I cannot but be fad; fo heavy-fad,

(4) As, though, on thinking, on no thought I think, Makes me with heavy nothing faint and fhrink.

Busby. '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;
(5) For nothing hath begot my fomething grief;
Or fomething hath, the nothing that I grieve;
(6) 'Tis in reverfion That I do poffefs;
But what it is, that is not yet known, what
I cannot name, 'tis namelefs woe, I wot.

SCENE VI.

Enter Green.

Green. Heav'n fave your Majefty and well met, gentlemen:

I hope

(4) As, though, on thinking, on no thought I think,] "We fhould read, as though in thinking: That is, though mufing, I bave no diftinct idea of calamity. The involuntary and unaccountable depreffion of the mind, which every one has fometime felt, is here very forcibly defcribed.

(5) For nothing hath begot my fomething grief;

Or fomething bath, the nothing that I grieve;]

With thefe lines I know not well what can be done. The Queen's reafoning, as it now ftands, is this. My trouble is not conceit, for conceit is ftill derived from fome antecedent caufe, fome forefather grief; but with me the cafe is, that either my real grief bath no real caufe, or fome real caufe has produced a fancy'd grief. That is, my grief is not conceit, because it either has not a caufe like conceit, or it has a caufe like conceit. This can hardly ftand. Let us try again, and read thus:

For nothing bath begot my fomething grief;

Not fomething bath the nothing which I grieve.

That is, My grief is not conceit; conceit is an imaginary uneasiness from fome paft occurrence. But, on the contrary, here is real grief without a real caufe; not a real cafe with a fanciful forrow. This, I think, must be the meaning; harfh at the belt, yet better than contradiction or abfurdity.

(6) 'Tis in reverfion that I do poffefs;

But what it is, that is not yet known, &c.] I am about to propofe an interpretation which many will think harfh, and which I do not offer for certain. To poffefs a man, is, in Shakespeare, to inform him fully, to make him comprehend. To be poffeffed, is, to be fully informed. Of this fenfe the examples are numerous.

I hope, the King is not yet fhipt for Ireland.
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, (7) might have retir'd his
Power;

And dirv'n into defpair an enemy's Hope,
Who ftrongly hath fet footing in this Land.
The banith'd Bolingbroke repeals himself;
And with uplifted 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 flaff, 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 Bolingbroke * my forrow's difmal heir.

Now hath my foul brought forth her prodigy,

And I, a gafping new-deliver'd mother,

Have woe to woe, forrow to forrow, join'd.
Busby. Defpair not, Madam.

Is he poffeft what fum you need.

I therefore imagine the Queen fays thus:

'Tis in reverfion that I do poffefs.

Meaf. for Meaf. Merch, of Venice.

The event is yet in futurity-that I know with full conviction---but what it is, that is not yet known. In any other interpretation fhe muft fay that be poffeffes what is not yet come, which, though it may be allowed to be poetical and figurative language, is yet, I think, lefs natural than my explanation.

(7) Might have retir'd his power,] Might have drawn it back. A French fenfe.

*My forrow's difmal heir.] The authour feems to have used beir in an improper fenfe; an heir being one that inherits by fucceffion, is here put for one that fucceeds, though he fucceeds but in or der of time, not in order of defcent,

Queen.

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..

SCENE VII.

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 this Land;
Who, weak with age, cannot fupport my felf.
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 willThe Nobles they are fled, the Commons cold, And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's fide. Get thee to Plafbie (8), to my fifter Glofter; Bid her fend presently 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 fhall grieve you to report the reft.

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 rushing on this woful land at once!

(8) Get thee to Plafhie,

The Lordship of Plafbie was a

Town of the Dutchess of Gloucester's in Effex. See Hale's Chro

nicle, p. 13.

THEOBALD.

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 mony for these wars?

Come, fifter; còufin, 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 conscience and my kindred bids to right.
Well, fomewhat we muft do.-Come, coufin, I'll
Difpofe of you.-Go mufter up your men,

And meet me presently at Berkley castle

I fhould to Plafbie too;

But time will not permit.

And every thing is left at fix and feven.

All is uneven,

[Exeunt York and Queen.

SCENE VIII.

Bufby. 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 Nearnefs to the King in Love Is near the Hate of those, 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 generally condemn'd.
Bagot. If judgment lye in thein, then fo do we;
Because we have been ever near the King.

*Untruth.] That is, Difloyalty, treachery.

Green.

Green. Well, I'll for Refuge straight to Bristol Castle; The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bufby. Thither will 1 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 Majefty.
Farewel. If heart's 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.
Bushy. Farewel at once, for once, for all and ever.
Green. Well, we may meet again.

Bagot. I fear me, never.

SCENE IX.

[Exeunt.

Changes to a wild Profped in Glocefterfhire.

Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland.

Boling. HR No

OW far is it, my lord, to Berkley now?
North. I am a ftranger here in Glofterfbire.
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 Cotfbold, will be found.
In Rofs and Willoughby, wanting your Company;
Which, I proteft, hath very much beguil'd
The tedioufnefs and procefs 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 lefs value is my company,
Than your good words. But who comes here?

Enter