sight,Or with pale beggar-feare impeach my hightBefore this out-dar'd dastard? Ere my toong,Shall wound mine honor with such feeble wrong;Or sound so base a parle: my teeth shall teareThe slauish motiue of recanting feare,And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,Where shame doth harbour, euen in Mowbrayes face.
Exit Gaunt.
King. We were not borne to sue, but to command,Which since we cannot do to make you friends,Be readie, (as your liues shall answer it)At Couentree, vpon S[aint]. Lamberts day:There shall your swords and Lances arbitrateThe swelling difference of your setled hate:Since we cannot attone you, you shall seeIustice designe the Victors Chiualrie.Lord Marshall, command our Officers at Armes,Be readie to direct these home Alarmes.
Exeunt.
Scaena Secunda.
Enter Gaunt, and Dutchesse of Gloucester.
Gaunt. Alas, the part I had in Glousters blood,Doth more solicite me then your exclaimes,To stirre against the Butchers of his life.But since correction lyeth in those handsWhich made the fault that we cannot correct,Put we our quarrell to the will of heauen,Who when they see the houres ripe on earth,Will raigne hot vengeance on offenders heads
Dut. Findes brotherhood in thee no sharper spurre?Hath loue in thy old blood no liuing fire?Edwards seuen sonnes (whereof thy selfe art one)Were as seuen violles of his Sacred blood,Or seuen faire branches springing from one roote:Some of those seuen are dride by natures course,Some of those branches by the destinies cut:But Thomas, my deere Lord, my life, my Glouster,One Violl full of Edwards Sacred blood,One flourishing branch of his most Royall rooteIs crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;Is hackt downe, and his summer leafes all vadedBy Enuies hand, and Murders bloody Axe.Ah Gaunt! His blood was thine, that bed, that wombe,That mettle, that selfe-mould that fashion'd thee,Made him a man: and though thou liu'st, and breath'st,Yet art thou slaine in him: thou dost consentIn some large measure to thy Fathers death,In that thou seest thy wretched brother dye,Who was the modell of thy Fathers life.Call it not patience (Gaunt) it is dispaire,In suffring thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,Thou shew'st the naked pathway to thy life,Teaching sterne murther how to butcher thee:That which in meane men we intitle patienceIs pale cold cowardice in noble brests:What shall I say, to safegard thine owne life,The best way is to venge my Glousters death
Gaunt. Heauens is the quarrell: for heauens substituteHis Deputy annointed in his sight,Hath caus'd his death, the which if wrongfullyLet heauen reuenge: for I may neuer liftAn angry arme against his Minister
Dut. Where then (alas may I) complaint my selfe?Gau. To heauen, the widdowes Champion to defenceDut. Why then I will: farewell old Gaunt.Thou go'st to Couentrie, there to beholdOur Cosine Herford, and fell Mowbray fight:O sit my husbands wrongs on Herfords speare,That it may enter butcher Mowbrayes brest:Or if misfortune misse the first carreere,Be Mowbrayes sinnes so heauy in his bosome,That they may breake his foaming Coursers backe,And throw the Rider headlong in the Lists,A Caytiffe recreant to my Cosine Herford:Farewell old Gaunt, thy sometimes brothers wifeWith her companion Greefe, must end her life
Gau. Sister farewell: I must to Couentree,As much good stay with thee, as go with mee
Dut. Yet one word more: Greefe boundeth where it falls,Not with the emptie hollownes, but weight:I take my leaue, before I haue begun,For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.Commend me to my brother Edmund Yorke.Loe, this is all: nay, yet depart not so,Though this be all, do not so quickly go,I shall remember more. Bid him, Oh, what?With all good speed at Plashie visit mee.Alacke, and what shall good old Yorke there seeBut empty lodgings, and vnfurnish'd walles,Vn-peopel'd Offices, vntroden stones?And what heare there for welcome, but my grones?Therefore commend me, let him not come there,To seeke out sorrow, that dwels euery where:Desolate, desolate will I hence, and dye,The last leaue of thee, takes my weeping eye.
Exeunt.
Scena Tertia.
Enter Marshall, and Aumerle.
Mar. My L[ord]. Aumerle, is Harry Herford arm'd
Aum. Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in
Mar. The Duke of Norfolke, sprightfully and bold,Stayes but the summons of the Appealants Trumpet
Au. Why then the Champions, are prepar'd, and stayFor nothing but his Maiesties approach.
Flourish.
Enter King, Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Greene, & others: Then Mowbray in Armor, and Harrold.
Rich. Marshall, demand of yonder ChampionThe cause of his arriuall heere in Armes,Aske him his name, and orderly proceedTo sweare him in the iustice of his cause
Mar. In Gods name, and the Kings say who y art,And why thou com'st thus knightly clad in Armes?Against what man thou com'st, and what's thy quarrell,Speake truly on thy knighthood, and thine oath,As so defend thee heauen, and thy valour
Mow. My name is Tho[mas]. Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,Who hither comes engaged by my oath(Which heauen defend a knight should violate)Both to defend my loyalty and truth,To God, my King, and his succeeding issue,Against the Duke of Herford, that appeales me:And by the grace of God, and this mine arme,To proue him (in defending of my selfe)A Traitor to my God, my King, and me,And as I truly fight, defend me heauen.
Tucket. Enter Hereford, and Harold.
Rich. Marshall: Aske yonder Knight in Armes,Both who he is, and why he commeth hither,Thus placed in habiliments of warre:And formerly according to our LawDepose him in the iustice of his cause
Mar. What is thy name? and wherfore comst y hitherBefore King Richard in his Royall Lists?Against whom com'st thou? and what's thy quarrell?Speake like a true Knight, so defend thee heauen
Bul. Harry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derbie,Am I: who ready heere do stand in Armes,To proue by heauens grace, and my bodies valour,In Lists, on Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolke,That he's a Traitor foule, and dangerous,To God of heauen, King Richard, and to me,And as I truly fight, defend me heauen
Mar. On paine of death, no person be so bold,Or daring hardie as to touch the Listes,Except the Marshall, and such OfficersAppointed to direct these faire designes
Bul. Lord Marshall, let me kisse my Soueraigns hand,And bow my knee before his Maiestie:For Mowbray and my selfe are like two men,That vow a long and weary pilgrimage,Then let vs take a ceremonious leaueAnd louing farwell of our seuerall friends
Mar. The Appealant in all duty greets your Highnes,And craues to kisse your hand, and take his leaue
Rich. We will descend, and fold him in our armes.Cosin of Herford, as thy cause is iust,So be thy fortune in this Royall fight:Farewell, my blood, which if to day thou shead,Lament we may, but not reuenge thee dead
Bull. Oh let no noble eye prophane a teareFor me, if I be gor'd with Mowbrayes speare:As confident, as is the Falcons flightAgainst a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.My louing Lord, I take my leaue of you,Of you (my Noble Cosin) Lord Aumerle;Not sicke, although I haue to do with death,But lustie, yong, and cheerely drawing breath.Loe, as at English Feasts, so I regreeteThe daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.Oh thou the earthy author of my blood,Whose youthfull spirit in me regenerate,Doth with a two-fold rigor lift mee vpTo reach at victory aboue my head,Adde proofe vnto mine Armour with thy prayres,And with thy blessings steele my Lances point,That it may enter Mowbrayes waxen Coate,And furnish new the name of Iohn a Gaunt,Euen in the lusty hauiour of his sonne
Gaunt. Heauen in thy good cause make thee prosp'rousBe swift like lightning in the execution,And let thy blowes doubly redoubled,Fall like amazing thunder on the CaskeOf thy amaz'd pernicious enemy.Rouze vp thy youthfull blood, be valiant, and liue
Bul. Mine innocence, and S[aint]. George to thriue
Mow. How euer heauen or fortune cast my lot,There liues, or dies, true to Kings Richards Throne,A loyall, iust, and vpright Gentleman:Neuer did Captiue with a freer heart,Cast off his chaines of bondage, and embraceHis golden vncontroul'd enfranchisement,More then my dancing soule doth celebrateThis Feast of Battell, with mine Aduersarie.Most mighty Liege, and my companion Peeres,Take from my mouth, the wish of happy yeares,As gentle, and as iocond, as to iest,Go I to fight: Truth, hath a quiet brest
Rich. Farewell, my Lord, securely I espyVertue with Valour, couched in thine eye:Order the triall Marshall, and begin
Mar. Harrie of Herford, Lancaster, and Derby,Receiue thy Launce, and heauen defend thy right
Bul. Strong as a towre in hope, I cry Amen
Mar. Go beare this Lance to Thomas D[uke]. of Norfolke
1.Har. Harry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derbie,Stands heere for God, his Soueraigne, and himselfe,On paine to be found false, and recreant,To proue the Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Mowbray,A Traitor to his God, his King, and him,And dares him to set forwards to the fight
2.Har. Here standeth Tho[mas]: Mowbray Duke of NorfolkOn paine to be found false and recreant,Both to defend himselfe, and to approueHenry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derby,To God, his Soueraigne, and to him disloyall:Couragiously, and with a free desireAttending but the signall to begin.
A charge sounded
Mar. Sound Trumpets, and set forward Combatants:Stay, the King hath throwne his Warder downe
Rich. Let them lay by their Helmets & their Speares,And both returne backe to their Chaires againe:Withdraw with vs, and let the Trumpets sound,While we returne these Dukes what we decree.
A long Flourish.
Draw neere and listWhat with our Councell we haue done.For that our kingdomes earth should not be soyldWith that deere blood which it hath fostered,And for our eyes do hate the dire aspectOf ciuill wounds plowgh'd vp with neighbors swords,Which so rouz'd vp with boystrous vntun'd drummes,With harsh resounding Trumpets dreadfull bray,And grating shocke of wrathfull yron Armes,Might from our quiet Confines fright faire peace,And make vs wade euen in our kindreds blood:Therefore, we banish you our Territories.You Cosin Herford, vpon paine of death,Till twice fiue Summers haue enrich'd our fields,Shall not regreet our faire dominions,But treade the stranger pathes of banishment
Bul. Your will be done: This must my comfort be,That Sun that warmes you heere, shall shine on me:And those his golden beames to you heere lent,Shall point on me, and gild my banishment
Rich. Norfolke: for thee remaines a heauier dombe,Which I with some vnwillingnesse pronounce,The slye slow houres shall not determinateThe datelesse limit of thy deere exile:The hopelesse word, of Neuer to returne,Breath I against thee, vpon paine of life
Mow. A heauy sentence, my most Soueraigne Liege,And all vnlook'd for from your Highnesse mouth:A deerer merit, not so deepe a maime,As to be cast forth in the common ayreHaue I deserued at your Highnesse hands.The Language I haue learn'd these forty yeares(My natiue English) now I must forgo,And now my tongues vse is to me no more,Then an vnstringed Vyall, or a Harpe,Or like a cunning Instrument cas'd vp,Or being open, put into his handsThat knowes no touch to tune the harmony.Within my mouth you haue engaol'd my tongue,Doubly percullist with my teeth and lippes,And dull, vnfeeling, barren ignorance,Is made my Gaoler to attend on me:I am too old to fawne vpon a Nurse,Too farre in yeeres to be a pupill now:What is thy sentence then, but speechlesse death,Which robs my tongue from breathing natiue breath?Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate,After our sentence, plaining comes too late
Mow. Then thus I turne me from my countries lightTo dwell in solemne shades of endlesse night
Ric. Returne againe, and take an oath with thee,Lay on our Royall sword, your banisht hands;Sweare by the duty that you owe to heauen(Our part therein we banish with your selues)To keepe the Oath that we administer:You neuer shall (so helpe you Truth, and Heauen)Embrace each others loue in banishment,Nor euer looke vpon each others face,Nor euer write, regreete, or reconcileThis lowring tempest of your home-bred hate,Nor euer by aduised purpose meete,To plot, contriue, or complot any ill,'Gainst Vs, our State, our Subiects, or our Land
Bull. I sweare
Mow. And I, to keepe all this
Bul. Norfolke, so fare, as to mine enemie,By this time (had the King permitted vs)One of our soules had wandred in the ayre,Banish'd this fraile sepulchre of our flesh,As now our flesh is banish'd from this Land.Confesse thy Treasons, ere thou flye this Realme,Since thou hast farre to go, beare not alongThe clogging burthen of a guilty soule
Mow. No Bullingbroke: If euer I were Traitor,My name be blotted from the booke of Life,And I from heauen banish'd, as from hence:But what thou art, heauen, thou, and I do know,And all too soone (I feare) the King shall rue.Farewell (my Liege) now no way can I stray,Saue backe to England, all the worlds my way.Enter.
Rich. Vncle, euen in the glasses of thine eyesI see thy greeued heart: thy sad aspect,Hath from the number of his banish'd yearesPluck'd foure away: Six frozen Winters spent,Returne with welcome home, from banishment
Bul. How long a time lyes in one little word:Foure lagging Winters, and foure wanton springsEnd in a word, such is the breath of Kings
Gaunt. I thanke my Liege, that in regard of meHe shortens foure yeares of my sonnes exile:But little vantage shall I reape thereby.For ere the sixe yeares that he hath to spendCan change their Moones, and bring their times about,My oyle-dride Lampe, and time-bewasted lightShall be extinct with age, and endlesse night:My inch of Taper, will be burnt, and done,And blindfold death, not let me see my sonne
Rich. Why Vncle, thou hast many yeeres to liue
Gaunt. But not a minute (King) that thou canst giue;Shorten my dayes thou canst with sudden sorow,And plucke nights from me, but not lend a morrow:Thou canst helpe time to furrow me with age,But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage:Thy word is currant with him, for my death,But dead, thy kingdome cannot buy my breath
Ric. Thy sonne is banish'd vpon good aduice,Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gaue,Why at our Iustice seem'st thou then to lowre?Gau. Things sweet to tast, proue in digestion sowre:You vrg'd me as a Iudge, but I had ratherYou would haue bid me argue like a Father.Alas, I look'd when some of you should say,I was too strict to make mine owne away:But you gaue leaue to my vnwilling tong,Against my will, to do my selfe this wrong
Rich. Cosine farewell: and Vncle bid him so:Six yeares we banish him, and he shall go.Enter.
Flourish.
Au. Cosine farewell: what presence must not knowFrom where you do remaine, let paper show
Mar. My Lord, no leaue take I, for I will rideAs farre as land will let me, by your side
Gaunt. Oh to what purpose dost thou hord thy words,That thou returnst no greeting to thy friends?Bull. I haue too few to take my leaue of you,When the tongues office should be prodigall,To breath th' abundant dolour of the heart
Gau. Thy greefe is but thy absence for a time
Bull. Ioy absent, greefe is present for that time
Gau. What is sixe Winters, they are quickely gone?Bul. To men in ioy, but greefe makes one houre ten
Gau. Call it a trauell that thou tak'st for pleasure
Bul. My heart will sigh, when I miscall it so,Which findes it an inforced Pilgrimage
Gau. The sullen passage of thy weary steppesEsteeme a soyle, wherein thou art to setThe precious Iewell of thy home returne
Bul. Oh who can hold a fire in his handBy thinking on the frostie Caucasus?Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,By bare imagination of a Feast?Or Wallow naked in December snowBy thinking on fantasticke summers heate?Oh no, the apprehension of the goodGiues but the greater feeling to the worse:Fell sorrowes tooth, doth euer ranckle moreThen when it bites, but lanceth not the sore
Gau. Come, come (my son) Ile bring thee on thy wayHad I thy youth, and cause, I would not stay
Bul. Then Englands ground farewell: sweet soil adieu,My Mother, and my Nurse, which beares me yet:Where ere I wander, boast of this I can,Though banish'd, yet a true-borne Englishman.
Scoena Quarta.
Enter King, Aumerle, Greene, and Bagot.
Rich. We did obserue. Cosine Aumerle,How far brought you high Herford on his way?Aum. I brought high Herford (if you call him so)But to the next high way, and there I left him
Rich. And say, what store of parting tears were shed?Aum. Faith none for me: except the Northeast windWhich then grew bitterly against our face,Awak'd the sleepie rhewme, and so by chanceDid grace our hollow parting with a teare
Rich. What said our Cosin when you parted with him?Au. Farewell: and for my hart disdained y my tongueShould so prophane the word, that taught me craftTo counterfeit oppression of such greefe,That word seem'd buried in my sorrowes graue.Marry, would the word Farwell, haue lengthen'd houres,And added yeeres to his short banishment,He should haue had a volume of Farwels,But since it would not, he had none of me
Rich. He is our Cosin (Cosin) but 'tis doubt,When time shall call him home from banishment,Whether our kinsman come to see his friends,Our selfe, and Bushy: heere Bagot and GreeneObseru'd his Courtship to the common people:How he did seeme to diue into their hearts,With humble, and familiar courtesie,What reuerence he did throw away on slaues;Wooing poore Craftes-men, with the craft of soules,And patient vnder-bearing of his Fortune,As 'twere to banish their affects with him.Off goes his bonnet to an Oyster-wench,A brace of Dray-men bid God speed him well,And had the tribute of his supple knee,With thankes my Countrimen, my louing friends,As were our England in reuersion his,And he our subiects next degree in hope
Gr. Well, he is gone, & with him go these thoughts:Now for the Rebels, which stand out in Ireland,Expedient manage must be made my LiegeEre further leysure, yeeld them further meanesFor their aduantage, and your Highnesse losse
Ric. We will our selfe in person to this warre,And for our Coffers, with too great a Court,And liberall Largesse, are growne somewhat light,We are inforc'd to farme our royall Realme,The Reuennew whereof shall furnish vsFor our affayres in hand: if that come shortOur Substitutes at home shall haue Blanke-charters:Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,They shall subscribe them for large summes of Gold,And send them after to supply our wants:For we will make for Ireland presently.Enter Bushy.
Bushy, what newes?Bu. Old Iohn of Gaunt is verie sicke my Lord,Sodainly taken, and hath sent post hasteTo entreat your Maiesty to visit him
Ric. Where lyes he?Bu. At Ely house
Ric. Now put it (heauen) in his Physitians minde,To helpe him to his graue immediately:The lining of his coffers shall make CoatesTo decke our souldiers for these Irish warres.Come Gentlemen, let's all go visit him:Pray heauen we may make hast, and come too late.Enter.
Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.
Enter Gaunt, sicke with Yorke.
Gau. Will the King come, that I may breath my lastIn wholsome counsell to his vnstaid youth?Yor. Vex not your selfe, nor striue not with your breth,For all in vaine comes counsell to his eare
Gau. Oh but (they say) the tongues of dying menInforce attention like deepe harmony;Where words are scarse, they are seldome spent in vaine,For they breath truth, that breath their words in paine.He that no more must say, is listen'd more,Then they whom youth and ease haue taught to glose,More are mens ends markt, then their liues before,The setting Sun, and Musicke in the closeAs the last taste of sweetes, is sweetest last,Writ in remembrance, more then things long past;Though Richard my liues counsell would not heare,My deaths sad tale, may yet vndeafe his eare
Yor. No, it is stopt with other flatt'ring soundsAs praises of his state: then there are foundLasciuious Meeters, to whose venom soundThe open eare of youth doth alwayes listen.Report of fashions in proud Italy,Whose manners still our tardie apish NationLimpes after in base imitation.Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,So it be new, there's no respect how vile,That is not quickly buz'd into his eares?That all too late comes counsell to be heard,Where will doth mutiny with wits regard:Direct not him, whose way himselfe will choose,Tis breath thou lackst, and that breath wilt thou loose
Gaunt. Me thinkes I am a Prophet new inspir'd,And thus expiring, do foretell of him,His rash fierce blaze of Ryot cannot last,For violent fires soone burne out themselues,Small showres last long, but sodaine stormes are short,He tyres betimes, that spurs too fast betimes;With eager feeding, food doth choake the feeder:Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,Consuming meanes soone preyes vpon it selfe.This royall Throne of Kings, this sceptred Isle,This earth of Maiesty, this seate of Mars,This other Eden, demy paradise,This Fortresse built by Nature for her selfe,Against infection, and the hand of warre:This happy breed of men, this little world,This precious stone, set in the siluer sea,Which serues it in the office of a wall,Or as a Moate defensiue to a house,Against the enuy of lesse happier Lands,This blessed plot, this earth, this Realme, this England,This Nurse, this teeming wombe of Royall Kings,Fear'd by their breed, and famous for their birth,Renowned for their deeds, as farre from home,For Christian seruice, and true Chiualrie,As is the sepulcher in stubborne IuryOf the Worlds ransome, blessed Maries Sonne.This Land of such deere soules, this deere-deere Land,Deere for her reputation through the world,Is now Leas'd out (I dye pronouncing it)Like to a Tenement or pelting Farme.England bound in with the triumphant sea,Whose rocky shore beates backe the enuious siedgeOf watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,With Inky blottes, and rotten Parchment bonds.That England, that was wont to conquer others,Hath made a shamefull conquest of it selfe.Ah! would the scandall vanish with my life,How happy then were my ensuing death?Enter King, Queene, Aumerle, Bushy, Greene, Bagot, Ros, andWilloughby.
Yor. The King is come, deale mildly with his youth,For young hot Colts, being rag'd, do rage the more
Qu. How fares our noble Vncle Lancaster?Ri. What comfort man? How ist with aged Gaunt?Ga. Oh how that name befits my composition:Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old:Within me greefe hath kept a tedious fast,And who abstaynes from meate, that is not gaunt?For sleeping England long time haue I watcht,Watching breeds leannesse, leannesse is all gaunt.The pleasure that some Fathers feede vpon,Is my strict fast, I meane my Childrens lookes,And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt:Gaunt am I for the graue, gaunt as a graue,Whose hollow wombe inherits naught but bones
Ric. Can sicke men play so nicely with their names?Gau. No, misery makes sport to mocke it selfe:Since thou dost seeke to kill my name in mee,I mocke my name (great King) to flatter thee
Ric. Should dying men flatter those that liue?Gau. No, no, men liuing flatter those that dye
Rich. Thou now a dying, sayst thou flatter'st me
Gau. Oh no, thou dyest, though I the sicker be
Rich. I am in health, I breath, I see thee ill
Gau. Now he that made me, knowes I see thee ill:Ill in my selfe to see, and in thee, seeing ill,Thy death-bed is no lesser then the Land,Wherein thou lyest in reputation sicke,And thou too care-lesse patient as thou art,Commit'st thy 'anointed body to the cureOf those Physitians, that first wounded thee.A thousand flatterers sit within thy Crowne,Whose compasse is no bigger then thy head,And yet incaged in so small a Verge,The waste is no whit lesser then thy Land:Oh had thy Grandsire with a Prophets eye,Seene how his sonnes sonne, should destroy his sonnes,From forth thy reach he would haue laid thy shame,Deposing thee before thou wert possest,Which art possest now to depose thy selfe.Why (Cosine) were thou Regent of the world,It were a shame to let his Land by lease:But for thy world enioying but this Land,Is it not more then shame, to shame it so?Landlord of England art thou, and not King:Thy state of Law, is bondslaue to the law,And-Rich. And thou, a lunaticke leane-witted foole,Presuming on an Agues priuiledge,Dar'st with thy frozen admonitionMake pale our cheeke, chasing the Royall bloodWith fury, from his natiue residence?Now by my Seates right Royall Maiestie,Wer't thou not Brother to great Edwards sonne,This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head,Should run thy head from thy vnreuerent shoulders
Gau. Oh spare me not, my brothers Edwards sonne,For that I was his Father Edwards sonne:That blood already (like the Pellican)Thou hast tapt out, and drunkenly carows'd.My brother Gloucester, plaine well meaning soule(Whom faire befall in heauen 'mongst happy soules)May be a president, and witnesse good,That thou respect'st not spilling Edwards blood:Ioyne with the present sicknesse that I haue,And thy vnkindnesse be like crooked age,To crop at once a too-long wither'd flowre.Liue in thy shame, but dye not shame with thee,These words heereafter, thy tormentors bee.Conuey me to my bed, then to my graue,Loue they to liue, that loue and honor haue.
Exit
Rich. And let them dye, that age and sullens haue,For both hast thou, and both become the graue
Yor. I do beseech your Maiestie impute his wordsTo wayward sicklinesse, and age in him:He loues you on my life, and holds you deereAs Harry Duke of Herford, were he heere
Rich. Right, you say true: as Herfords loue, so his;As theirs, so mine: and all be as it is.Enter Northumberland.
Nor. My Liege, olde Gaunt commends him to yourMaiestie
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 elseBut onely they, haue priuiledge to liue.And for these great affayres do aske some chargeTowards our assistance, we do seize to vsThe plate, coine, reuennewes, and moueables,Whereof our Vncle Gaunt did stand possest
Yor. How long shall I be patient? Oh how longShall 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 disgraceHaue euer made me sowre my patient cheeke,Or bend one wrinckle on my Soueraignes face:I am the last of noble 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 heAccomplish'd with the number of thy howers:But when he frown'd, it was against the French,And not against his friends: his noble handDid win what he did spend: and spent not thatWhich his triumphant fathers hand had won:His hands were guilty of no kindreds blood,But bloody 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 notI pleas'd not to be pardon'd, am content with all:Seeke you to seize, and gripe into your handsThe 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 timeHis Charters, and his customarie rights:Let not to morrow then insue to day,Be not thy selfe. For how art thou a KingBut by faire sequence and succession?Now afore God, God forbid I say true,If you do wrongfully seize Herfords right,Call in his Letters Patents that he hathBy his Atturneyes generall, to sueHis Liuerie, and denie his offer'd homage,You plucke a thousand dangers on your head,You loose a thousand well-disposed hearts,And pricke my tender patience to those thoughtsWhich 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 nextWe will for Ireland, and 'tis time, I trow:And we create in absence of our selfeOur 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 title, 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 moreThat 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 areborne.In him a royall Prince, and many moeOf noble blood in this declining Land;The King is not himselfe, but basely ledBy Flatterers, and what they will informeMeerely 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 taxesAnd quite lost their hearts: the Nobles hath he findeFor 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' Gods 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 noble 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 nowFor 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 sayHow neere the tidings of our comfort is
Wil. Nay let vs share thy thoughts, as thou dost oursRos. 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 BlanA 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 warreAre making hither with all due expedience,And shortly meane to touch our Northerne shore:Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stayThe 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 pawne 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 selfeI cannot do it: yet I know no causeWhy I should welcome such a guest as greefe,Saue bidding farewell to so sweet a guestAs my sweet Richard; yet againe me thinkes,Some vnborne sorrow, ripe in fortunes wombeIs comming towards me, and my inward souleWith nothing trembles, at something it greeues,More then with parting from my Lord the King
Bush. Each substance of a greefe hath twenty shadowsWhich 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 vponShew nothing but confusion, ey'd awry,Distinguish forme: so your sweet MaiestieLooking awry vpon your Lords departure,Finde shapes of greefe, more then himselfe to waile,Which look'd on as it is, is naught but shadowesOf 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 soulePerswades 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'dFrom 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, whatI cannot name, 'tis namelesse woe I wot.Enter Greene.
Gree. Heauen saue your Maiesty, and wel met Gentlemen:I hope the King is not yet shipt for Ireland
Qu. Why hop'st thou so? Tis better hope he is:For his designes craue hast, his hast good hope,Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipt?Gre. That he our hope, might haue retyr'd his power,and driuen into dispaire an enemies hope,Who strongly hath set footing in this Land.The banish'd Bullingbrooke repeales himselfe,And with vp-lifted Armes is safe arriu'dAt Rauenspurg
Qu. Now God in heauen forbid
Gr. O Madam 'tis too true: and that is worse,The L[ord]. Northumberland, his yong sonne Henrie Percie,The Lords of Rosse, Beaumond, and Willoughby,With all their powrefull friends are fled to him
Bush. Why haue you not proclaim'd NorthumberlandAnd the rest of the reuolted faction, Traitors?Gre. We haue: whereupon the Earle of WorcesterHath broke his staffe, resign'd his Stewardship,And al the houshold seruants fled with him to BullinbrookQu. So Greene, thou art the midwife of my woe,And Bullinbrooke my sorrowes dismall heyre:Now hath my soule brought forth her prodegie,And I a gasping new deliuered mother,Haue woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow ioyn'd
Bush. Dispaire not Madam
Qu. Who shall hinder me?I will dispaire, and be at enmitieWith couzening hope; he is a Flatterer,A Parasite, a keeper backe of death,Who gently would dissolue the bands of life,Which false hopes linger in extremity.Enter Yorke.
Gre. Heere comes the Duke of Yorke
Qu. With signes of warre about his aged necke,Oh full of carefull businesse are his lookes:Vncle, for heauens sake speake comfortable words:Yor. Comfort's in heauen, and we are on the earth,Where nothing liues but crosses, care and greefe:Your husband he is gone to saue farre off,Whilst others come to make him loose at home:Heere am I left to vnder-prop his Land,Who weake with age, cannot support my selfe:Now comes the sicke houre that his surfet made,Now shall he try his friends that flattered him.Enter a seruant.
Ser. My Lord, your sonne was gone before I came
Yor. He was: why so: go all which way it will:The Nobles they are fled, the Commons they are cold,And will I feare reuolt on Herfords side.Sirra, get thee to Plashie to my sister Gloster,Bid her send me presently a thousand pound,Hold, take my Ring
Ser. My Lord, I had forgotTo tell your Lordship, to day I came by, and call'd there,But I shall greeue you to report the rest
Yor. What is't knaue?Ser. An houre before I came, the Dutchesse di'de
Yor. Heau'n for his mercy, what a tide of woesCome rushing on this wofull Land at once?I know not what to do: I would to heauen(So my vntruth had not prouok'd him to it)The King had cut off my head with my brothers.What, are there postes dispatcht for Ireland?How shall we do for money for these warres?Come sister (Cozen I would say) pray pardon me.Go fellow, get thee home, prouide some Carts,And bring away the Armour that is there.Gentlemen, will you muster men?If I know how, or which way to order these affairesThus disorderly thrust into my hands,Neuer beleeue me. Both are my kinsmen,Th' one is my Soueraigne, whom both my oathAnd dutie bids defend: th' other againeIs my kinsman, whom the King hath wrong'd,Whom conscience, and my kindred bids to right:Well, somewhat we must do: Come Cozen,Ile dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster vp your men,And meet me presently at Barkley Castle:I should to Plashy too: but time will not permit,All is vneuen, and euery thing is left at six and seuen.
Exit
Bush. The winde sits faire for newes to go to Ireland,But none returnes: For vs to leuy powerProportionable to th' enemy, is all impossible
Gr. Besides our neerenesse to the King in loue,Is neere the hate of those loue not the King
Ba. And that's the wauering Commons, for their loueLies in their purses, and who so empties them,By so much fils their hearts with deadly hate
Bush. Wherein the king stands generally condemn'dBag. If iudgement lye in them, then so do we,Because we haue beene euer neere the King
Gr. Well: I will for refuge straight to Bristoll Castle,The Earle of Wiltshire is alreadie there
Bush. Thither will I with you, for little officeWill the hatefull Commons performe for vs,Except like Curres, to teare vs all in peeces:Will you go along with vs?Bag. No, I will to Ireland to his Maiestie:Farewell, if hearts presages be not vaine,We three here part, that neu'r shall meete againe
Bu. That's as Yorke thriues to beate back BullinbrokeGr. Alas poore Duke, the taske he vndertakesIs numbring sands, and drinking Oceans drie,Where one on his side fights, thousands will flye
Bush. Farewell at once, for once, for all, and euer.Well, we may meete againe
Bag. I feare me neuer.Enter.
Scaena Tertia.
Enter the Duke of Hereford, and Northumberland.
Bul. How farre is it my Lord to Berkley now?Nor. Beleeue me noble Lord,I am a stranger heere in Gloustershire,These high wilde hilles, and rough vneeuen waies,Drawes out our miles, and makes them wearisome.And yet our faire discourse hath beene as sugar,Making the hard way sweet and delectable:But I bethinke me, what a wearie wayFrom Rauenspurgh to Cottshold will be found,In Rosse and Willoughby, wanting your companie,Which I protest hath very much beguildThe tediousnesse, and processe of my trauell:But theirs is sweetned with the hope to haueThe present benefit that I possesse;And hope to ioy, is little lesse in ioy,Then hope enioy'd: By this, the wearie LordsShall make their way seeme short, as mine hath done,By sight of what I haue, your Noble Companie
Bull. Of much lesse value is my Companie,Then your good words: but who comes here?
Enter H[arry]. Percie.
North. It is my Sonne, young Harry Percie,Sent from my Brother Worcester: Whence soeuer.Harry, how fares your Vnckle?Percie. I had thought, my Lord, to haue learn'd hishealth of you
North. Why, is he not with the Queene?Percie. No, my good Lord, he hath forsook the Court,Broken his Staffe of Office, and disperstThe Household of the King
North. What was his reason?He was not so resolu'd, when we last spake together
Percie. Because your Lordship was proclaimed Traitor.But hee, my Lord, is gone to Rauenspurgh,To offer seruice to the Duke of Hereford,And sent me ouer by Barkely, to discouerWhat power the Duke of Yorke had leuied there,Then with direction to repaire to Rauenspurgh
North. Haue you forgot the Duke of Hereford (Boy.)Percie. No, my good Lord; for that is not forgotWhich ne're I did remember: to my knowledge,I neuer in my life did looke on him
North. Then learne to know him now: this is theDuke
Percie. My gracious Lord, I tender you my seruice,Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young,Which elder dayes shall ripen, and confirmeTo more approued seruice, and desert
Bull. I thanke thee gentle Percie, and be sureI count my selfe in nothing else so happy,As in a Soule remembring my good Friends:And as my Fortune ripens with thy Loue,It shall be still thy true Loues recompence,My Heart this Couenant makes, my Hand thus seales it
North. How farre is it to Barkely? and what stirreKeepes good old Yorke there, with his Men of Warre?Percie. There stands the Castle, by yond tuft of Trees,Mann'd with three hundred men, as I haue heard,And in it are the Lords of Yorke, Barkely, and Seymor,None else of Name, and noble estimate.Enter Rosse and Willoughby.
North. Here come the Lords of Rosse and Willoughby,Bloody with spurring, fierie red with haste
Bull. Welcome my Lords, I wot your loue pursuesA banisht Traytor; all my TreasurieIs yet but vnfelt thankes, which more enrich'd,Shall be your loue, and labours recompence
Ross. Your presence makes vs rich, most Noble Lord
Willo. And farre surmounts our labour to attaine it
Bull. Euermore thankes, th' Exchequer of the poore,Which till my infant-fortune comes to yeeres,Stands for my Bountie: but who comes here?Enter Barkely.
North. It is my Lord of Barkely, as I ghesse
Bark. My Lord of Hereford, my Message is to you
Bull. My Lord, my Answere is to Lancaster,And I am come to seeke that Name in England,And I must finde that Title in your Tongue,Before I make reply to aught you say
Bark. Mistake me not, my Lord, 'tis not my meaningTo raze one Title of your Honor out.To you, my Lord, I come (what Lord you will)From the most glorious of this Land,The Duke of Yorke, to know what pricks you onTo take aduantage of the absent time,And fright our Natiue Peace with selfe-borne Armes.Enter Yorke.
Bull. I shall not need transport my words by you,Here comes his Grace in Person. My Noble Vnckle
York. Shew me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,Whose dutie is deceiuable, and false
Bull. My gracious Vnckle
York. Tut, tut, Grace me no Grace, nor Vnckle me,I am no Traytors Vnckle; and that word Grace,In an vngracious mouth, is but prophane.Why haue these banish'd, and forbidden Legges,Dar'd once to touch a Dust of Englands Ground?But more then why, why haue they dar'd to marchSo many miles vpon her peacefull Bosome,Frighting her pale-fac'd Villages with Warre,And ostentation of despised Armes?Com'st thou because th' anoynted King is hence?Why foolish Boy, the King is left behind,And in my loyall Bosome lyes his power.Were I but now the Lord of such hot youth,As when braue Gaunt, thy Father, and my selfeRescued the Black Prince, that yong Mars of men,From forth the Rankes of many thousand French:Oh then, how quickly should this Arme of mine,Now Prisoner to the Palsie, chastise thee,And minister correction to thy Fault
Bull. My gracious Vnckle, let me know my Fault,On what Condition stands it, and wherein?York. Euen in Condition of the worst degree,In grosse Rebellion, and detested Treason:Thou art a banish'd man, and here art comeBefore th' expiration of thy time,In brauing Armes against thy Soueraigne
Bull. As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford,But as I come, I come for Lancaster.And Noble Vnckle, I beseech your GraceLooke on my Wrongs with an indifferent eye:You are my Father, for me thinkes in youI see old Gaunt aliue. Oh then my Father,Will you permit, that I shall stand condemn'dA wandring Vagabond; my Rights and RoyaltiesPluckt from my armes perforce, and giuen awayTo vpstart Vnthrifts? Wherefore was I borne?If that my Cousin King, be King of England,It must be graunted, I am Duke of Lancaster.You haue a Sonne, Aumerle, my Noble Kinsman,Had you first died, and he beene thus trod downe,He should haue found his Vnckle Gaunt a Father,To rowze his Wrongs, and chase them to the bay.I am denyde to sue my Liuerie here,And yet my Letters Patents giue me leaue:My Fathers goods are all distraynd, and sold,And these, and all, are all amisse imployd.What would you haue me doe? I am a Subiect,And challenge Law: Attorneyes are deny'd me;And therefore personally I lay my claimeTo my Inheritance of free Discent