Peace, foolish woman.
I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?
Good mother, be content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.
Thy life answer!
Bring me my boots. I will unto the King.
[Re-enter Servant with boots.]
Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amaz'd.
Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.
Give me my boots, I say.
Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age
And rob me of a happy mother's name?
Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own?
Thou fond mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands
To kill the King at Oxford.
He shall be none;
We'll keep him here: then what is that to him?
Away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son
I would appeach him.
Hadst thou groan'd for him
As I have done, thou'dst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect
That I have been disloyal to thy bed
And that he is a bastard, not thy son:
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind.
He is as like thee as a man may be
Not like to me, or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.
Make way, unruly woman!
After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse;
Spur post, and get before him to the king,
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
I'll not be long behind; though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:
And never will I rise up from the ground
Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away! be gone.