(Queen; Bushy; Bagot; Green; York; Servingman)
The Queen is uneasy, despite Bushy’s attempts to cheer her up, and expresses her vague fears to him. Green arrives, looking for the King, only to be told that Richard and his army have left for Ireland. Green explains that Bullingbrook has returned to England at the head of an army and that most of the powerful nobles have joined with him. York enters, prepared to do battle, but he is fully aware that he has almost nothing with which to oppose the rebels and that the commons are quite likely to join with Bullingbrook. Confused and out of his depth, he goes off to do what he can, taking the Queen with him for her safety. Bushy, Bagot and Green, aware of how much they are hated by the people, make plans for their safety; Bagot chooses to go join Richard in Ireland, while the other two will seek safety at the Earl of Wiltshire’s castle. (152 lines)
Enter the Queen, Bushy, Bagot.
Madam, your Majesty is too much sad.
You promis’d, when you parted with the King,
To lay aside life-harming heaviness
And entertain a cheerful disposition.
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.
Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,
Which shows like grief itself, but is not so;
For sorrow’s eyes, 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,
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 is not seen,
Or if it be, ’tis with false sorrow’s eye,
Which for things true weeps things imaginary.
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.
’Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.
’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.
God save your Majesty! And well met, gentlemen.
I hope the King is not yet shipp’d for Ireland.
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?
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 Bullingbrook repeals himself,
And with uplifted arms is safe arriv’d
Now God in heaven forbid!
Ah, madam! ’Tis too true, and that is worse,
The Lord Northumberland, his son young Harry Percy,
The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,
With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.
Why have you not proclaim’d Northumberland
And all the rest revolted faction traitors?
We have, whereupon the Earl of Worcester
Hath broken his staff, resign’d his stewardship,
And all the household servants fled with him
So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,
And Bullingbrook 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.
Despair not, madam.
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.
Here comes the Duke of York.
With signs of war about his aged neck.
O, full of careful business are his looks!
Uncle, for God’s sake speak comfortable words.
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 Servingman.
My lord, your son was gone before I came.
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 Herford’s side.
Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester,
Bid her send me presently a thousand pound.
Hold, take my ring.
My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship:
Today, as I came by, I called there—
But I shall grieve you to report the rest.
What is’t, knave?
An hour before I came, the Duchess died.
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 disparch’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 armor that is there.
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; t’ other again
Is my kinsman, whom the King hath wrong’d,
Whom conscience and my kinred 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.
I should to Plashy too,
But time will not permit. All is uneven,
And every thing is left at six and seven.
Exeunt Duke of York, Queen. Manent Bushy, Green, Bagot.
The wind sits fair for news to go for Ireland,
But none returns. For us to levy power
Proportionable to the enemy
Is all unpossible.
Besides, our nearness to the King in love
Is near the hate of those love not the King.
And that is the wavering commons, for their love
Lies in their purses, and whoso empties them
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.
Wherein the King stands generally condemn’d.
If judgment lie in them, then so do we,
Because we ever have been near the King.
Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristow castle:
The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.
Thither will I with you, for little office
Will the hateful commons perform for us,
Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.
Will you go along with us?
No, I will to Ireland to his Majesty.
Farewell! If heart’s presages be not vain,
We three here part that ne’er shall meet again.
That’s as York thrives to beat back Bullingbrook.
Alas, poor duke, the task he undertakes
Is numb’ring sands and drinking oceans dry;
Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.
Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever.
Well, we may meet again.
I fear me, never.