SCENE VII. Enter York. Green. Here comes the Duke of York. Queen. With figns of war about his aged neck; York. Should I do fo, I fhould bely my thoughts; Enter a Servant. 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 Plathie, to my fifter Glo'fter Bid her fend presently a thousand pound : Hold, take my ring. Serv. My Lord, I had forgot To tell, to-day I came by, and call'd there; Serv. An hour before I came the Duchefs dy'd. And bring away the armour that is there. Disorderly SCENE VI. Enter Green. Green. Heav'n fave your Majefty! and well met, I hope the King is not yet fhipp'd for Ireland. 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. Busby. Why have you not proclaim'd NorthumberAnd all of that revolted faction, traitors? [land, Green. We have: whereon the Earl of Worcester To Bolingbroke. Queen. So, Green, thou art the midwife of my woe, And Bolingbroke my forrow's difmal heiṛ. Now hath my foul brought forth her prodigy, And I, a gafping new-deliver'd mother, Have woe to woe, forrow to forrow join'd. Queen. Who fhall hinder me ? Who gently would diffolve the bands of life, Or fomething bath the nothing that I grieve; 'Tis in reverfion that I do pofleis; But what it is, that is not yet known, what SCENE, &c. SCENE SCENE VII. Enter York. Green. Here comes the Duke of York. Queen. With figns of war about his aged neck; 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 hufband he is gone to fave far off, Whilft others come to make him lofe at home. Enter a Servant. 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. Serv. My Lord, I had forgot To tell, to-day I came by, and call'd there; Tork. What is't? Serv. An hour before I came the Duchefs 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) And bring away the armour that is there. Disorderly Disorderly thus thrust into my hands, Never believe me. They are both my kinfmen; My kinfman is, one whom the King hath wrong'd; But time will not permit. All is uneven, And every thing is left at fix and feven. [Exeunt York and Queen. Bushy. 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 those love not the King. Bagot. And that's the wav'ring Commons; for their Lies in their purfes; and who empties them, [love By fo much fills their hearts with deadly hate. 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 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. Bushy. That's as York thrives, to beat back Bolingbroke. Green. Alas, poor Duke! the task he undertakes Is numb'ring fands, and drinking oceans dry; Where one on his fide fights, thoufands will fly. Bushy. Farewel at once, for once, for all, and ever. Changes to a wild prospect in Gloucestershire. Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland. Boling. How far is it, my Lord, to Berkley now? North. I am a ftranger here in Glo'stershire : These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways, Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome : 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 Ravenspurg to Cotfhold, 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 fweet'ned with the hope to have The prefent benefit that I poffefs : And hope to joy, is little less in joy Than hope enjoy'd. By this the weary Lords North. It is my fon, young Harry Percy, Percy. I thought, my Lord, t'have learn'd his health [of you. Percy. No, my good Lord, he hath forfook the court, Broken his ftaff of office, and difpers'd The houshold of the King. North. What was his reafon ? He was not fo refolv'd when laft we fpake together. E What |