The Complete Historical Plays of William Shakespeare. William Shakespeare
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with a liberal tongue.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne’er speak more
That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!
WILLOUGHBY.
Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford?
If it be so, out with it boldly, man;
Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.
ROSS.
No good at all that I can do for him,
Unless you call it good to pity him,
Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Now, afore God, ‘tis shame such wrongs are borne
In him, a royal prince, and many moe
Of noble blood in this declining land.
The king is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers; and what they will inform,
Merely in hate, ‘gainst any of us all,
That will the king severely prosecute
‘Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.
ROSS.
The commons hath he pill’d with grievous taxes,
And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fin’d
For ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts.
WILLOUGHBY.
And daily new exactions are devis’d;
As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what:
But what, o’ God’s name, doth become of this?
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Wars hath not wasted it, for warr’d he hath not,
But basely yielded upon compromise
That which his ancestors achiev’d with blows.
More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.
ROSS.
The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.
WILLOUGHBY.
The King’s grown bankrupt like a broken man.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.
ROSS.
He hath not money for these Irish wars,
His burdenous taxations notwithstanding,
But by the robbing of the banish’d Duke.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
His noble kinsman: most degenerate king!
But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm;
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.
ROSS.
We see the very wrack that we must suffer;
And unavoided is the danger now,
For suffering so the causes of our wrack.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Not so: even through the hollow eyes of death
I spy life peering; but I dare not say
How near the tidings of our comfort is.
WILLOUGHBY.
Nay, let us share thy thoughts as thou dost ours.
ROSS.
Be confident to speak, Northumberland:
We three are but thyself: and, speaking so,
Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore be bold.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Then thus: I have from Le Port Blanc, a bay
In Brittany, receiv’d intelligence
That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham,
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston,
Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Quoint,
All these well furnish’d by the Duke of Britaine,
With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And shortly mean to touch our northern shore.
Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay
The first departing of the king for Ireland.
If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke,
Imp out our drooping country’s broken wing,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish’d crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre’s gilt,
And make high majesty look like itself,
Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh;
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay and be secret, and myself will go.
ROSS.
To horse, to horse! Urge doubts to them that fear.
WILLOUGHBY.
Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. The Same. A Room in the Castle.
[Enter QUEEN, BUSHY, and BAGOT.]
BUSHY.
Madam, your Majesty is too much sad.
You promis’d, when you parted with the king,
To lay aside life-harming heaviness,
And entertain a cheerful disposition.
QUEEN.
To please the King, I did; to please myself
I cannot do it; yet I know no cause
Why I should welcome such a guest as grief,
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest
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 shows like grief itself, but is not so;
For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects;
Like perspectives which, rightly gaz’d upon,
Show nothing but confusion; ey’d awry,
Distinguish form: so your sweet Majesty,
Looking awry upon your lord’s departure,
Find shapes of grief 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.