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King Richard II · Chapter 2Part 2

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Gau. The sullen passage of thy weary steppes Esteeme a soyle, wherein thou art to set The precious Iewell of thy home returne

Bul. Oh who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frostie Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite, By bare imagination of a Feast? Or Wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantasticke summers heate? Oh no, the apprehension of the good Giues but the greater feeling to the worse: Fell sorrowes tooth, doth euer ranckle more Then when it bites, but lanceth not the sore

Gau. Come, come (my son) Ile bring thee on thy way Had 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 wind Which then grew bitterly against our face, Awak'd the sleepie rhewme, and so by chance Did 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 tongue Should so prophane the word, that taught me craft To 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 Greene Obseru'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 Liege Ere further leysure, yeeld them further meanes For 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 vs For our affayres in hand: if that come short Our 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 haste To 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 Coates To 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 last In 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 men Inforce 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 close As 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 sounds As praises of his state: then there are found Lasciuious Meeters, to whose venom sound The open eare of youth doth alwayes listen. Report of fashions in proud Italy, Whose manners still our tardie apish Nation Limpes 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 Iury Of 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 siedge Of 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, and Willoughby.

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 cure Of 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 admonition Make pale our cheeke, chasing the Royall blood With 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 words To wayward sicklinesse, and age in him: He loues you on my life, and holds you deere As 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 your Maiestie

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

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

Rich. The ripest fruit first fals, and so doth he, His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be: So much for that. Now for our Irish warres, We must supplant those rough rug-headed Kernes, Which liue like venom, where no venom else But onely they, haue priuiledge to liue. And for these great affayres do aske some charge Towards our assistance, we do seize to vs The plate, coine, reuennewes, and moueables, Whereof our Vncle Gaunt did stand possest

Yor. How long shall I be patient? Oh how long Shall tender dutie make me suffer wrong? Not Glousters death, nor Herfords banishment, Nor Gauntes rebukes, nor Englands priuate wrongs, Nor the preuention of poore Bullingbrooke, About his marriage, nor my owne disgrace Haue euer made me sowre my patient cheeke, Or bend one wrinckle on my Soueraignes face: I am the last of 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 he Accomplish'd with the number of thy howers: But when he frown'd, it was against the French, And not against his friends: his noble hand Did win what he did spend: and spent not that Which his triumphant fathers hand had won: His hands were guilty of no kindreds blood, But 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 not I pleas'd not to be pardon'd, am content with all: Seeke you to seize, and gripe into your hands The Royalties and Rights of banish'd Herford? Is not Gaunt dead? and doth not Herford liue? Was not Gaunt iust? and is not Harry true? Did not the one deserue to haue an heyre? Is not his heyre a well-deseruing sonne? Take Herfords rights away, and take from time His Charters, and his customarie rights: Let not to morrow then insue to day, Be not thy selfe. For how art thou a King But by faire sequence and succession? Now afore God, God forbid I say true, If you do wrongfully seize Herfords right, Call in his Letters Patents that he hath By his Atturneyes generall, to sue His Liuerie, and denie his offer'd homage, You plucke a thousand dangers on your head, You loose a thousand well-disposed hearts, And pricke my tender patience to those thoughts Which honor and allegeance cannot thinke

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

Yor. Ile not be by the while: My Liege farewell, What will ensue heereof, there's none can tell. But by bad courses may be vnderstood, That their euents can neuer fall out good. Enter.

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

Flourish.

Manet North. Willoughby, & Ross.

Nor. Well Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead

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

Wil. Barely in 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 more That speakes thy words againe to do thee harme

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

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

Nor. Now afore heauen, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne. In him a royall Prince, and many moe Of noble blood in this declining Land; The King is not himselfe, but basely led By Flatterers, and what they will informe Meerely in hate 'gainst any of vs all, That will the King seuerely prosecute 'Gainst vs, our liues, our children, and our heires

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

Wil. And daily new exactions are deuis'd, As blankes, beneuolences, and I wot not what: But what o' 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 now For suffering so the causes of our wracke

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

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

Nor. Then thus: I haue from Port le Blan A Bay in Britaine, receiu'd intelligence, That Harry Duke of Herford, Rainald Lord Cobham, That late broke from the Duke of Exeter, His brother Archbishop, late of Canterbury, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir Iohn Rainston, Sir Iohn Norberie, & Sir Robert Waterton, & Francis Quoint, All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Britaine, With eight tall ships, three thousand men of warre Are making hither with all due expedience, And shortly meane to touch our Northerne 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 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 selfe I cannot do it: yet I know no cause Why I should welcome such a guest as greefe, Saue bidding farewell to so sweet a guest As my sweet Richard; yet againe me thinkes, Some vnborne sorrow, ripe in fortunes wombe Is comming towards me, and my inward soule With nothing trembles, at something it greeues, More then with parting from my Lord the King

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

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

Bush. 'Tis nothing but conceit (my gracious Lady.) Qu. 'Tis nothing lesse: conceit is still deriu'd From some fore-father greefe, mine is not so, For nothing hath begot my something greefe, Or something, hath the nothing that I greeue, 'Tis in reuersion that I do possesse, But what it is, that is not yet knowne, what I cannot name, 'tis namelesse woe I wot. 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'd At 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 Northumberland And the rest of the reuolted faction, Traitors? Gre. We haue: whereupon the Earle of Worcester Hath broke his staffe, resign'd his Stewardship, And al the houshold seruants fled with him to Bullinbrook Qu. 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 enmitie With 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 forgot To 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 woes Come 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 affaires Thus disorderly thrust into my hands, Neuer beleeue me. Both are my kinsmen, Th' one is my Soueraigne, whom both my oath And dutie bids defend: th' other againe Is 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 power Proportionable 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 loue Lies in their purses, and who so empties them, By so much fils their hearts with deadly hate

Bush. Wherein the king stands generally condemn'd Bag. 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 office Will 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 Bullinbroke Gr. Alas poore Duke, the taske he vndertakes Is 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 way From Rauenspurgh to Cottshold will be found, In Rosse and Willoughby, wanting your companie, Which I protest hath very much beguild The tediousnesse, and processe of my trauell: But theirs is sweetned with the hope to haue The present benefit that I possesse; And hope to ioy, is little lesse in ioy, Then hope enioy'd: By this, the wearie Lords Shall 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 his health 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 disperst The 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 discouer What 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 forgot Which 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 the Duke

Percie. My gracious Lord, I tender you my seruice, Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young, Which elder dayes shall ripen, and confirme To more approued seruice, and desert

Bull. I thanke thee gentle Percie, and be sure I 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 stirre Keepes 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 pursues A banisht Traytor; all my Treasurie Is 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 meaning To 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 on To take aduantage of the absent time, And fright our Natiue Peace with selfe-borne Armes. Enter Yorke.