Pand. You looke but on the out-side of this worke
Dol. Out-side or in-side, I will not returneTill my attempt so much be glorified,As to my ample hope was promised,Before I drew this gallant head of warre,And cull'd these fiery spirits from the worldTo out-looke Conquest, and to winne renowneEuen in the iawes of danger, and of death:What lusty Trumpet thus doth summon vs?Enter Bastard.
Bast. According to the faire-play of the world,Let me haue audience: I am sent to speake:My holy Lord of Millane, from the KingI come to learne how you haue dealt for him:And, as you answer, I doe know the scopeAnd warrant limited vnto my tongue
Pand. The Dolphin is too wilfull oppositeAnd will not temporize with my intreaties:He flatly saies, hee'll not lay downe his Armes
Bast. By all the bloud that euer fury breath'd,The youth saies well. Now heare our English King,For thus his Royaltie doth speake in me:He is prepar'd, and reason to he should,This apish and vnmannerly approach,This harness'd Maske, and vnaduised Reuell,This vn-heard sawcinesse and boyish Troopes,The King doth smile at, and is well prepar'dTo whip this dwarfish warre, this Pigmy ArmesFrom out the circle of his Territories.That hand which had the strength, euen at your dore,To cudgell you, and make you take the hatch,To diue like Buckets in concealed Welles,To crowch in litter of your stable plankes,To lye like pawnes, lock'd vp in chests and truncks,To hug with swine, to seeke sweet safety outIn vaults and prisons, and to thrill and shake,Euen at the crying of your Nations crow,Thinking this voyce an armed Englishman.Shall that victorious hand be feebled heere,That in your Chambers gaue you chasticement?No: know the gallant Monarch is in Armes,And like an Eagle, o're his ayerie towres,To sowsse annoyance that comes neere his Nest;And you degenerate, you ingrate Reuolts,You bloudy Nero's, ripping vp the wombeOf your deere Mother-England: blush for shame:For your owne Ladies, and pale-visag'd Maides,Like Amazons, come tripping after drummes:Their thimbles into armed Gantlets change,Their Needl's to Lances, and their gentle heartsTo fierce and bloody inclination
Dol. There end thy braue, and turn thy face in peace,We grant thou canst out-scold vs: Far thee well,We hold our time too precious to be spentwith such a brabler
Pan. Giue me leaue to speake
Bast. No, I will speake
Dol. We will attend to neyther:Strike vp the drummes, and let the tongue of warrePleade for our interest, and our being heere
Bast. Indeede your drums being beaten, wil cry out;And so shall you, being beaten: Do but startAn eccho with the clamor of thy drumme,And euen at hand, a drumme is readie brac'd,That shall reuerberate all, as lowd as thine.Sound but another, and another shall(As lowd as thine) rattle the Welkins eare,And mocke the deepe mouth'd Thunder: for at hand(Not trusting to this halting Legate heere,Whom he hath vs'd rather for sport, then neede)Is warlike Iohn: and in his fore-head sitsA bare-rib'd death, whose office is this dayTo feast vpon whole thousands of the French
Dol. Strike vp our drummes, to finde this danger out
Bast. And thou shalt finde it (Dolphin) do not doubt
Exeunt.
Scaena Tertia.
Alarums. Enter Iohn and Hubert.
Iohn. How goes the day with vs? oh tell me Hubert
Hub. Badly I feare; how fares your Maiesty?Iohn. This Feauer that hath troubled me so long,Lyes heauie on me: oh, my heart is sicke.Enter a Messenger.
Mes. My Lord: your valiant kinsman Falconbridge,Desires your Maiestie to leaue the field,And send him word by me, which way you go
Iohn. Tell him toward Swinsted, to the Abbey there
Mes. Be of good comfort: for the great supplyThat was expected by the Dolphin heere,Are wrack'd three nights ago on Goodwin sands.This newes was brought to Richard but euen now,The French fight coldly, and retyre themselues
Iohn. Aye me, this tyrant Feauer burnes mee vp,And will not let me welcome this good newes.Set on toward Swinsted: to my Litter straight,Weaknesse possesseth me, and I am faint.
Exeunt.
Scena Quarta.
Enter Salisbury, Pembroke, and Bigot.
Sal. I did not thinke the King so stor'd with friends
Pem. Vp once againe: put spirit in the French,If they miscarry: we miscarry too
Sal. That misbegotten diuell Falconbridge,In spight of spight, alone vpholds the day
Pem. They say King Iohn sore sick, hath left the field.Enter Meloon wounded.
Mel. Lead me to the Reuolts of England heere
Sal. When we were happie, we had other names
Pem. It is the Count Meloone
Sal. Wounded to death
Mel. Fly Noble English, you are bought and sold,Vnthred the rude eye of Rebellion,And welcome home againe discarded faith,Seeke out King Iohn, and fall before his feete:For if the French be Lords of this loud day,He meanes to recompence the paines you take,By cutting off your heads: Thus hath he sworne,And I with him, and many moe with mee,Vpon the Altar at S[aint]. Edmondsbury,Euen on that Altar, where we swore to youDeere Amity, and euerlasting loue
Sal. May this be possible? May this be true?Mel. Haue I not hideous death within my view,Retaining but a quantity of life,Which bleeds away, euen as a forme of waxeResolueth from his figure 'gainst the fire?What in the world should make me now deceiue,Since I must loose the vse of all deceite?Why should I then be false, since it is trueThat I must dye heere, and liue hence, by Truth?I say againe, if Lewis do win the day,He is forsworne, if ere those eyes of yoursBehold another day breake in the East:But euen this night, whose blacke contagious breathAlready smoakes about the burning CrestOf the old, feeble, and day-wearied Sunne,Euen this ill night, your breathing shall expire,Paying the fine of rated Treachery,Euen with a treacherous fine of all your liues:If Lewis, by your assistance win the day.Commend me to one Hubert, with your King;The loue of him, and this respect besides(For that my Grandsire was an Englishman)Awakes my Conscience to confesse all this.In lieu whereof, I pray you beare me henceFrom forth the noise and rumour of the Field;Where I may thinke the remnant of my thoughtsIn peace: and part this bodie and my souleWith contemplation, and deuout desires
Sal. We do beleeue thee, and beshrew my soule,But I do loue the fauour, and the formeOf this most faire occasion, by the whichWe will vntread the steps of damned flight,And like a bated and retired Flood,Leauing our ranknesse and irregular course,Stoope lowe within those bounds we haue ore-look'd,And calmely run on in obedienceEuen to our Ocean, to our great King Iohn.My arme shall giue thee helpe to beare thee hence,For I do see the cruell pangs of deathRight in thine eye. Away, my friends, new flight,And happie newnesse, that intends old right.
Exeunt.
Scena Quinta.
Enter Dolphin, and his Traine.
Dol. The Sun of heauen (me thought) was loth to set;But staid, and made the Westerne Welkin blush,When English measure backward their owne groundIn faint Retire: Oh brauely came we off,When with a volley of our needlesse shot,After such bloody toile, we bid good night,And woon'd our tott'ring colours clearly vp,Last in the field, and almost Lords of it.Enter a Messenger.
Mes. Where is my Prince, the Dolphin?Dol. Heere: what newes?Mes. The Count Meloone is slaine: The English LordsBy his perswasion, are againe falne off,And your supply, which you haue wish'd so long,Are cast away, and sunke on Goodwin sands
Dol. Ah fowle, shrew'd newes. Beshrew thy very hart:I did not thinke to be so sad to nightAs this hath made me. Who was he that saidKing Iohn did flie an houre or two beforeThe stumbling night did part our wearie powres?Mes. Who euer spoke it, it is true my Lord
Dol. Well: keepe good quarter, & good care to night,The day shall not be vp so soone as I,To try the faire aduenture of to morrow.
Exeunt.
Scena Sexta.
Enter Bastard and Hubert, seuerally.
Hub. Whose there? Speake hoa, speake quickely, orI shoote
Bast. A Friend. What art thou?Hub. Of the part of England
Bast. Whether doest thou go?Hub. What's that to thee?Why may not I demand of thine affaires,As well as thou of mine?Bast. Hubert, I thinke
Hub. Thou hast a perfect thought:I will vpon all hazards well beleeueThou art my friend, that know'st my tongue so well:Who art thou?Bast. Who thou wilt: and if thou pleaseThou maist be-friend me so much, as to thinkeI come one way of the Plantagenets
Hub. Vnkinde remembrance: thou, & endles night,Haue done me shame: Braue Soldier, pardon me,That any accent breaking from thy tongue,Should scape the true acquaintance of mine eare
Bast. Come, come: sans complement, What newesabroad?Hub. Why heere walke I in the black brow of nightTo finde you out
Bast. Breefe then: and what's the newes?Hub. O my sweet sir, newes fitting to the night,Blacke, fearefull, comfortlesse, and horrible
Bast. Shew me the very wound of this ill newes,I am no woman, Ile not swound at it
Hub. The King I feare is poyson'd by a Monke,I left him almost speechlesse, and broke outTo acquaint you with this euill, that you mightThe better arme you to the sodaine time,Then if you had at leisure knowne of this
Bast. How did he take it? Who did taste to him?Hub. A Monke I tell you, a resolued villaineWhose Bowels sodainly burst out: The KingYet speakes, and peraduenture may recouer
Bast. Who didst thou leaue to tend his Maiesty?Hub. Why know you not? The Lords are all comebacke,And brought Prince Henry in their companie,At whose request the king hath pardon'd them,And they are all about his Maiestie
Bast. With-hold thine indignation, mighty heauen,And tempt vs not to beare aboue our power.Ile tell thee Hubert, halfe my power this nightPassing these Flats, are taken by the Tide,These Lincolne-Washes haue deuoured them,My selfe, well mounted, hardly haue escap'd.Away before: Conduct me to the king,I doubt he will be dead, or ere I come.
Exeunt.
Scena Septima.
Enter Prince Henry, Salisburie, and Bigot.
Hen. It is too late, the life of all his bloodIs touch'd, corruptibly: and his pure braine(Which some suppose the soules fraile dwelling house)Doth by the idle Comments that it makes,Fore-tell the ending of mortality.Enter Pembroke.
Pem. His Highnesse yet doth speak, & holds beleefe,That being brought into the open ayre,It would allay the burning qualitieOf that fell poison which assayleth him
Hen. Let him be brought into the Orchard heere:Doth he still rage?Pem. He is more patientThen when you left him; euen now he sung
Hen. Oh vanity of sicknesse: fierce extreamesIn their continuance, will not feele themselues.Death hauing praide vpon the outward partsLeaues them inuisible, and his seige is nowAgainst the winde, the which he prickes and woundsWith many legions of strange fantasies,Which in their throng, and presse to that last hold,Counfound themselues. 'Tis strange y death shold sing:I am the Symet to this pale faint Swan,Who chaunts a dolefull hymne to his owne death,And from the organ-pipe of frailety singsHis soule and body to their lasting rest
Sal. Be of good comfort (Prince) for you are borneTo set a forme vpon that indigestWhich he hath left so shapelesse, and so rude.
Iohn brought in.
Iohn. I marrie, now my soule hath elbow roome,It would not out at windowes, nor at doores,There is so hot a summer in my bosome,That all my bowels crumble vp to dust:I am a scribled forme drawne with a penVpon a Parchment, and against this fireDo I shrinke vp
Hen. How fares your Maiesty?Ioh. Poyson'd, ill fare: dead, forsooke, cast off,And none of you will bid the winter comeTo thrust his ycie fingers in my maw;Nor let my kingdomes Riuers take their courseThrough my burn'd bosome: nor intreat the NorthTo make his bleake windes kisse my parched lips,And comfort me with cold. I do not aske you much,I begge cold comfort: and you are so straightAnd so ingratefull, you deny me that
Hen. Oh that there were some vertue in my teares,That might releeue you
Iohn. The salt in them is hot.Within me is a hell, and there the poysonIs, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize,On vnrepreeuable condemned blood.Enter Bastard.
Bast. Oh, I am scalded with my violent motionAnd spleene of speede, to see your Maiesty
Iohn. Oh Cozen, thou art come to set mine eye:The tackle of my heart, is crack'd and burnt,And all the shrowds wherewith my life should saile,Are turned to one thred, one little haire:My heart hath one poore string to stay it by,Which holds but till thy newes be vttered,And then all this thou seest, is but a clod,And module of confounded royalty
Bast. The Dolphin is preparing hither-ward,Where heauen he knowes how we shall answer him.For in a night the best part of my powre,As I vpon aduantage did remoue,Were in the Washes all vnwarily,Deuoured by the vnexpected flood
Sal. You breath these dead newes in as dead an eareMy Liege, my Lord: but now a King, now thus
Hen. Euen so must I run on, and euen so stop.What surety of the world, what hope, what stay,When this was now a King, and now is clay?Bast. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behinde,To do the office for thee, of reuenge,And then my soule shall waite on thee to heauen,As it on earth hath bene thy seruant still.Now, now you Starres, that moue in your right spheres,Where be your powres? Shew now your mended faiths,And instantly returne with me againe.To push destruction, and perpetuall shameOut of the weake doore of our fainting Land:Straight let vs seeke, or straight we shall be sought,The Dolphine rages at our verie heeles
Sal. It seemes you know not then so much as we,The Cardinall Pandulph is within at rest,Who halfe an houre since came from the Dolphin,And brings from him such offers of our peace,As we with honor and respect may take,With purpose presently to leaue this warre
Bast. He will the rather do it, when he seesOur selues well sinew'd to our defence
Sal. Nay, 'tis in a manner done already,For many carriages hee hath dispatch'dTo the sea side, and put his cause and quarrellTo the disposing of the Cardinall,With whom your selfe, my selfe, and other Lords,If you thinke meete, this afternoone will poastTo consummate this businesse happily
Bast. Let it be so, and you my noble Prince,With other Princes that may best be spar'd,Shall waite vpon your Fathers Funerall
Hen. At Worster must his bodie be interr'd,For so he will'd it
Bast. Thither shall it then,And happily may your sweet selfe put onThe lineall state, and glorie of the Land,To whom with all submission on my knee,I do bequeath my faithfull seruicesAnd true subiection euerlastingly
Sal. And the like tender of our loue wee makeTo rest without a spot for euermore
Hen. I haue a kinde soule, that would giue thankes,And knowes not how to do it, but with teares
Bast. Oh let vs pay the time: but needfull woe,Since it hath beene before hand with our greefes.This England neuer did, nor neuer shallLye at the proud foote of a Conqueror,But when it first did helpe to wound it selfe.Now, these her Princes are come home againe,Come the three corners of the world in Armes,And we shall shocke them: Naught shall make vs rue,If England to it selfe, do rest but true.
Exeunt.
The life and death of King Iohn.
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