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York. How long shall I be patient? Ab, how long
Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?
Not Gloster's death, nor Hereford's banishment,
Nor Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,
Have ever made me sour my patient check,
Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face.
I am the last of noble Edward's sons,
Of whom thy father, prince of Wales, was first;
In war, was never lion rag'd more fierce,
In

peace, was never gentle lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely gentleman :
His face thou hast, for even so look'd he,
Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours;
But when he frown'd it was against the French,
And not against his friends; his noble hand
Did win what he did spend, and spent not that
Which his triumphant father's hand had won :
His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
0, Richard ! York is too far gone with grief,
Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich. Why, uncle, what's the matter?
York.

O, my liege,
Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas'd
Not to be pardon’d, am content withal.
Scek you to seize, and gripe into your hands,
The royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford ?
Is not Gaunt dead ? and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt just? and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir ?
Is not his heir a well-deserving son ?
Take Hereford's rights away, and take from time
His charters, and his customary rights;
Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day;
Be not thyself, for how art thou a king,
But by fair scqucnce and succession ?
Now, afore God (God forbid, I say true !)

Vol. IV,

2 E

If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's right,
Call in his letters-patents that he hath
By his attorneys-general to sue
His livery,' and deny his offer'd homage,
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,
You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich. Think what you will; we seize into our hands His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.

York. I'll not be by the while: My liege, farewell :
What will ensue hereof there's none can tell ;
But by bad courses may be understood,
That their events can never fall out good.

[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,
Our uncle York lord governor of England,
For he is just, and always lov'd us well.
Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of stay is short.

[Flourish. [Exeunt KING, QUELN, BUSHY, AUM., GREEN,

and BAGOT.
North. Well, lords, the duke of Lancaster is dead.
Ross. And living too ; for now his son is duke.
Willo. Barely in title, not in revenue.
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 Here-

ford ?
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
Of noble blood in this declining land.
The king is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers; and what they will inform,
Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us all,
That will the king severely prosecute
'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.

Ross. The commons hath he pillid with grievous taxes,
And quite lost their hearts: a the nobles hath he fin’d
For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.

Willo. And daily new exactions are devis’dAs 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,
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

a Steevens struck out quite from this line.
b Strike not.

To strike sail is to lower sail.

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
In Brittany, receiv'd intelligence
That Harry duke of Hereford, Reignold lord Cobham,a
That late broke from the duke of Exeter,
His brother, archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, sir John Ramston,
Sir John Norbery, sir Robert Waterton, and Francis

Quoint,
All these, well furnish'd by the duke of Bretagne,
With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And shortly mean to touch our northern shore :
Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay
The first departing of the king for Ireland.
If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke,
Imp out our drooping country's broken wing,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt,
And make high majesty look like itself,
Away with me in post to Ravenspurg:
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay and be secret, and myself will go.

Ross. To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them that fear.
Willo. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.

[Exeunt.

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 engrast-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,
And entertain a cheerful disposition.

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

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

seen:

Or if it be, 't is with false sorrow's eye,
Which, for things true, weeps things imaginary.

Queen. It may be so; but yet my inward soul
Persuades me it is otherwise : Howe'er it be,
I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad,
As—though, in thinking, on no thought I think-
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.
Bushy. T is nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.

Life-harming. So the quarto of 1597. The folio, self-harming.

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