Save bidding farewel to fo fweet 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 fhadows,
Which fhew like grief itself, but are not fo:
For forrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire, to many objects;
Like perfpectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon, (8)
Shew nothing but confufion; ey'd awry,
Diftinguish form.-So your fweet Majesty,
Looking awry upon your Lord's departure,
Finds fhapes 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 perfpectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon,
Shew nothing but confufion; ey'd awry,

;

Diftinguifh form.] This is a very fine fimilitude, and the thing meant is this. Amongst mathematical recreations, this, which your mafters in optics amufe themselves with, holds a principal place. They draw a figure, in which all the rules of perspective are directly inverted: So that, confequently, if held in the fame pofition 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 ftation : Or, as Shakespeare fays, ey'd awry. These 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 nearest I can meet with to his time is Hobbes, who defcribes this curiofity very particularly. Eft & aliud perspectivæ genus, hujus de qua diximus inverfæ, in qua objectum ipfum rude aliquid apparet; certo puncto collocato) informe; in eo vero puncto id parere voluit pictor.

nifi oculo in videtur quod apMr. Warburton.

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

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

Fr. King. Yes, my Lord, you fee them perfpectively; the cities turn'd into a maid.

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
Perfuades 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.
Buby. 'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious Lady.
Queen. 'Tis nothing lefs; conceit is ftill 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 reversion 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, genI hope, the King is not yet fhipt for Ireland.

[tlemen: Queen. Why hop'it thou fo? 'tis better hope, he is:

For his defigns crave hafte, his hafte good hope:
Then wherefore doft thou hope, he is not shipt?

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 Ravenfpurg.

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.
Bufhy. 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 stewardship;
And all the houfhold fervants fled with him
To Bolingbroke.

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

And

And Bolingbroke my forrow's difmal heir:
Now hath my foul brought forth her prodigy,
And I, a gafping new-delivered mother,
Have woe to woe, forrow to forrow joined.
Bufey. Defpair 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 comes the Duke of York.
Queen. With figns of war about his aged neck;
Oh, full of careful bufinefs are his looks!
Uncle, for Heav'n's fake, comfortable words.
York. Should I do fo, I fhould 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 lofe 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 fhall 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 wille 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 Glofter; 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 ș
But I fhall grieve you to report the rest.

(9) Get thee to Plafhie,---] The lordship of Plaspie was a town of

the Dutchess of Gloucester's in Effex. See Hall's chronicle, p. 13.

York.

York. What is't?

Serv. An hour before I came, the Dutchefs dy'd. York. Heav'n for his mercy, what a tide of woes Come rufhing 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 these wars? Come, fifter; (coufin, I would fay;) pray, pardon me. Go, fellow, get thee home, provide fome carts,

[To the Servant.
And bring away the armour that is there.
Gentlemen, will you go and mufter men?
If I know how to order thefe 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, l'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.

Bushy. The wind fits fair for news to go to Ireland, But none returns; for us to leavy 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.
Baby. 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-cafile;
The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Busby. 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 Majesty.
Farewel: if hearts prefages be not vain,

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

Enter Bolingbroke and Northumbelraud.

Boling. TOW far is it, my Lord, to Barkley now?
North. I am a ftranger here in Glo'ftershire:
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 Rols 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 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