Richard II

Actus Secundus. Scena Prima

Enter Gaunt, sicke with Yorke.

  Gau. Will the King come, that I may breath my lastIn wholsome counsell to his vnstaid youth?  Yor. Vex not your selfe, nor striue not with your breth,For all in vaine comes counsell to his eare   Gau. Oh but (they say) the tongues of dying menInforce attention like deepe harmony;Where words are scarse, they are seldome spent in vaine,For they breath truth, that breath their words in paine.He that no more must say, is listen'd more,Then they whom youth and ease haue taught to glose,More are mens ends markt, then their liues before,The setting Sun, and Musicke in the closeAs the last taste of sweetes, is sweetest last,Writ in remembrance, more then things long past;Though Richard my liues counsell would not heare,My deaths sad tale, may yet vndeafe his eare   Yor. No, it is stopt with other flatt'ring soundsAs praises of his state: then there are foundLasciuious Meeters, to whose venom soundThe open eare of youth doth alwayes listen.Report of fashions in proud Italy,Whose manners still our tardie apish NationLimpes after in base imitation.Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,So it be new, there's no respect how vile,That is not quickly buz'd into his eares?That all too late comes counsell to be heard,Where will doth mutiny with wits regard:Direct not him, whose way himselfe will choose,Tis breath thou lackst, and that breath wilt thou loose   Gaunt. Me thinkes I am a Prophet new inspir'd,And thus expiring, do foretell of him,His rash fierce blaze of Ryot cannot last,For violent fires soone burne out themselues,Small showres last long, but sodaine stormes are short,He tyres betimes, that spurs too fast betimes;With eager feeding, food doth choake the feeder:Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,Consuming meanes soone preyes vpon it selfe.This royall Throne of Kings, this sceptred Isle,This earth of Maiesty, this seate of Mars,This other Eden, demy paradise,This Fortresse built by Nature for her selfe,Against infection, and the hand of warre:This happy breed of men, this little world,This precious stone, set in the siluer sea,Which serues it in the office of a wall,Or as a Moate defensiue to a house,Against the enuy of lesse happier Lands,This blessed plot, this earth, this Realme, this England,This Nurse, this teeming wombe of Royall Kings,Fear'd by their breed, and famous for their birth,Renowned for their deeds, as farre from home,For Christian seruice, and true Chiualrie,As is the sepulcher in stubborne IuryOf the Worlds ransome, blessed Maries Sonne.This Land of such deere soules, this deere-deere Land,Deere for her reputation through the world,Is now Leas'd out (I dye pronouncing it)Like to a Tenement or pelting Farme.England bound in with the triumphant sea,Whose rocky shore beates backe the enuious siedgeOf watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,With Inky blottes, and rotten Parchment bonds.That England, that was wont to conquer others,Hath made a shamefull conquest of it selfe.Ah! would the scandall vanish with my life,How happy then were my ensuing death?Enter King, Queene, Aumerle, Bushy, Greene, Bagot, Ros, andWilloughby.  Yor. The King is come, deale mildly with his youth,For young hot Colts, being rag'd, do rage the more   Qu. How fares our noble Vncle Lancaster?  Ri. What comfort man? How ist with aged Gaunt?  Ga. Oh how that name befits my composition:Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old:Within me greefe hath kept a tedious fast,And who abstaynes from meate, that is not gaunt?For sleeping England long time haue I watcht,Watching breeds leannesse, leannesse is all gaunt.The pleasure that some Fathers feede vpon,Is my strict fast, I meane my Childrens lookes,And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt:Gaunt am I for the graue, gaunt as a graue,Whose hollow wombe inherits naught but bones   Ric. Can sicke men play so nicely with their names?  Gau. No, misery makes sport to mocke it selfe:Since thou dost seeke to kill my name in mee,I mocke my name (great King) to flatter thee   Ric. Should dying men flatter those that liue?  Gau. No, no, men liuing flatter those that dyeRich. Thou now a dying, sayst thou flatter'st meGau. Oh no, thou dyest, though I the sicker beRich. I am in health, I breath, I see thee ill   Gau. Now he that made me, knowes I see thee ill:Ill in my selfe to see, and in thee, seeing ill,Thy death-bed is no lesser then the Land,Wherein thou lyest in reputation sicke,And thou too care-lesse patient as thou art,Commit'st thy 'anointed body to the cureOf those Physitians, that first wounded thee.A thousand flatterers sit within thy Crowne,Whose compasse is no bigger then thy head,And yet incaged in so small a Verge,The waste is no whit lesser then thy Land:Oh had thy Grandsire with a Prophets eye,Seene how his sonnes sonne, should destroy his sonnes,From forth thy reach he would haue laid thy shame,Deposing thee before thou wert possest,Which art possest now to depose thy selfe.Why (Cosine) were thou Regent of the world,It were a shame to let his Land by lease:But for thy world enioying but this Land,Is it not more then shame, to shame it so?Landlord of England art thou, and not King:Thy state of Law, is bondslaue to the law,And-  Rich. And thou, a lunaticke leane-witted foole,Presuming on an Agues priuiledge,Dar'st with thy frozen admonitionMake pale our cheeke, chasing the Royall bloodWith fury, from his natiue residence?Now by my Seates right Royall Maiestie,Wer't thou not Brother to great Edwards sonne,This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head,Should run thy head from thy vnreuerent shoulders   Gau. Oh spare me not, my brothers Edwards sonne,For that I was his Father Edwards sonne:That blood already (like the Pellican)Thou hast tapt out, and drunkenly carows'd.My brother Gloucester, plaine well meaning soule(Whom faire befall in heauen 'mongst happy soules)May be a president, and witnesse good,That thou respect'st not spilling Edwards blood:Ioyne with the present sicknesse that I haue,And thy vnkindnesse be like crooked age,To crop at once a too-long wither'd flowre.Liue in thy shame, but dye not shame with thee,These words heereafter, thy tormentors bee.Conuey me to my bed, then to my graue,Loue they to liue, that loue and honor haue.

Exit

  Rich. And let them dye, that age and sullens haue,For both hast thou, and both become the graue   Yor. I do beseech your Maiestie impute his wordsTo wayward sicklinesse, and age in him:He loues you on my life, and holds you deereAs Harry Duke of Herford, were he heere   Rich. Right, you say true: as Herfords loue, so his;As theirs, so mine: and all be as it is.Enter Northumberland.  Nor. My Liege, olde Gaunt commends him to yourMaiestie   Rich. What sayes he?  Nor. Nay nothing, all is said:His tongue is now a stringlesse instrument,Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent   Yor. Be Yorke the next, that must be bankrupt so,Though death be poore, it ends a mortall wo   Rich. The ripest fruit first fals, and so doth he,His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be:So much for that. Now for our Irish warres,We must supplant those rough rug-headed Kernes,Which liue like venom, where no venom elseBut onely they, haue priuiledge to liue.And for these great affayres do aske some chargeTowards our assistance, we do seize to vsThe plate, coine, reuennewes, and moueables,Whereof our Vncle Gaunt did stand possest   Yor. How long shall I be patient? Oh how longShall tender dutie make me suffer wrong?Not Glousters death, nor Herfords banishment,Nor Gauntes rebukes, nor Englands priuate wrongs,Nor the preuention of poore Bullingbrooke,About his marriage, nor my owne disgraceHaue euer made me sowre my patient cheeke,Or bend one wrinckle on my Soueraignes face:I am the last of noble Edwards sonnes,Of whom thy Father Prince of Wales was first,In warre was neuer Lyon rag'd more fierce:In peace, was neuer gentle Lambe more milde,Then was that yong and Princely Gentleman,His face thou hast, for euen so look'd heAccomplish'd with the number of thy howers:But when he frown'd, it was against the French,And not against his friends: his noble handDid win what he did spend: and spent not thatWhich his triumphant fathers hand had won:His hands were guilty of no kindreds blood,But bloody with the enemies of his kinne:Oh Richard, Yorke is too farre gone with greefe,Or else he neuer would compare betweene   Rich. Why Vncle,What's the matter?  Yor. Oh my Liege, pardon me if you please, if notI pleas'd not to be pardon'd, am content with all:Seeke you to seize, and gripe into your handsThe Royalties and Rights of banish'd Herford?Is not Gaunt dead? and doth not Herford liue?Was not Gaunt iust? and is not Harry true?Did not the one deserue to haue an heyre?Is not his heyre a well-deseruing sonne?Take Herfords rights away, and take from timeHis Charters, and his customarie rights:Let not to morrow then insue to day,Be not thy selfe. For how art thou a KingBut by faire sequence and succession?Now afore God, God forbid I say true,If you do wrongfully seize Herfords right,Call in his Letters Patents that he hathBy his Atturneyes generall, to sueHis Liuerie, and denie his offer'd homage,You plucke a thousand dangers on your head,You loose a thousand well-disposed hearts,And pricke my tender patience to those thoughtsWhich honor and allegeance cannot thinke   Ric. Thinke what you will: we seise into our hands,His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands   Yor. Ile not be by the while: My Liege farewell,What will ensue heereof, there's none can tell.But by bad courses may be vnderstood,That their euents can neuer fall out good.Enter.  Rich. Go Bushie to the Earle of Wiltshire streight,Bid him repaire to vs to Ely house,To see this businesse: to morrow nextWe will for Ireland, and 'tis time, I trow:And we create in absence of our selfeOur Vncle Yorke, Lord Gouernor of England:For he is iust, and alwayes lou'd vs well.Come on our Queene, to morrow must we part,Be merry, for our time of stay is short.Flourish.Manet North. Willoughby, & Ross.Nor. Well Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is deadRoss. And liuing too, for now his sonne is DukeWil. Barely in title, not in reuennewNor. Richly in both, if iustice had her right   Ross. My heart is great: but it must break with silence,Er't be disburthen'd with a liberall tongue   Nor. Nay speake thy mind: & let him ne'r speak moreThat speakes thy words againe to do thee harme   Wil. Tends that thou'dst speake to th' Du[ke]. of Hereford,If it be so, out with it boldly man,Quicke is mine eare to heare of good towards him   Ross. No good at all that I can do for him,Vnlesse you call it good to pitie him,Bereft and gelded of his patrimonie   Nor. Now afore heauen, 'tis shame such wrongs areborne.In him a royall Prince, and many moeOf noble blood in this declining Land;The King is not himselfe, but basely ledBy Flatterers, and what they will informeMeerely in hate 'gainst any of vs all,That will the King seuerely prosecute'Gainst vs, our liues, our children, and our heires   Ros. The Commons hath he pil'd with greeuous taxesAnd quite lost their hearts: the Nobles hath he findeFor ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts   Wil. And daily new exactions are deuis'd,As blankes, beneuolences, and I wot not what:But what o' Gods name doth become of this?  Nor. Wars hath not wasted it, for war'd he hath not.But basely yeelded vpon comprimize,That which his Ancestors atchieu'd with blowes:More hath he spent in peace, then they in warresRos. The Earle of Wiltshire hath the realme in FarmeWil. The Kings growne bankrupt like a broken manNor. Reproach, and dissolution hangeth ouer him   Ros. He hath not monie for these Irish warres:(His burthenous taxations notwithstanding)But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke   Nor. His noble Kinsman, most degenerate King:But Lords, we heare this fearefull tempest sing,Yet seeke no shelter to auoid the storme:We see the winde sit sore vpon our sailes,And yet we strike not, but securely perish   Ros. We see the very wracke that we must suffer,And vnauoyded is the danger nowFor suffering so the causes of our wracke   Nor. Not so: euen through the hollow eyes of death,I spie life peering: but I dare not sayHow neere the tidings of our comfort is   Wil. Nay let vs share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours  Ros. Be confident to speake Northumberland,We three, are but thy selfe, and speaking so,Thy words are but as thoughts, therefore be bold   Nor. Then thus: I haue from Port le BlanA Bay in Britaine, receiu'd intelligence,That Harry Duke of Herford, Rainald Lord Cobham,That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,His brother Archbishop, late of Canterbury,Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir Iohn Rainston,Sir Iohn Norberie, & Sir Robert Waterton, & Francis Quoint,All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Britaine,With eight tall ships, three thousand men of warreAre making hither with all due expedience,And shortly meane to touch our Northerne shore:Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stayThe first departing of the King for Ireland.If then we shall shake off our slauish yoake,Impe out our drooping Countries broken wing,Redeeme from broaking pawne the blemish'd Crowne,Wipe off the dust that hides our Scepters gilt,And make high Maiestie looke like it selfe,Away with me in poste to Rauenspurgh,But if you faint, as fearing to do so,Stay, and be secret, and my selfe will goRos. To horse, to horse, vrge doubts to them y feareWil. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.

Exeunt.

Scena Secunda

Enter Queene, Bushy, and Bagot.

  Bush. Madam, your Maiesty is too much sad,You promis'd when you parted with the King,To lay aside selfe-harming heauinesse,And entertaine a cheerefull disposition   Qu. To please the King, I did: to please my selfeI cannot do it: yet I know no causeWhy I should welcome such a guest as greefe,Saue bidding farewell to so sweet a guestAs my sweet Richard; yet againe me thinkes,Some vnborne sorrow, ripe in fortunes wombeIs comming towards me, and my inward souleWith nothing trembles, at something it greeues,More then with parting from my Lord the King   Bush. Each substance of a greefe hath twenty shadowsWhich shewes like greefe it selfe, but is not so:For sorrowes eye, glazed with blinding teares,Diuides one thing intire, to many obiects,Like perspectiues, which rightly gaz'd vponShew nothing but confusion, ey'd awry,Distinguish forme: so your sweet MaiestieLooking awry vpon your Lords departure,Finde shapes of greefe, more then himselfe to waile,Which look'd on as it is, is naught but shadowesOf what it is not: then thrice-gracious Queene,More then your Lords departure weep not, more's not seene;Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrowes eie,Which for things true, weepe things imaginary   Qu. It may be so: but yet my inward soulePerswades me it is otherwise: how ere it be,I cannot but be sad: so heauy sad,As though on thinking on no thought I thinke,Makes me with heauy nothing faint and shrinke   Bush. 'Tis nothing but conceit (my gracious Lady.)  Qu. 'Tis nothing lesse: conceit is still deriu'dFrom some fore-father greefe, mine is not so,For nothing hath begot my something greefe,Or something, hath the nothing that I greeue,'Tis in reuersion that I do possesse,But what it is, that is not yet knowne, whatI cannot name, 'tis namelesse woe I wot.Enter Greene.  Gree. Heauen saue your Maiesty, and wel met Gentlemen:I hope the King is not yet shipt for Ireland   Qu. Why hop'st thou so? Tis better hope he is:For his designes craue hast, his hast good hope,Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipt?  Gre. That he our hope, might haue retyr'd his power,and driuen into dispaire an enemies hope,Who strongly hath set footing in this Land.The banish'd Bullingbrooke repeales himselfe,And with vp-lifted Armes is safe arriu'dAt RauenspurgQu. Now God in heauen forbid   Gr. O Madam 'tis too true: and that is worse,The L[ord]. Northumberland, his yong sonne Henrie Percie,The Lords of Rosse, Beaumond, and Willoughby,With all their powrefull friends are fled to him   Bush. Why haue you not proclaim'd NorthumberlandAnd the rest of the reuolted faction, Traitors?  Gre. We haue: whereupon the Earle of WorcesterHath broke his staffe, resign'd his Stewardship,And al the houshold seruants fled with him to Bullinbrook  Qu. So Greene, thou art the midwife of my woe,And Bullinbrooke my sorrowes dismall heyre:Now hath my soule brought forth her prodegie,And I a gasping new deliuered mother,Haue woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow ioyn'dBush. Dispaire not Madam   Qu. Who shall hinder me?I will dispaire, and be at enmitieWith couzening hope; he is a Flatterer,A Parasite, a keeper backe of death,Who gently would dissolue the bands of life,Which false hopes linger in extremity.Enter Yorke.Gre. Heere comes the Duke of Yorke   Qu. With signes of warre about his aged necke,Oh full of carefull businesse are his lookes:Vncle, for heauens sake speake comfortable words:  Yor. Comfort's in heauen, and we are on the earth,Where nothing liues but crosses, care and greefe:Your husband he is gone to saue farre off,Whilst others come to make him loose at home:Heere am I left to vnder-prop his Land,Who weake with age, cannot support my selfe:Now comes the sicke houre that his surfet made,Now shall he try his friends that flattered him.Enter a seruant.Ser. My Lord, your sonne was gone before I came   Yor. He was: why so: go all which way it will:The Nobles they are fled, the Commons they are cold,And will I feare reuolt on Herfords side.Sirra, get thee to Plashie to my sister Gloster,Bid her send me presently a thousand pound,Hold, take my Ring   Ser. My Lord, I had forgotTo tell your Lordship, to day I came by, and call'd there,But I shall greeue you to report the rest   Yor. What is't knaue?  Ser. An houre before I came, the Dutchesse di'de   Yor. Heau'n for his mercy, what a tide of woesCome rushing on this wofull Land at once?I know not what to do: I would to heauen(So my vntruth had not prouok'd him to it)The King had cut off my head with my brothers.What, are there postes dispatcht for Ireland?How shall we do for money for these warres?Come sister (Cozen I would say) pray pardon me.Go fellow, get thee home, prouide some Carts,And bring away the Armour that is there.Gentlemen, will you muster men?If I know how, or which way to order these affairesThus disorderly thrust into my hands,Neuer beleeue me. Both are my kinsmen,Th' one is my Soueraigne, whom both my oathAnd dutie bids defend: th' other againeIs my kinsman, whom the King hath wrong'd,Whom conscience, and my kindred bids to right:Well, somewhat we must do: Come Cozen,Ile dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster vp your men,And meet me presently at Barkley Castle:I should to Plashy too: but time will not permit,All is vneuen, and euery thing is left at six and seuen.

Exit

  Bush. The winde sits faire for newes to go to Ireland,But none returnes: For vs to leuy powerProportionable to th' enemy, is all impossible   Gr. Besides our neerenesse to the King in loue,Is neere the hate of those loue not the King   Ba. And that's the wauering Commons, for their loueLies in their purses, and who so empties them,By so much fils their hearts with deadly hate   Bush. Wherein the king stands generally condemn'd  Bag. If iudgement lye in them, then so do we,Because we haue beene euer neere the King   Gr. Well: I will for refuge straight to Bristoll Castle,The Earle of Wiltshire is alreadie there   Bush. Thither will I with you, for little officeWill the hatefull Commons performe for vs,Except like Curres, to teare vs all in peeces:Will you go along with vs?  Bag. No, I will to Ireland to his Maiestie:Farewell, if hearts presages be not vaine,We three here part, that neu'r shall meete againe   Bu. That's as Yorke thriues to beate back Bullinbroke  Gr. Alas poore Duke, the taske he vndertakesIs numbring sands, and drinking Oceans drie,Where one on his side fights, thousands will flye   Bush. Farewell at once, for once, for all, and euer.Well, we may meete againe   Bag. I feare me neuer.

Enter.

Scaena Tertia

Enter the Duke of Hereford, and Northumberland.

  Bul. How farre is it my Lord to Berkley now?  Nor. Beleeue me noble Lord,I am a stranger heere in Gloustershire,These high wilde hilles, and rough vneeuen waies,Drawes out our miles, and makes them wearisome.And yet our faire discourse hath beene as sugar,Making the hard way sweet and delectable:But I bethinke me, what a wearie wayFrom Rauenspurgh to Cottshold will be found,In Rosse and Willoughby, wanting your companie,Which I protest hath very much beguildThe tediousnesse, and processe of my trauell:But theirs is sweetned with the hope to haueThe present benefit that I possesse;And hope to ioy, is little lesse in ioy,Then hope enioy'd: By this, the wearie LordsShall make their way seeme short, as mine hath done,By sight of what I haue, your Noble Companie   Bull. Of much lesse value is my Companie,Then your good words: but who comes here?

Enter H[arry]. Percie.

  North. It is my Sonne, young Harry Percie,Sent from my Brother Worcester: Whence soeuer.Harry, how fares your Vnckle?  Percie. I had thought, my Lord, to haue learn'd hishealth of you   North. Why, is he not with the Queene?  Percie. No, my good Lord, he hath forsook the Court,Broken his Staffe of Office, and disperstThe Household of the King   North. What was his reason?He was not so resolu'd, when we last spake together   Percie. Because your Lordship was proclaimed Traitor.But hee, my Lord, is gone to Rauenspurgh,To offer seruice to the Duke of Hereford,And sent me ouer by Barkely, to discouerWhat power the Duke of Yorke had leuied there,Then with direction to repaire to Rauenspurgh   North. Haue you forgot the Duke of Hereford (Boy.)  Percie. No, my good Lord; for that is not forgotWhich ne're I did remember: to my knowledge,I neuer in my life did looke on him   North. Then learne to know him now: this is theDuke   Percie. My gracious Lord, I tender you my seruice,Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young,Which elder dayes shall ripen, and confirmeTo more approued seruice, and desert   Bull. I thanke thee gentle Percie, and be sureI count my selfe in nothing else so happy,As in a Soule remembring my good Friends:And as my Fortune ripens with thy Loue,It shall be still thy true Loues recompence,My Heart this Couenant makes, my Hand thus seales it   North. How farre is it to Barkely? and what stirreKeepes good old Yorke there, with his Men of Warre?  Percie. There stands the Castle, by yond tuft of Trees,Mann'd with three hundred men, as I haue heard,And in it are the Lords of Yorke, Barkely, and Seymor,None else of Name, and noble estimate.Enter Rosse and Willoughby.  North. Here come the Lords of Rosse and Willoughby,Bloody with spurring, fierie red with haste   Bull. Welcome my Lords, I wot your loue pursuesA banisht Traytor; all my TreasurieIs yet but vnfelt thankes, which more enrich'd,Shall be your loue, and labours recompenceRoss. Your presence makes vs rich, most Noble LordWillo. And farre surmounts our labour to attaine it   Bull. Euermore thankes, th' Exchequer of the poore,Which till my infant-fortune comes to yeeres,Stands for my Bountie: but who comes here?Enter Barkely.North. It is my Lord of Barkely, as I ghesseBark. My Lord of Hereford, my Message is to you   Bull. My Lord, my Answere is to Lancaster,And I am come to seeke that Name in England,And I must finde that Title in your Tongue,Before I make reply to aught you say   Bark. Mistake me not, my Lord, 'tis not my meaningTo raze one Title of your Honor out.To you, my Lord, I come (what Lord you will)From the most glorious of this Land,The Duke of Yorke, to know what pricks you onTo take aduantage of the absent time,And fright our Natiue Peace with selfe-borne Armes.Enter Yorke.  Bull. I shall not need transport my words by you,Here comes his Grace in Person. My Noble Vnckle   York. Shew me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,Whose dutie is deceiuable, and falseBull. My gracious Vnckle   York. Tut, tut, Grace me no Grace, nor Vnckle me,I am no Traytors Vnckle; and that word Grace,In an vngracious mouth, is but prophane.Why haue these banish'd, and forbidden Legges,Dar'd once to touch a Dust of Englands Ground?But more then why, why haue they dar'd to marchSo many miles vpon her peacefull Bosome,Frighting her pale-fac'd Villages with Warre,And ostentation of despised Armes?Com'st thou because th' anoynted King is hence?Why foolish Boy, the King is left behind,And in my loyall Bosome lyes his power.Were I but now the Lord of such hot youth,As when braue Gaunt, thy Father, and my selfeRescued the Black Prince, that yong Mars of men,From forth the Rankes of many thousand French:Oh then, how quickly should this Arme of mine,Now Prisoner to the Palsie, chastise thee,And minister correction to thy Fault   Bull. My gracious Vnckle, let me know my Fault,On what Condition stands it, and wherein?  York. Euen in Condition of the worst degree,In grosse Rebellion, and detested Treason:Thou art a banish'd man, and here art comeBefore th' expiration of thy time,In brauing Armes against thy Soueraigne   Bull. As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford,But as I come, I come for Lancaster.And Noble Vnckle, I beseech your GraceLooke on my Wrongs with an indifferent eye:You are my Father, for me thinkes in youI see old Gaunt aliue. Oh then my Father,Will you permit, that I shall stand condemn'dA wandring Vagabond; my Rights and RoyaltiesPluckt from my armes perforce, and giuen awayTo vpstart Vnthrifts? Wherefore was I borne?If that my Cousin King, be King of England,It must be graunted, I am Duke of Lancaster.You haue a Sonne, Aumerle, my Noble Kinsman,Had you first died, and he beene thus trod downe,He should haue found his Vnckle Gaunt a Father,To rowze his Wrongs, and chase them to the bay.I am denyde to sue my Liuerie here,And yet my Letters Patents giue me leaue:My Fathers goods are all distraynd, and sold,And these, and all, are all amisse imployd.What would you haue me doe? I am a Subiect,And challenge Law: Attorneyes are deny'd me;And therefore personally I lay my claimeTo my Inheritance of free DiscentNorth. The Noble Duke hath been too much abus'dRoss. It stands your Grace vpon, to doe him rightWillo. Base men by his endowments are made great   York. My Lords of England, let me tell you this,I haue had feeling of my Cosens Wrongs,And labour'd all I could to doe him right:But in this kind, to come in brauing Armes,Be his owne Caruer, and cut out his way,To find out Right with Wrongs, it may not be;And you that doe abett him in this kind,Cherish Rebellion, and are Rebels all   North. The Noble Duke hath sworne his comming isBut for his owne; and for the right of that,Wee all haue strongly sworne to giue him ayd,And let him neu'r see Ioy, that breakes that Oath   York. Well, well, I see the issue of these Armes,I cannot mend it, I must needes confesse,Because my power is weake, and all ill left:But if I could, by him that gaue me life,I would attach you all, and make you stoopeVnto the Soueraigne Mercy of the King.But since I cannot, be it knowne to you,I doe remaine as Neuter. So fare you well,Vnlesse you please to enter in the Castle,And there repose you for this Night   Bull. An offer Vnckle, that wee will accept:But wee must winne your Grace to goe with vsTo Bristow Castle, which they say is heldBy Bushie, Bagot, and their Complices,The Caterpillers of the Commonwealth,Which I haue sworne to weed, and plucke away   York. It may be I will go with you: but yet Ile pawse,For I am loth to breake our Countries Lawes:Nor Friends, nor Foes, to me welcome you are,Things past redresse, are now with me past care.

Exeunt.