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be so; but yet my inward soul

       Persuades me it is otherwise: howe’er it be,

       I cannot but be sad, so heavy s,ad

       As, though in thinking, on no thought I think,

       Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

       BUSHY.

       ‘Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.

       QUEEN.

       ‘Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv’d

       From some forefather grief; mine is not so,

       For nothing hath begot my something grief,

       Or something hath the nothing that I grieve:

       ‘Tis in reversion that I do possess;

       But what it is, that is not yet known; what

       I cannot name; ‘tis nameless woe, I wot.

       [Enter GREEN.]

       GREEN.

       God save your majesty! and well met, gentlemen:

       I hope the King is not yet shipp’d for Ireland.

       QUEEN.

       Why hop’st thou so? ‘Tis better hope he is,

       For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope:

       Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp’d?

       GREEN.

       That he, our hope, might have retir’d his power,

       And driven into despair an enemy’s hope

       Who strongly hath set footing in this land:

       The banish’d Bolingbroke repeals himself,

       And with uplifted arms is safe arriv’d

       At Ravenspurgh.

       QUEEN.

       Now God in heaven forbid!

       GREEN.

       Ah! madam, ‘tis too true; and that is worse,

       The Lord Northumberland, his son young Henry Percy,

       The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,

       With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.

       BUSHY.

       Why have you not proclaim’d Northumberland

       And all the rest revolted faction traitors?

       GREEN.

       We have: whereupon the Earl of Worcester

       Hath broken his staff, resign’d his stewardship,

       And all the household servants fled with him

       To Bolingbroke.

       QUEEN.

       So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,

       And Bolingbroke my sorrow’s dismal heir:

       Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy,

       And I, a gasping new-deliver’d mother,

       Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join’d.

       BUSHY.

       Despair not, madam.

       QUEEN.

       Who shall hinder me?

       I will despair, and be at enmity

       With cozening hope: he is a flatterer,

       A parasite, a keeper-back of death,

       Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,

       Which false hope lingers in extremity.

       [Enter YORK.]

       GREEN.

       Here comes the Duke of York.

       QUEEN.

       With signs of war about his aged neck:

       O! full of careful business are his looks.

       Uncle, for God’s sake, speak comfortable words.

       YORK.

       Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts:

       Comfort’s in heaven; and we are on the earth,

       Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and grief.

       Your husband, he is gone to save far off,

       Whilst others come to make him lose at home.

       Here am I left to underprop his land,

       Who, weak with age, cannot support myself.

       Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made;

       Now shall he try his friends that flatter’d him.

       [Enter a Servant.]

       SERVANT.

       My lord, your son was gone before I came.

       YORK.

       He was? Why, so! go all which way it will!

       The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold,

       And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford’s side.

       Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester;

       Bid her send me presently a thousand pound.

       Hold, take my ring.

       SERVANT.

       My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship:

       To-day, as I came by, I called there;

       But I shall grieve you to report the rest.

       YORK.

       What is’t, knave?

       SERVANT.

       An hour before I came the duchess died.

       YORK.

       God for his mercy! what a tide of woes

       Comes rushing 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 no posts dispatch’d for Ireland?

       How shall we do for money for these wars?

       Come, sister,—cousin, I would say,—pray, pardon me.—

       Go, fellow, get thee home; provide some carts,

       And bring away the armour that is there.

       [Exit Servant.]

       Gentlemen, will you go muster men?

       If I know how or which way to order these affairs

       Thus disorderly thrust into my hands,

       Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen:

       T’one is my sovereign, whom both my oath

       And duty bids defend; the other again

       Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong’d,

       Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.

       Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin,

       I’ll dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster up your men,

       And meet me presently at Berkeley Castle.

       I should to Plashy too:

       But time will not permit. All is uneven,

       And everything is left at six and seven.

       [Exeunt YORK and QUEEN.]

       BUSHY.

       The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,

       But none returns. For us to levy power

       Proportionable to the enemy

       Is all unpossible.

       GREEN.

      

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