him to it, The king had cut off my head with my brother's. What, are there no posts dispatch'd for Ireland? How shall we do for money for these wars? Come, sister,--cousin, I would say--pray, pardon me. Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts And bring away the armour that is there. Gentlemen, will you go muster men? If I know how or which way to order these affairs Thus thrust disorderly into my hands, Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen: The one is my sovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend; the other again Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong'd, Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right. Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin, I'll Dispose of you. Gentlemen, go, muster up your men, And meet me presently at Berkeley. I should to Plashy too; But time will not permit: all is uneven, And every thing is left at six and seven. The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland, But none returns. For us to levy power Proportionable to the enemy Is all unpossible. Besides, our nearness to the king in love Is near the hate of those love not the king. And that's the wavering commons: for their love Lies in their purses, and whoso empties them By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate. Wherein the king stands generally condemn'd. If judgement lie in them, then so do we, Because we ever have been near the king. Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol castle: The Earl of Wiltshire is already there. Thither will I with you; for little office The hateful commons will perform for us, Except like curs to tear us all to pieces. Will you go along with us? No; I will to Ireland to his majesty. Farewell: if heart's presages be not vain, We three here art that ne'er shall meet again. That's as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke. Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes Is numbering sands and drinking oceans dry: Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly. Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever. Well, we may meet again. I fear me, never. How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now? Believe me, noble lord, I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire: These high wild hills and rough uneven ways Draws out our miles, and makes them wearisome, And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar, Making the hard way sweet and delectable. But I bethink me what