Uncle,

For heaven's fake, fpeak comfortable words.
York. Should I do fo, I should belie my thoughts:
Comfort's in heaven; 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 his land;

Who, weak with age, cannot fupport myself:-
Now comes the fick hour that his furfeit made;
Now fhall he try his friends that flatter'd him.
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.
Sirrah,

Get thee to Plafhy, to my fifter Glofter;
Bid her fend me prefently a thousand pound :-
Hold, take my ring.

Serv. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lord. fhip:

To-day, as I came by, I call'd there ;

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

Serv. An hour before I came, the duchefs died.
York. God for his mercy! what a tide of woes
Comes rufhing on this woeful land at once!
I know not what to do:-I would to God,
(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 defpatch'd for Ireland ?-
How fhall we do for money for these wars ?-

Come, fifter, coufin, I would fay: pray, pardon

ine.

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

And bring away the armour that is there.

[Exit Servant.
Gentlemen, will you go mufter men? if I know
How, or which way, to order these affairs,
Thus thruft diforderly into my hands,
Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen ;-
The one's my fovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bids defend; the other again,
Is my kinfman, whom the king hath wrong'd;
Whom confcience and my kindred bids to right.
Well, fomewhat we muft do.-Come, coufin, I'll
Difpofe of you:-Go, mufter up your men,
And meet me prefently at Berkley-castle.
I fhould to Plashy too:

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

[Exeunt YORK and Queen. Busby. The wind fits fair for news to go to Ire

land,

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 wavering commons: for their love

Lies in their purfes; and whofo empties them, By fo much fills their hearts with deadly hate. Buby. Wherein the king ftands generally con

demn'd.

Bagot. If judgement lie in them, then fo do we, Because we ever have been near the king.

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

The earl of Wiltfhire 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 to pieces.Will you go along with us?

Bagot. No; I'll to Ireland to his majesty. Farewell if heart's perfages be not vain, We three here part, that ne'er fhall meet again. Buby. That's as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.

Green. Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes I-numb'ring fands, and drinking oceans dry; Where one on his fide fights, thousands will fly. Busby. Farewell at once; for once, for all, and

The Wilds in Gloftershire.

Enter BOLINGBROKE and NORTHUMBERLAND, with

Forces.

Boling. How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now?
North. Believe me, noble lord,

I am a ftranger here in Gloftershire.

Thefe high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
Draw out our miles, and make them wearifome;
And yet your fair difcourfe hath been as fugar,
Making the hard way sweet and délectable.
But, I bethink me, what a weary way
From Ravenfpurg to Cotfwold, 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:

Aa II. But theirs is sweeten'd with the hope to have The prefent benefit which I poffefs: And hope to joy, is little lefs in joy,

Than hope' enjoy'd: by this the weary lords Shall make their way feem fhort; as mine hath done By fight of what I have, your noble company. Boling. Of much lefs value is my company, Than your good words. But who comes here? Enter HARRY PERCY.

North. It is my fon, young Harry Percy, Sent from my brother Worcester, whencefoever.Harry, how fares your uncle?

Percy. I had thought, my lord, to have learn'd his health of you.

North. Why, is he not with the queen?

Percy. No, my good lord; he hath forfook the

court,

Broken his staff of office, and difpers'd

The household of the king.

North.

What was his reason?

He was not fo refolv'd, when laft we fpake toge

ther.

Percy. Because your lordship was proclaimed

traitor.

But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenfpurg,
To offer fervice to the duke of Hereford;
And fent me o'er by Berkley, to discover
What power the duke of York had levied there;
Then with direction to repair to Ravenfpurg.
North. Have you forgot the duke of Hereford,
boy?

Percy. No, my good lord; for that is not for
got,
Which ne'er I did remember: to my knowledge,
I never in my life did look on him.

North. Then learn to know him now; this is

the duke.

Percy. My gracious lord, I tender you my fer. vice,

Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young;
Which elder days fhall ripen, and confirm
To more approved fervice and defert.

Boling. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be fure,
I count myfelf in nothing elfe fo happy,
As in a foul rememb'ring my good friends;
And, as my fortune ripens with thy love,
It fhall be ftill thy true love's recompenfe:
My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus feals
it.

North. How far is it to Berkley? And what ftir Keeps goods old York there, with his men of war? Percy. There ftands the caftle, by yon tuft of

trees,

Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard: And in it are the lords of York, Berkley, and Sey.

mour;

None else of name, and noble estimate.

Enter Ross and WILLOUGHBY.

Narth. Here come the lords of Rofs and Wil, loughby.

Bloody with fpurring, firy-red with hafte.

Boling. Welcome, my lords: I wot, your love purfues

A banish'd traitor; all my treasury

Is

yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich'd, Shall be your love and labour's recompenfe.

Rofs. Your prefence makes us rich, most noble

lord.

Willo. And far furmounts our labour to attain it. Boling. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the

poor;