I cannot do it; yet I know no cause,
Why I fhould welcome fuch a guest as grief;
Save bidding farewel to fo fweet a Gueft
As my fweet Richard: yet again, methinks,
Some unborn forrow, ripe in fortune's womb,
Is coming tow'rd me; and my inward foul
With nothing trembles, yet at fomething grieves,
More than with parting from my lord the King.
Bushy. Each fubftance of a grief hath twenty fhadows,
Which fhew like grief it felf, but are not fo:
For forrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire, to many objects;
Like Perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon, (4)
Shew nothing but confufion; ey'd awry,
Diftinguish form. So your fweet Majefty,
Looking awry upon your lord's departure,
Finds fhapes of grief, more than himself, to wail
Which look'd on, as it is, is nought but shadows
Of what it is not; gracious Queen, then weep not
More than your lord's departure; more's not feen ::
Or if it be, 'tis with falfe forrow's eye,
Which, for things true, weeps things imaginary..
Queen. It may be fo; but yet my inward foul
Perfuades ine otherwise: howe'er it be,
I cannot but be fad; fo heavy-fad,.
As, though, on thinking, on no thought I think, 1
(4) Like Perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon,
Shew Nothing but Confufion; ey'd awry,
Diftinguish Form.] This is a very fine Similitude, and the Thing meant is This. Amongft Mathematical Recreations, This, which your Masters in Optics amuse themselves with, holds a principal Place. They draw a Figure, in which all the Rules of Perspective are directly inverted: fo that, confequently, if held in the fame Pofition with thofe Pictures which are drawn according to the Rules of Perspective, it must present Nothing but Confufion: and to be seen in Form, and under a regular Appearance, it must be look'd upon from a contrary Station: or, as Shakespeare lays, ey'd awry. These kind of Pictures are now very common; but not fo, I believe, in our Author's Time, tho' he fo well understood their Nature. Mr.Warburton.
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.
Busby. "Tis nothing but Conceit, my gracious lady.
Queen. 'Tis nothing lefs; Conceit is ftill deriv'd
From fome fore-father grief; mine is not fo;
For nothing hath begot my fomething grief;
Or fomething hath, the nothing that I grieve;
'Tis in reverfion That I do poffefs;
But what it is, that is not yet known, what
I cannot name, 'tis nameless woe, I wot.
Green. Heav'n fave your Majefty! and well met, gentlemen:
I hope, the King is not yet fhipt for Ireland.
Queen. Why hop'ft thou fo ? 'tis better hope, he is: For his defigns crave hafte, his hafte good hope: Then wherefore doft thou hope, he is not fhipt?
Green. That he, our hope, might have retir'd his
Power;
And driv'n into defpair an enemy's Hope,
Who ftrongly hath fet footing in this Land.
The banifh'd Bolingbroke repeals himself;
And with uplifted arms is fafe arriv'd
At Ravenfpurg.
Queen. Now God in heav'n forbid!
Green. O, Madam, 'tis too true; and what is worse,
The lord Northumberland, his young fon Percy,
The lords of Rofs, Beaumond, and Willoughby,
With all their pow'rful friends, are fled to him.
Baby. Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland,
And all of that revolted faction, traitors?
Green. We have: whereon the Earl of Worcester
Hath broke his ftaff, refign'd his Stewardship;
And all the houfhold fervants fled with him
To Bolingbroke.
Queen. So, Green, thou art the midwife of my woe,
And Bolingbroke my forrow's difmal heir:
Now hath my foul brought forth her prodigy,
And I, a gasping new-deliver'd mother,
Have woe to woe, forrow to forrow, join'd.
Bufhy. Defpair not, Madam.
Queen. Who fhall hinder me?
I will defpair, and be at enmity
With cozening hope; he is a flatterer,
A parafite, a keeper back of death;
Who gently would diffolve the bands of life,
Which falfe hopes linger, in extremity.
Green. Here comes the Duke of York.
Queen. With figns of war about his aged neck;
Oh, full of careful bufinefs are his looks!
Uncle, for heav'n's fake, comfortable words.
York. Should I do fo, I fhould bely my thoughts;
Comfort's in heav'n, and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but Croffes, Care, and Grief.
Your husband he is gone to fave far off,
Whilft others come to make him lofe at home.
Here am I left to underprop this Land;
Who, weak with age, cannot fupport my felf.
Now comes the fick hour, that his furfeit made;
Now fhall he try his friends, that flatter'd him.
Serv. My lord, your fon was gone before I came. York. He was; why, fo, go all, which way it will: The Nobles they are fled, the Commons cold, And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's fide. Get thee to Plafbie, (5) to my fifter Glo'fter; Bid her fend prefently a thousand pound: Hold, take my ring.
Serv. My lord, I had forgot
To tell, to day I came by, and call'd there;
But I fhall grieve you to report the rest.
York. What is't?
(s) Get thee to Plafhie, -] The Lordship of Plafbie was a Town of the Dutchess of Gloucefter's in Effex. See Hall's Chionicle, P. 13
Serv. An hour before I came, the Dutchefs dy'd.
York. Heav'n for his mercy, what a tide of woes
Come rufhing on this woful land at once!
I know not what to do: I would to heav'n,
(So my untruth had not provok'd him to it)
The King had cut off my head with my brother's.
What, are there pofts difpatch'd for Ireland?
How fhall we do for mony for these wars?
Come, fifter; (coufin, I would fay ;) pray, pardon me.
Go, fellow, get thee home, provide fome carts,
[To the Servant.
And bring away the armour that is there.
Gentlemen, will you go and mufter men?
If I know how to order these affairs,
Disorderly thus thruft into my hands,
Never believe me. They are both my kinfmen;
The one my Sovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bids defend; th' other again
My kinfman is, One whom the King hath wrong'd;
Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.
Well, fomewhat we must do: come, coufin, I'll
Difpofe of you. Go mufter up your men,
And meet me presently at Berkley castle :
I fhould to Plafbie too;
But time will not permit. All is uneven,
And every thing is left at fix and feven.
Busby. The wind fits fair for news to go to Ireland, But none returns; for us to levy Power,
Proportionable to the enemy,
Is all impoffible.
Green. Befides, our Nearness to the King in Love Is near the Hate of thofe, love not the King.
Bagot. And that's the wav'ring Commons, for their love
Lies in their purfes; and who empties them,
By fo much fills their hearts with deadly hate.
Busby. Wherein the King ftands generally condemn'd.
Bagot. If judgment lye in them, then fo do we;
Because we have been ever near the King.
Green. Well; I'll for Refuge ftrait to Bristol-caftle; The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.
Bufby. 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 with us?
Bagot. No: I'll to Ireland to his Majefty.
Farewel: If heart's Prefages be not vain,
We three here part, that ne'er fhall meet again.
Busby. That's as York thrives, to beat back Boling-
broke.
Green. Alas, poor Duke! the task he undertakes Is numb'ring fands, and drinking oceans dry; Where one on his fide fights, thousands will flye. Busby. Farewel at once, for once, for all, and ever. Green. Well, we may meet again.
SCENE changes to a wild Profpect in Glocefterfhire.
Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland.
Boling.TOW far is it, my lord, to Berkley now?
North. I am a ftranger here in Gloftershire:
These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
Draw out our miles, and make them wearifome:
And yet your fair discourse has been as fugar,
Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
But, I bethink me, what a weary way,
From Ravenfpurg to Cothold, will be found
In Rofs and Willoughby, wanting your Company;
Which, I proteft, hath very much beguil'd
The tedioufnefs and procefs of my travel:
But theirs is fweetned with the hope to have
The present benefit that I poffefs:
And hope to joy, is little lefs in joy,
Than hope enjoy'd. By this, the weary lords
Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done, fight of what I have, your noble company.
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