Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich'd,
Shall be your love and labour's recompense.
Ross. Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.
Willo. And far surmounts our labour to attain it. 64
Boling. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor;
Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,
Stands for my bounty. But who comes here?
Enter Berkeley.
North. It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess. 68
Berk. My lord of Hereford, my message is to you.
Boling. My lord, my answer is—to Lancaster;
And I am come to seek that name in England;
And I must find that title in your tongue 72
Before I make reply to aught you say.
Berk. Mistake me not, my lord; 'tis not my meaning
To raze one title of your honour out:
To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will, 76
From the most gracious regent of this land,
The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on
To take advantage of the absent time
And fright our native peace with self-borne arms. 80
Enter York [attended].
Boling. I shall not need transport my words by you:
Here comes his Grace in person.
My noble uncle! [Kneels.]
York. Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,
61 unfelt: not expressed in deeds
75 raze: erase
79 absent time: time of (the king's) absence
80 self-borne: borne for oneself
