Part 17

Aum. My Lord, 'tis nothing

Yorke. No matter then who sees it, I will be satisfied, let me see the Writing

Aum. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, It is a matter of small consequence, Which for some reasons I would not haue seene

Yorke. Which for some reasons sir, I meane to see: I feare, I feare

Dut. What should you feare? 'Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter'd into For gay apparrell, against the Triumph

Yorke. Bound to himselfe? What doth he with a Bond That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a foole. Boy, let me see the Writing

Aum. I do beseech you pardon me, I may not shew it

Yor. I will be satisfied: let me see it I say.

Snatches it

Treason, foule Treason, Villaine, Traitor, Slaue

Dut. What's the matter, my Lord? Yorke. Hoa, who's within there? Saddle my horse. Heauen for his mercy: what treachery is heere? Dut. Why, what is't my Lord? Yorke. Giue me my boots, I say: Saddle my horse: Now by my Honor, my life, my troth, I will appeach the Villaine

Dut. What is the matter? Yorke. Peace foolish Woman

Dut. I will not peace. What is the matter Sonne? Aum. Good Mother be content, it is no more Then my poore life must answer

Dut. Thy life answer? Enter Seruant with Boots.

Yor. Bring me my Boots, I will vnto the King

Dut. Strike him Aumerle. Poore boy, y art amaz'd, Hence Villaine, neuer more come in my sight

Yor. Giue me my Boots, I say

Dut. Why Yorke, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou not hide the Trespasse of thine owne? Haue we more Sonnes? Or are we like to haue? Is not my teeming date drunke vp with time? And wilt thou plucke my faire Sonne from mine Age, And rob me of a happy Mothers name? Is he not like thee? Is he not thine owne? Yor. Thou fond mad woman: Wilt thou conceale this darke Conspiracy? A dozen of them heere haue tane the Sacrament, And interchangeably set downe their hands To kill the King at Oxford

Dut. He shall be none: Wee'l keepe him heere: then what is that to him? Yor. Away fond woman: were hee twenty times my Son, I would appeach him

Dut. Hadst thou groan'd for him as I haue done, Thou wouldest be more pittifull: But now I know thy minde; thou do'st suspect That I haue bene disloyall to thy bed, And that he is a Bastard, not thy Sonne: Sweet Yorke, sweet husband, be not of that minde: He is as like thee, as a man may bee, Not like to me, nor any of my Kin, And yet I loue him

Yorke. Make way, vnruly Woman.

Exit

Dut. After Aumerle. Mount thee vpon his horse, Spurre post, and get before him to the King, And begge thy pardon, ere he do accuse thee, Ile not be long behind: though I be old, I doubt not but to ride as fast as Yorke: And neuer will I rise vp from the ground, Till Bullingbrooke haue pardon'd thee: Away be gone.

Exit

Scoena Tertia.

Enter Bullingbrooke, Percie, and other Lords.

Bul. Can no man tell of my vnthriftie Sonne? 'Tis full three monthes since I did see him last. If any plague hang ouer vs, 'tis he, I would to heauen (my Lords) he might be found: Enquire at London, 'mongst the Tauernes there: For there (they say) he dayly doth frequent, With vnrestrained loose Companions, Euen such (they say) as stand in narrow Lanes, And rob our Watch, and beate our passengers, Which he, yong wanton, and effeminate Boy Takes on the point of Honor, to support So dissolute a crew

Per. My Lord, some two dayes since I saw the Prince, And told him of these Triumphes held at Oxford