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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 pofts defpatch'd for Ireland ?3How fhall we do for money for these wars?— Come, fifter,-coufin, I would fay:4 pray, pardon

me.

Go, fellow, [To the Servant.] get thee home, provide fome carts,

And bring away the armour that is there.

[Exit Servant. Gentlemen, will you go mufter men? if I know How, or which way, to order these affairs, Thus thruft diforderly into my hands, Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen ;— The one's my fovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend; the other again,

Is my kinfman, whom the king hath wrong'd ;5 Whom confcience and my kindred bids to right.

untruth] That is, difloyalty, treachery.

JOHNSON.

2 The king had cut off my head with my brother's.] None of York's brothers had his head cut off, either by the King or any one else. The Duke of Glofter, to whose death he probably alludes, was fecretly murdered at Calais, being smothered between two beds.

RITSON,

3 What, are there pofts defpatch'd for Ireland?] Thus the folio. The quartos-two posts-and-no posts. STEEVENS.

4 Come, fifter,-coufin, I would fay:] This is one of Shakfpeare's touches of nature. York is talking to the Queen his coufin, but the recent death of his fifter is uppermoft in his mind. STEEVENS.

5 Is my kinfman, whom the king hath wrong'd ;] Sir T. Hanmer has completed this defective line, by reading:

My kinfman is, one whom the king hath wrong'd.

STEEVENS.

Well, fomewhat we must do.-Come, coufin, I'll
Difpofe of you:-Go, mufter up your men,
And meet me presently at Berkley-castle.
I should to Plashy too;

But time will not permit :-All is uneven,
And every thing is left at fix and seven.

[Exeunt YORK and Queen.

BUSHY. The wind fits fair for news to go to Ire

land,

But none returns. For us to levy power,
Proportionable to the enemy,
Is all impoffible.

GREEN. Befides, our nearness to the king in love, Is near the hate of those love not the king.

BAGOT. And that's the wavering commons; for their love

Lies in their purfes; and whofo empties them,
By fo much fills their hearts with deadly hate,
BUSHY. Wherein the king ftands generally con-
demn'd.

BAGOT. If judgment lie in them, then fo do we, Because we ever have been near the king,

GREEN. Well, I'll for refuge ftraight to Bristol castle;

The earl of Wiltshire is already there.

BUSHY. Thither will I with you: for little office The hateful commons will perform for us; Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.Will you go along with us?

BAGOT. NO; I'll to Ireland to his majesty. Farewell if heart's prefages be not vain,

We three here part, that ne'er fhall meet again.

BUSHY. That's as York thrives to beat back Bo

lingbroke.

GREEN. Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes Is-numb'ring fands, and drinking oceans dry; Where one on his fide fights, thousands will fly. BUSHY. Farewell at once; for once, for all, and

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BOLING. How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now? NORTH. Believe me, noble lord,

I am a ftranger here in Gloftershire.

These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
Draw out our miles, and make them wearifome:
And yet your fair difcourfe hath been as fugar,
Making the hard way sweet and délectable.
But, I bethink me, what a weary way
From Ravenfpurg to Cotfwold, will be found
In Rofs and Willoughby, wanting your company;
Which, I proteft, hath very much beguil'd
The tedioufnefs and process of my travel:"

wanting your company;

Which, I proteft, hath very much beguil'd

The tedioufnefs and process of my travel:] So, in King Leir, 1605 :

Thy pleasant company will make the way feem fhort."

MALONE,

But theirs is fweeten'd with the hope to have
The present benefit which I poffefs:
And hope to joy," is little lefs in joy,
Than hope enjoy'd: by this the weary lords
Shall make their way feem fhort; as mine hath done
By fight of what I have, your noble company.

BOLING. Of much less value is my company,
Than your good words. But who comes here?

Enter HARRY PERCY.

NORTH. It is my fon, young Harry Percy, Sent from my brother Worcester, whencefoever.Harry, how fares your uncle ?

PERCY. I had thought, my lord, to have learn'd his health of you.

NORTH. Why, is he not with the queen?

PERCY. No, my good lord; he hath forfook the

court,

Broken his ftaff of office, and difpers'd

The household of the king.

NORTH.

What was his reafon?

He was not fo refolv'd, when last we fpake toge

ther.8

PERCY. Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.

And hope to joy,] To joy is, I believe, here used as a verb. So, in the fecond Act of King Henry IV: " Poor fellow never joy'd fince the price of oats rofe." Again, in K. Henry VI. P. II : "Was ever king that joy'd on earthly throne-." The word is again used with the fame fignification in the play before us. MALONE.

8 He was not fo refolv'd, when last we spake together.] i. e. converfed together is an interpolation fufficiently evident from the redundancy of the metre. STEEVENS.

But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenfpurg,
To offer service to the duke of Hereford;
And fent me o'er by Berkley, to discover
What power the duke of York had levied there;
Then with direction to repair to Ravenfpurg.

NORTH. Have you forgot the duke of Hereford, boy?

PERCY. No, my good lord; for that is not forgot,

Which ne'er I did remember: to my knowledge, I never in my life did look on him.

NORTH. Then learn to know him now; this is the duke.

PERCY. My gracious lord, I tender you my fer

vice,

Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young;
Which elder days fhall ripen, and confirm
To more approved fervice and defert.

BOLING. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be fure,
I count myself in nothing else so happy,
As in a foul rememb'ring my good friends;
And, as my fortune ripens with thy love,
It shall be still thy true love's recompenfe:
My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus feals

it.

NORTH. How far is it to Berkley? And what ftir Keeps good old York there, with his men of war? PERCY. There ftands the caftle, by yon tuft of

trees,

Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard: And in it are the lords of York, Berkley, and Sey

mour;

None else of name, and noble estimate.

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