GREEN.
Besides, our nearness to the King in love
Is near the hate of those love not the King.
BAGOT.
And that is the wavering commons, for their love
Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them,
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.
BUSHY.
Wherein the King stands generally condemned.
BAGOT.
If judgment lie in them, then so do we,
Because we ever have been near the King.
GREEN.
Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol Castle.
The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.
BUSHY.
Thither will I with you, for little office
Will the hateful commons perform for us,
Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.
Will you go along with us?
BAGOT.
No, I will to Ireland to his Majesty.
Farewell. If heart’s presages be not vain,
We three here part that ne’er shall meet again.
BUSHY.
That’s as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.
GREEN.
Alas, poor Duke! The task he undertakes
Is numb’ring sands and drinking oceans dry.
Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.
Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever.
BUSHY.
Well, we may meet again.