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 some thing 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, glazèd with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects;
Like pérspectives, which, rightly gazed upon,
Show nothing but confusion,-eyed 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, 'tis 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. 'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious
lady.

Queen. 'Tis nothing less: conceit is still derived
From some forefather grief; mine is not so;
For nothing hath begot my something grief;
Or something hath the nothing that I grieve;
'Tis in reversion that I do possess ;

But what it is, that is not yet known; what
I cannot name; 'tis nameless woe, I wot.

Enter GREEN.

Green. Heaven save your majesty !—and well met, gentlemen,

I hope the king is not yet shipp'd for Ireland. Queen. Why hop'st thou so? 'tis better hope he is ;

For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope;

Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp'd? Green. That he, our hope, might have retired

his power,

And driven into despair an enemy's hope,
Who strongly hath set footing in this land:
The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself,
And with uplifted arms is safe arrived

At Ravenspurg.

Queen.

Now God in heaven forbid ! Green. O, madam, 'tis too true; and, that is

worse,―

The Lord Northumberland, his young son Henry Percy,

The lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, With all their powerful friends, are fled to him. Bushy. Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland

And all the rest of the revolted faction, traitors? Green. We have: whereon the earl of Wor

cester

Hath broke his staff, resigned his stewardship, And all the household servants fled with him To Bolingbroke.

Queen. So, Green, thou art the midwife of my

woe,

And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir:

Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy;

And I, a gasping new-deliver'd mother,
Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow, join'd.
Bushy. Despair not, madam.

Queen.

Who shall hinder me?

I will despair, and be at enmity

With cozening hope; he is a flatterer,
A parasite, a keeper back of death,

Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,
Which false hope lingers in extremity.

Enter YORK.

Green. Here comes the duke of York. Queen. With signs of war about his agèd neck; O, full of careful business are his looks! Uncle,

For heaven's sake, speak comfortable words. York. Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts:

Comfort's in heaven; and we are on the earth, Where nothing lives, but crosses, cares, and grief. Your husband he is gone to save far off,

Whilst others come to make him lose at home: Here am I left to underprop his land;

Who, weak with age, cannot support myself: Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made; Now shall he try his friends that flatter'd him.

Enter a Servant.

Serv. My lord, your son was gone before I

came.

York. He was?-Why so !-go all which way it will !

The nobles they are fled, the commons they are

cold,

And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloster ;

Bid her send me presently a thousand pound : Hold, take my ring.

Serv. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship,

To-day, as I came by, I called there ;

But I shall grieve you to report the rest.
York. What is it, knave?

Serv. An hour before I came, the duchess died.
York. Heaven for His mercy! what a tide of

woes

Comes rushing on this woeful land at once!
I know not what to do :-I would to heaven
(So my untruth had not provoked him to it,)
The king had cut off my head with my brother's.
What, are there posts dispatch'd for İreland?—
How shall we do for money for these wars?—
Come, sister,-cousin, I would say: pray, par-
don me.-

[To the Servant.] Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts,

And bring away the armour that is there.—
[Exit Servant.
Gentlemen, will you go muster men? if I know
How, or which way, to order these affairs,
Thus thrust disorderly into my hands,
Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen ;-
The one is my sovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bids defend; the other again

Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong'd,
Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.
Well, somewhat we must do.-Come, cousin,
I'll

Dispose of you.—

Gentlemen, go muster up your men,

And meet me presently at Berkley castle.
I should to Plashy too ;-

But time will not permit :-all is uneven,
And every thing is left at six-and-seven.

[Exeunt YORK and QUEEN.

Bushy. The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,

But none returns.

For us to levy power,

Proportionable to the enemy,
Is all unpossible.

Green. Besides, our nearness to the king in love, Is near the hate of those love not the king.

Bagot. And that's the wavering commons: for their love

Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them, By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate. Bushy. Wherein the king stands generally condemn'd.

Bagot. If judgment lie in them, then so do

we,

Because we have been ever near the king.

Green. Well, I'll for refuge straight to Bristol castle;

The earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy. Thither will I with you; for little office The hateful commons will perform for us; Except, like curs, to tear us all in pieces.— Will you go along with us?

Bagot. No; I will to Ireland to his majesty. Farewell: if heart's presages be not vain,

We three here part, that ne'er shall meet again. Bushy. That's as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.

Green. Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes

Is numbering sands, and drinking oceans dry; Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly. Farewell at once; for once, for all, and ever.