Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,
That had not God for some strong purpose steeled
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow.
Enter the Duke of Aumerle
DUCHESS OF YORK
Here comes my son Aumerle.
YORK
Aumerle that was;
But that is lost for being Richard’s friend,
And, madam, you must call him ’Rutland’ now.
I am in Parliament pledge for his truth
And lasting fealty to the new-made King.
DUCHESS OF YORK
Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?
AUMERLE
Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not.
God knows I had as lief be none as one.
YORK
Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
Lest you be cropped before you come to prime.
What news from Oxford? Hold these jousts and triumphs?
AUMERLE
For aught I know, my lord, they do.
YORK
You will be there, I know.
AUMERLE
If God prevent it not, I purpose so.
YORK
What seal is that that hangs without thy bosom?
Yea, look’st thou pale? Let me see the writing.
AUMERLE
My lord, ’tis nothing.
YORK
No matter, then, who see it.
I will be satisfied. Let me see the writing.
AUMERLE
I do beseech your grace to pardon me.
It is a matter of small consequence,
Which for some reasons I would not have seen.
YORK
Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear!
DUCHESS OF YORK
What should you fear?
‘Tis nothing but some bond that he is entered into
For gay apparel ’gainst the triumph day.
YORK
Bound to himself? What doth he with a bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.
Boy, let me see the writing.
AUMERLE
I do beseech you, pardon me. I may not show it.
YORK
I will be satisfied. Let me see it, I say.
He plucks it out of Aumerle’s bosom, and reads it
Treason, foul treason ! Villain, traitor, slave !
DUCHESS OF YORK What is the matter, my lord?
YORK
Ho, who is within there? Saddle my horse.—
God for his mercy, what treachery is here I
DUCHESS of YORK Why, what is it, my lord?
YORK
Give me my boots, I say. Saddle my horse.—
Now by mine honour, by my life, my troth,
I will appeach the villain.
DUCHESS OF YORK What is the matter?
YORK Peace, foolish woman.
DUCHESS OF YORK
I will not peace. What is the matter, son?
AUMERLE
Good mother, be content. It is no more
Than my poor life must answer.
DUCHESS OF YORK
Thy life answer?
YORK
Bring me my boots. I will unto the King.
His man enters with his boots
DUCHESS OF YORK
Strike him, Aumerle! Poor boy, thou art amazed.
(To York’s man) Hence, villain! Never more come in my sight.
YORK
Give me my boots, I say.
DUCHESS OF YORK
Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? Or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother’s name?
Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own?
YORK Thou fond, mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands
To kill the King at Oxford.
DUCHESS OF YORK
He shall be none.
We’ll keep him here, then what is that to him?
YORK
Away, fond woman! Were he twenty times my son
I would appeach him.
DUCHESS OF YORK
Hadst thou groaned for him
As I have done thou wouldst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son.
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind.
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.
YORK Make way, unruly woman.
Exit ⌈with his man⌉
DUCHESS OF YORK
After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse.
Spur, post, and get before him to the King,
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
I’ll not be long behind—though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York—
And never will I rise up from the ground
Till Bolingbroke have pardoned thee. Away, be gone I
Exeunt ⌈severally⌉
5.3 Enter Bolingbroke, crowned King Henry, with Harry Percy, and other nobles
KING HENRY
Can no man tell of my unthrifty son?
‘Tis full three months since I did see him last.
If any plague hang over us, ’tis he.
I would to God, my lords, he might be found.
Enquire at London ’mongst the taverns there,
For there, they say, he daily doth frequent
With unrestrained loose companions—
Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes
And beat our watch and rob our passengers—
Which he, young wanton and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour to support
So dissolute a crew.
HARRY PERCY
My lord, some two days since, I saw the Prince,
And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford.
KING HENRY And what said the gallant?