ROSS.
The commons hath he pilled with grievous taxes,
And quite lost their hearts. The nobles hath he fined
For ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts.
WILLOUGHBY.
And daily new exactions are devised,
As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what.
But what, i’ God’s name, doth become of this?
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Wars hath not wasted it, for warred he hath not,
But basely yielded upon compromise
That which his ancestors achieved with blows.
More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.
ROSS.
The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.
WILLOUGHBY.
The King’s grown bankrupt like a broken man.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.
ROSS.
He hath not money for these Irish wars,
His burdenous taxations notwithstanding,
But by the robbing of the banished Duke.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
His noble kinsman. Most degenerate king!
But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm;
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.
ROSS.
We see the very wrack that we must suffer;
And unavoided is the danger now
For suffering so the causes of our wrack.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Not so. Even through the hollow eyes of death
I spy life peering; but I dare not say
How near the tidings of our comfort is.