York. How long shall I be patient? Ah, how long Not Gloster's death, nor Hereford's banishment, About his marriage, nor my own disgrace, Of whom thy father, prince of Wales, was first; O, my liege, Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas'd Is not his heir a well-deserving son? Take Hereford's rights away, and take from time VOL. IV. 2 E If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's right, His livery,' and deny his offer'd homage, You pluck a thousand dangers on your head, K. Rich. Think what you will; we seize into our hands His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands. York. I'll not be by the while: My liege, farewell : That their events can never fall out good. [Exit. K. Rich. Go, Bushy, to the earl of Wiltshire straight; Bid him repair to us to Ely-house To see this business: To-morrow next We will for Ireland; and 't is time, I trow; And we create, in absence of ourself, Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [Flourish. [Exeunt KING, QUEEN, BUSHY, Aum., Green, North. Well, lords, the duke of Lancaster is dead. North. Richly in both, if justice had her right. Ross. My heart is great; but it must break with silence, Ere 't be disburthen'd with a liberal tongue. North. Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more That speaks thy words again to do thee harm! Willo. Tends that thou 'dst speak to the duke of Hereford? If it be so, out with it boldly, man; Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him. Ross. No good at all that I can do for him ; Unless you call it good to pity him, Bereft and gelded of his patrimony. North. Now, afore heaven, 't is shame such wrongs are borne, In him a royal prince, and many more That will the king severely prosecute 'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs. Ross. The commons hath he pill'd with grievous taxes, And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fin'd For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts. Willo. And daily new exactions are devis’d— As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what; But what, o' God's name, doth become of this? North. Wars have not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not, But basely yielded upon compromise That which his ancestors achiev'd with blows: More hath he spent in peace than they in wars. Ross. The earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm. Willo. The king's grown bankrupt, like a broken man. North. Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him. Ross. He hath not money for these Irish wars, His burthenous taxations notwithstanding, But by the robbing of the banish'd duke. North. His noble kinsman: most degenerate king! But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing, Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm: We see the wind sit sore upon our sails, b And yet we strike not, but securely perish. Ross. We see the very wrack that we must suffer; And unavoided is the danger now, For suffering so the causes of our wrack. North. Not so; even through the hollow eyes of death I spy life peering; but I dare not say How near the tidings of our comfort is. Willo. Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours. Ross. Be confident to speak, Northumberland : We three are but thyself; and, speaking so, Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore, be bold. North. Then thus:-I have from Port le Blanc, a bay That Harry duke of Hereford, Reignold lord Cobham,a Sir Thomas Erpingham, sir John Ramston, Sir John Norbery, sir Robert Waterton, and Francis All these, well furnish'd by the duke of Bretagne, Stay and be secret, and myself will go. Ross. To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them that fear. Willo. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there. [Exeunt. a We print this line according to the old copies. Modern editors have omitted duke of. b Imp out. To imp a hawk was artificially to supply such wing feathers as were dropped or forced out by accident. To imp is to engraft-to insert. SCENE II. -The same. A Room in the Palace. Enter QUEEN, BUSHY, and BAGOT. Bushy. Madam, your majesty is too much sad: You promis'd, when you parted with the king, To lay aside life-harming a heaviness, а And entertain a cheerful disposition. Queen. To please the king, I did; to please myself, Why I should welcome such a guest as grief, Bushy. Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows, seen: Or if it be, 't is with false sorrow's eye, Which, for things true, weeps things imaginary. I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad, As though, in thinking, on no thought I think— Bushy. 'T is nothing but conceit, my gracious lady. a Life-harming. So the quarto of 1597. The folio, self-harming. |