lord, to please you with the hearing;
Nor none so bad, but it may well be told.
Hoyday, a riddle! neither good nor bad!
Why dost thou run so many mile about,
When thou mayst tell thy tale a nearer way?
Once more, what news?
Richmond is on the seas.
There let him sink, and be the seas on him!
White-liver'd runagate, what doth he there?
I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess.
Well, sir, as you guess, as you guess?
Stirr'd up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Ely,
He makes for England, there to claim the crown.
Is the chair empty? is the sword unsway'd?
Is the king dead? the empire unpossess'd?
What heir of York is there alive but we?
And who is England's king but great York's heir?
Then, tell me, what doth he upon the sea?
Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess.
Unless for that he comes to be your liege,
You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes.
Thou wilt revolt, and fly to him, I fear.
No, mighty liege; therefore mistrust me not.
Where is thy power, then, to beat him back?
Where are thy tenants and thy followers?
Are they not now upon the western shore.
Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships!
No, my good lord, my friends are in the north.
Cold friends to Richard: what do they in the north,
When they should serve their sovereign in the west?
They have not been commanded, mighty sovereign:
Please it your majesty to give me leave,
I'll muster up my friends, and meet your grace
Where and what time your majesty shall please.
Ay, ay. thou wouldst be gone to join with Richmond:
I will not trust you, sir.
Most mighty sovereign,
You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful:
I never was nor never will be false.
Well,
Go muster men; but, hear you, leave behind
Your son, George Stanley: look your faith be firm.
Or else his head's assurance is but frail.
So deal with him as I prove true to you.
My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire,
As I by friends am well advertised,
Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate
Bishop of Exeter, his brother there,
With many more confederates, are in arms.
My liege, in Kent the Guildfords are in arms;
And every hour more competitors
Flock to their aid, and still their power increaseth.
My lord, the army of the Duke of Buckingham--
Out on you, owls! nothing but songs of death?
Take that, until thou bring me