No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
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, steel’d
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.
DUCHESS.
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.
[Enter AUMERLE.]
DUCHESS.
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 cropp’d before you come to prime.
What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs?
AUMERLE.
For aught I know, my lord, they do.
YORK.
You will be there, I know.
AUMERLE.
If God prevent not, I purpose so.
YORK.
What seal is that that 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.
What should you fear?
‘Tis nothing but some bond that he is ent’red 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.
[Snatches it and reads.]
Treason, foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave!
DUCHESS.
What is the matter, my lord?
YORK.
Ho! who is within there?
[Enter a Servant.]
Saddle my horse.
God for his mercy! what treachery is here!
DUCHESS.
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.
[Exit Servant.]
DUCHESS.
What is the matter?
YORK.
Peace, foolish woman.
DUCHESS.
I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?
AUMERLE.
Good mother, be content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.
DUCHESS.
Thy life answer!
YORK.
Bring me my boots. I will unto the King.
[Re-enter Servant with boots.]
DUCHESS.
Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amaz’d.
[To Servant.]
Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.
[Exit Servant.]
YORK.
Give me my boots, I say.
DUCHESS.
Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more
