Gaunt. Oh, fpare me not, my brother Edward's fon, For that I was his father Edward's fon.

That blood already, like the pelican,

Haft thou tapt out, and drunkenly carows'd.
My brother Glofter, plain well-meaning foul,
(Whom fair befal in heav'n 'mongst happy fouls!
May be a precedent and witnefs good,

That thou refpect'ft not spilling Edward's blood.
Join with the prefent fickness that I have,
And thy unkindnefs be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too-long-wither'd flower.
Live in thy fhame, but die not shame with thee!
Thefe words hereafter thy tormentors be.
Convey me to my bed, then to my grave:
Love they to live, that love and honour have.

[Exit, borne out.
K. Rich. And let them die, that age and fullens have;
For both haft thou, and both become the grave.
York. I do befeech your Majesty, impute
His words to wayward ficklinefs, and age:
He loves you, on my life; and holds you dear
As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.

K. Rich. Right, you fay true; as Hereford's love, fo his; As theirs, fo mine; and all be, as it is.

Enter Northumberland.

North. My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your K. Rich. What fays old Gaunt?

North. Nay, nothing; all is faid:

His tongue is now a ftringlefs inftrument,

Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

[Majefty.

York. Be York the next, that must be bankrupt fo! Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich. The ripeft fruit firft falls, and fo doth he; His time is spent, our pilgrimage mult be: So much for that.- -Now for our Irish wars; We muft fupplant thofe rough rug-headed kerns, Which live like venom, where no venom elfe, But only they, have privilege to live. And, for thefe great affairs do afk fome charge,

Towards

Towards our affiftance we do feize to us
The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand poffeft.

York. How long fhall I be patient? Oh, how long
Shall tender duty make me fuffer wrong?
Not Glo'fter's death, not Hereford's banishment,
Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own difgrace,
Have ever made me fow'r my patient cheek;
Or bend one wrinkle on my Sovereign's face.
I am the last of noble Edward's fons,

Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was firft:
In war, was never lion rag'd, more fierce;
In peace, was never gentle lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely gentleman;
His face thou haft, for even fo look'd he,
Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours.
But when he frown'd, it was againft the French,
And not against his friends. His noble hand
Did win what he did fpend; and spent not that,
Which his triumphant father's hand had won.
His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
Oh, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,
Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich. Why, uncle, what's the matter?
York. O my Liege,

Pardon me, if you pleafe; if not, I, pleas'd
Not to be pardon'd, am content withal.
Seek you to feize, and gripe into your hands,
The royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt juft, and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir?
Is not his heir a well-deferving fon?

Take Hereford's rights away, and take from time
His charters, and his customary rights.
Let not to-morrow then enfue to-day;
Be not thyfelf. For how art thou a King,

B 3

But

But by fair fequence and fucceffion?

If you do wrongfully feize Hereford's right,
Call in his letters patents that he hath,
By his attorneys-general to fue

His livery, and deny his offer'd homage;
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head;
You lofe a thousand well-difpofed hearts;
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts,
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich. Think, what you will; we seize into our hands His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.

York. I'll not be by, the while; my Liege, farewel : What will enfue hereof, there's none can tell.

But by bad courfes may be understood,

That their events can never fall out good.

[Exit.

K. Rich. Go, Busby, to the Earl of Wiltshire ftraight,

Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,

To fee this bufinefs done: To-morrow next
We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow.

And we create, in abfence of ourself,
Our uncle York Lord-governor of England:
For he is juft, and always lov'd us well.
Come on, our Queen; to-morrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of ftay is fhort.

[Flourish.

[Exeunt King, Queen, &c. Manent Northumberland, Willoughby, and Rofs. North. Well, Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead. Rofs. And living too, for now his fon is Duke. Willo. Barely in title, not in revenue.

North. Richly in both, if juftice had her right.

Rofs. My heart is great; but it must break with filence, Ere't be difburden'd with a lib'ral tongue.

North. Nay, fpeak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more, That speaks thy words again to do thee harm.

Willo. Tends, what you'd fpeak, to th' Duke of Hereford? If it be fo, out with it boldly, man:

Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.

Rofs. No good at all that I can do for him,

Unless you call it good to pity him,

Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

North.

[borne

North. Now, afore Heav'n, it's fhame fuch wrongs are
In him a royal Prince, and many more,
Of noble blood in this declining land;
The King is not himself, but bafely led
By flatterers; and what they will inform
Merely in hate 'gainit any of us all,
That will the King feverely profecute

'Gainft us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.
Rofs. The Commons hath he pill'd with grievous Taxes,
And loft their hearts; the Nobles hath he fin'd
For ancient quarrels, and quite loft their hearts.
Willo, And daily new exactions are devis'd;
As blanks, benevolences, I wot not what;
But what, o’God's name, doth become of this?

North. Wars have not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not, But bafely yielded upon compromife

That, which his ancestors atchiev'd with blows:
More hath he spent in peace, than they in wars.

Rofs. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.
Willo. The King's grown bankrupt, like a broken man.
North. Reproach, and diffolution, hangeth over him.
Rofs. He hath not money for these Irish wars,
(His burdenous taxations notwithstanding)
But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.

North. His noble kinfman-moft degenerate King,

But, Lords, we hear this fearful tempeft fing,
Yet feek no fhelter to avoid the ftorm:
We fee the wind fit fore upon our fails,

And yet we strike not, but fecurely perish.

Rofs. We fee the very wreck, that we muft fuffer; And unavoided is the danger now,

For fuff'ring fo the caufes of our wreck.

North. Not fo: Ev'n through the hollow eyes of death

I fpy life peering; but I dare not fay,

How near the tidings of our comfort is.

Willo. Nay, let us fhare thy thoughts, as thou doft ours.
Rofs. Be confident to fpeak, Northumberland;

We three are but thyfelf, and fpeaking fo,
Thy words are but as thoughts, therefore be bold.
North. Then thus, my friends. I have from Port le Blanc,

A bay in Bretagne, had intelligence,

That Harry Hereford, Rainald Lord Cobham,
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Rainfton,

Sir John Norberie, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Coines,
All thefe well furnish'd by the Duke of Bretagne,
With eight tall fhips, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And fhortly mean to touch our northern fhore ;
Perhaps, they had ere this; but that they stay
The first departing of the King for Ireland.
If then we fhall fhake off our flavish yoke,
Imp out our drooping country's broken wing,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown, (7)
Wipe off the duft that hides our scepter's gilt,
And make high Majefty look like itself:
Away with me in poft to Ravenspurg.
But if you faint, as fearing to do fo,
Stay, and be fecret, and myself will go.

Rofs. To horfe, to horfe; urge Doubts to them that fear.
Willo. Hold out my horfe, and I will first be there.

SCENE, the Court.

Enter Queen, Bufhy, and Bagot.

Adam, your Majefty is much too fad:

[Exeunt.

Buby. M You promis'd, when you parted with the King,

To lay afide felf-harming heaviness,

And entertain a chearful difpofition.

Queen. To please the King, I did; to please myfelf, I cannot do it; yet I know no cause,

Why I fhould welcome fuch a guest as grief;

(7) Redeem from broken pawn the blemish'd crown,] What ideas Mr. Rowe and Mr. Pope form'd to themselves from this paffive epithet annex'd to pawn, I cannot tell. To me, it seems direct nonfenfe. I have reftor'd the reading of the genuine old copies, broking Pawn. The revenues of the crown were farmed to the Earl of WiltShire, who had them in pawn for what fums he advanc'd, and fo play'd the broker betwixt the King and subject.