North. How farre is it to Barkely? and what stirre
Keepes good old Yorke there, with his Men of Warre?
Percie. There stands the Castle, by yond tuft of Trees,
Mann'd with three hundred men, as I haue heard,
And in it are the Lords of Yorke, Barkely, and Seymor,
None else of Name, and noble estimate.
Enter Rosse and Willoughby.
North. Here come the Lords of Rosse and Willoughby,
Bloody with spurring, fierie red with haste
Bull. Welcome my Lords, I wot your loue pursues
A banisht Traytor; all my Treasurie
Is yet but vnfelt thankes, which more enrich'd,
Shall be your loue, and labours recompence
Ross. Your presence makes vs rich, most Noble Lord
Willo. And farre surmounts our labour to attaine it
Bull. Euermore thankes, th' Exchequer of the poore,
Which till my infant-fortune comes to yeeres,
Stands for my Bountie: but who comes here?
Enter Barkely.
North. It is my Lord of Barkely, as I ghesse
Bark. My Lord of Hereford, my Message is to you
Bull. My Lord, my Answere is to Lancaster,
And I am come to seeke that Name in England,
And I must finde that Title in your Tongue,
Before I make reply to aught you say
Bark. Mistake me not, my Lord, 'tis not my meaning
To raze one Title of your Honor out.
To you, my Lord, I come (what Lord you will)
From the most glorious of this Land,
The Duke of Yorke, to know what pricks you on
To take aduantage of the absent time,
And fright our Natiue Peace with selfe-borne Armes.
Enter Yorke.