Save bidding farewel to so sweet a guest
As my fweet Richard: yet again, methinks,
Some unborn forrow, ripe in fortune's womb,
Is coming tow'rd me; and my inward foul
With nothing trembles, yet at fomething grieves,
More than with parting from my Lord the King.
Bushy. Each fubftance of a grief hath twenty shadows,
Which fhew like grief itself, but are not so :
For forrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire, to many objects;
Like perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon (8),.
Shew nothing but confufion; ey'd awry,
Diftinguish form.-So your fweet Majefty,
Looking awry upon your Lord's departure,
Finds thapes of grief, more than himself, to wail ;.
Which look'd on, as it is, is nought but shadows
Of what it is not; gracious Queen, then weep not
More than your Lord's departure; more's not feen ::

(8) Like perspectives, zubich, rightly gaz'd upon, Shere nothing but confufion; ey'd awry,

Diftinguifh form.] This is a very fine fimilitude, and the thing meant is this. Amongst mathematical recreations, this, wh ch your mafters in optics amute themselves with, holds a principal place. They draw a figure, in which all the rules of perspective are directly inverted: So that, confequently, if he'd in the fame position with thofe pictures which are drawn according to the rules of perspective,. it must prefent nothing but confufion: And to be feen in form, and under a regular appearance, it must be look'd upon from a contrary. fitation: Or, as Shakespeare says, ey'd awry. Thefe kind of pictures are now very common; but not fo, I believe, in our author's time, though he fo well understood their nature. Of our writers, the neareft I can meet with to his time is Hobbes, who defcribes this curiosity qua divivery particularly. Eft & aliud perfpectivæ genus, bujus de mus inverfe, in qua objectum ipfum rude aliquid apparet ; & (nifi oculo in certo puncto collocato) informe; in eo vero puato id videtur Mr. Warburton. quod apparere voluit pictor.

To this fort of picture our author feems again to allude in his King Henry V.

K. Henry. It is fo; and you may fome of you thank love for my blindners, who cannot fee many a fair French city, for one fair French maid that ftands in my way.

Fr. King. Yes, my Lord, you see them perspectively; the cities surn'd into a snaid..

Or

Or if it be, 'tis with falfe forrow's eye,

Which, for things true, weeps things imaginary.
Queen. It may be fo; but yet my inward foul
Pertuades me otherwife: How e'er it be,
I cannot but be fad; fo heavy-fad,

As, though, on thinking, on no thought I think,
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and fhrink.
Bushy. 'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious Lady,
Queen. 'Tis nothing lefs; conceit is still deriv'd
From fome fore-father grief; mine is not fo;
For nothing hath begot my fomething grief;
Or fomething hath, the nothing that I grieve;
'Tis in reverfion that I do poffefs;

But what it is, that is not yet known, what
I cannot name, 'tis nameless woe, I wot.

Enter Green.

Green. Heav'n fave your Majefty! and well met, gen-
I hope, the King is not yet fhipt for Ireland. [tlemen:
Queen. Why hop'ft thou fo? 'tis better hope, he is:
For his defigns crave hafte, his hafte good hope :
Then wherefore doft thou hope, he is not fhipt?
Green. That he, our hope, might have retir'd his power;
And driv'n into defpair an enemy's hope,

Who ftrongly hath fet footing in this land.
The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself ;
And with up-lifted arms is fafe arriv'd
At Ravenspurg.

Queen. Now God in Heav'n forbid !

Green. O, Madam, 'tis too true; and what is worse,
The Lord Northumberland, his young fon Percy,
The Lords of Rofs, Beaumond, and Willoughby,
With all their pow'rful friends, are fled to him.
Busby. Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland,
And all of that revolted faction, traitors?

Green. We have: Whereon the Earl of Worcester
Hath broke his ftaff, refign'd his ftewardship,
And all the houshold fervants fled with him

To Bolingbroke.

Queen. So, Green, thou art the midwife of my woe,

And Bolingbroke my forrow's difmal heir:
Now hath my foul brought forth her prodigy,
And I, a gasping new-delivered mother,
Have woe to woe, forrow to forrow joined.
Busby. Despair not, Madam.

Queen. Who fhall hinder me?
I will defpair, and be at enmity
With cozening hope; he is a flatterer,
A parafite, a keeper back of death,
Who gently would diffolve the bands of life,
Which falfe hopes linger, in extremity.

Enter York.

Green. Here come the Duke of York.
Queen. With figns of war about his aged neck ;
Oh, full of careful business are his looks!
Uncle, for Heav'n's fake, comfortable words.
York. Should I do fo, I should bely my thoughts ;-
Comfort's in heav'n, and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but croffes, care, and grief.
Your husband he is gone to fave far off,

Whilft others come to make him lose at home,
Here am I left to underprop his land;

Who, weak with age, cannot fupport myself.
Now comes the fick hour, that his furfeit made ;.
Now shall he try his friends, that flatter'd him..

Enter a Servant.

Serv. My Lord, your fon was gone before I came.
York. He was; why, fo, go all, which way it will
The Nobles they are fled, the Commons cold,,
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's fide.
Get thee to Plafbie (9), to my fifter.Glo'fter ;
Bid her fend prefently a thousand pound :.
Hold, take my ring.

Serv. My Lord, I had forgot

To tell, to-day I came by, and call'd there ; :

But I shall grieve you to report the reft.

(9) Get thee to Plafhie,-] The lordship of Plafbie was a town of the Dutchess of Gloucefter's in Effex See Hall's chronicle, Pi 13.

B 6

York..

York. What is't?

Serv. An hour before I came, the Dutchess dy'd
York. Heav'n for his mercy, what a tide of woes.
Come rushing on this woeful land at once!
I know not what to do: I would to Heav'n,
(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 difpatch'd for Ireland?
How fhall we do for money for thefe wars?

Come, fifter; (coufin, I fhould fay ;) pray, pardon me.
Go, fellow, get thee home, provide fome carts,

[To the Servant.
And bring way the armour that is there.
Gentlemen, will you go and mufter men?
If I know how to order these affairs,
Disorderly thus thruft into my hands,

Never believe me. They are both my kinfmen;
The one my Sovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bids defend; th'other again

My kinfman is, one whom the King hath wrong'd ;;
Whom confcience and my kindred bids to right.
Well, fomewhat we must do: Come, coufin, I'll
Difpofe of you. Go mufter up your men,
And meet me presently at Barkley caftle:
I fhould to Plafhie too;

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

[Exeunt York and Queen,
Busby. The wind fits fair for news to go to Ireland,
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 thofe, love not the King.

Bagot. And that's the wav'ring Commons, for their love Lies in their purfes; and who empties them, By fo much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

Busby. Wherein the King ftands gen'rally condemn'd. Bagot. If judgment lie in them, then fo do we; Because we have been ever near the King.

Green.

Green. Well; I'll for refuge ftrait to Bristol-caftle;
The Earl of Wiltfbire is already there.

Buy Thither will I with you; for little office
The hateful. Commons will perform for us ;
Except, like curs, to tear, us all,in pieces :
Will you go with us ?

Bagot. No: I'll to Ireland to his Majefly.
Farewel if hearts prefages be not vain,

We three here part, that ne'er fhall meet again.
Busby. That's as York thrives, to beat back Bolingbroke.
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.
Busby. Farewel at once, for once, for all, and ever,
Green. Well, we may meet again.
Bagot. I fear me, never,

[Exeunt

SCENE changes to a wild profpect in Gloftershire.. Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland.

Boling H

OW far is it, my Lord, to Barkley now?: North. I am a ftanger here in Glo'flershire :: Thefe high wild hills,, and rough uneven ways, Draw out our miles, and make them wearifome: And yet your fair difcourfe, has been as fugar, Making the hard way fweet and delectable. But, I bethink me, what a weary way From Ravenfpurg to Cotfhold 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: But theirs is fweetned with the hope to have The prefent benefit that I poffefs:

And hope to joy, is little less 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 lefs value is my company,
Than your good words: but who comes here?

Enter