Richard II

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 fined
For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.

Willoughby

And daily new exactions are devised,
As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what:
But what, o’ God’s name, doth become of this?

Northumberland

Wars have not wasted it, for warr’d he hath not,
But basely yielded upon compromise
That which his noble ancestors achieved 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 burthenous 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 see 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 wreck that we must suffer;
And unavoided is the danger now,
For suffering so the causes of our wreck.

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 Port le Blanc, a bay
In Brittany, received 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 Bretagne
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

Windsor Castle.

	Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot.
Bushy	Madam, your majesty is too much sad: You promised, 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 gazed upon Show nothing but confusion, eyed 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.
Queen	It may be so; but yet my inward soul Persuades me it is otherwise: howe’er it be, I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad As, though on 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 derived 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 hopest 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 retired 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 arrived 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 broke 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