YORK.
God for his mercy! what a tide of woes
Comes rushing on this woeful land at once!
I know not what to do: I would to God,--
So my untruth had not provok'd 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.

[Exit Servant.]

Gentlemen, will you go muster men?
If I know how or which way to order these affairs
Thus disorderly thrust into my hands,
Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen:
T'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 Castle.
I should to Plashy too:
But time will not permit. All is uneven,
And everything is left at six and seven.

[Exeunt YORK and QUEEN.]