Bushy. Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows, Which show like grief itself, but are 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, Finds 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. As, though, in thinking, on no thought I think,— Bushy. "Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady. But what it is, that is not yet known; what 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: Queen. Now God in heaven forbid! Green. O, madam, 'tis too true: and that is worse,— The lord Northumberland, his young son 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 of the revolting faction Traitors? Green. We have: whereon 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. Who shall hinder me? I will despair, and be at enmity Who gently would dissolve the bands of life, 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 heaven'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, care, and grief. Your husband he is gone to save far off, Whilst others come to make him lose at home: Enter a Servant. Serv. 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 cold, And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side. Sirrah, Get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloster; Bid her send me presently a thousand pound : Hold, take my ring. Serv. 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. Serv. An hour before I came, the duchess died. York. God for his mercy! what a tide of woes Come, sister,-cousin, I would say: pray, pardon me.Go, fellow, [To the Servant.] get thee home, provide some carts, And bring away the armour that is there. oath [Exit Servant. But time will not permit:-All is uneven, [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 impossible. Green. Besides, 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 purses; and who so empties them, By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate. Bushy. Wherein the king stands generally condemn'd. Bagot. If judgement lie in them, then so do we, Because we ever have been near the king. Green. Well, I'll for refuge straight to Bristol castle; The earl of Wiltshire is already there. Bushy. Thither will I with you: for little office Bagot. No; I'll to Ireland to his majesty. We three here part, that ne'er shall meet again. broke. Green. Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes I fear me, never. [Exeunt. SCENE III.-The wilds in Glostershire. Enter BOLINGBROKE and NORTHUMBERLAND, with forces. Boling. How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now? I am a stranger here in Glostershire. These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways, |