ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

An open Country, near Hexham, in Northumberland; with a distant View of Henry the Sixth's Camp. Time Day-break.

Enter Adeline, in Man's Habit and Accoutrements.

Adeline. Heigho! Six dark and weary miles, and not yet at the camp. How tediously affliction paces!—Come, Gregory! come on. Why, how you lag behind!—Poor simple soul! what cares has he to weigh him down? Oh, yes,—he has served me from my cradle; and his plain honest heart feels for his mistress's fallen fortunes, and is heavy.—Come, my good fellow, come!

Enter Gregory.

Gregory. Mercy on us, how my poor legs do ache!

Adeline. What, with only six miles this morning?—Fie!

Gregory. Six!—sixteen, if we've gone an inch; my feet are cut to pieces. A man may as well do penance, with pease in his shoes, as trudge over these confounded roads in Northumberland. I used to wonder, when we were at home, in the south, where it is as smooth as a bowling-green, what the labourers did with all the loose stones they carried off the highways; but now, I find, they come and shoot their rubbish in the northern counties. I wish we had never come into them, with all my heart!

Adeline. Then, you are weary of my service—you wish you had not followed me.

Gregory. Who I? Heaven forbid!—I'd follow you to the end of the world:—nay, for that matter, I believe I shall follow you there; for I have tramped after you a deuced long way, without knowing where we are going. But I'd live, ay, and die for you too.

Adeline. Well, well; we must to the wars, my good fellow.

Gregory. The wars! O lud! that's taking me at my word with a vengeance! I never could abide fighting—there's something so plaguy quarrelsome in it.

Adeline. Then you had best return. We now, Gregory, are approaching King Henry's camp.

Gregory. Are we? Oh dear, oh dear! Pray, then, let us wheel about as fast as we can.

Adeline. Don't you observe the light breaking through the tents yonder?

Gregory. Mercy on me! they are tents, sure enough! Come, madam, let's be going, if you please.

Adeline. Why, whither should I go, poor simpleton? My home is wretchedness. The wars I seek have made it so; they have robbed me of my husband; comfort now is lost to me. Oh! Gondibert, too faithful to a weak cause, our ruin is involved with our betters!

Gregory. Oh, rot the cause, say I! Plague on the House of Lancaster! it has been many a noble gentleman's undoing. The white and red roses have caused more eyes to water in England, than if we had planted the whole island with onions. Such a coil kept up with their two houses!—one's so old and t'other's so old!—they ought both to be pulled down, for a couple of nuisances to the nation.

Adeline. Peace! peace, man!—half such a word, spoken at random, might cost your life. The times, Gregory, are dangerous.

Gregory. Very true, indeed, madam. Death has no modesty in him now-a-days; he stares every body full in the face. I wish we had kept quiet at home, out of his way. Who knows but my master, Lord Gondibert, might have returned to us, unexpectedly; I'm sure he left us unexpectedly enough; for the deuce a bit of any notice did he give us of his going.

Adeline. Ay, Gregory; was it not unkind? And yet I will not call him so—the times are cruel—not my husband.—His affection had too much thought in it to change. His regular love, corrected by the steady vigour of his mind, knew not the turbulence of boyish raptures; but, like a sober river in its banks, flowed with a sweet and equal current. Oh! it was such a placid stream of tenderness!—How long is it since your master left us, Gregory?

Gregory. Six months come to-morrow, madam. I caught a violent cold the very same day: it has settled in my eyes, I believe, for they have been troublesome to me ever since. Ah! I shall never forget that morning; when the spies of the House of York, that's got upon the throne, surrounded him for being an old friend to the Lancasters. Egad, he laid about him like a lion!—Out whips his broad-sword; whack he comes me one over the sconce; pat he goes me another on the cheek; and, after putting them all out of breath, about he wheels his horse, and we have never seen nor heard of him since.

Adeline. And, from that day to this, I have in vain cherished hopes of his return.—Fearful, no doubt, of being surprised, he keeps concealed.—Thus is he torn from me—torn from his children—poor tender blossoms! too weak to be exposed to the rude tempest of the times, and leaves their innocence unsheltered!

Gregory. Yes, and mine among the rest. But what is it you mean to do, madam?

Adeline. To seek him in the camp. The Lancasters again are making head, here, in the north. If he have had an opportunity of joining them, 'tis more than probable he is in their army. Thither will we;—and for this purpose have I doff'd my woman's habit; leaving my house to the care of a trusty friend: and, thus accoutred, have led you, Gregory, the faithful follower of my sorrows, a weary journey half over England.

Gregory. Weary! oh dear, no—not at all—I could turn about again directly, and walk back, brisker by half than I came.

Adeline. What, man, afraid! Come, come; we run but little risk. Example, too, will animate us. The very air of the camp, Gregory, will brace your courage to the true pitch.

Gregory. That may be, madam; and yet, for a bracing air, people are apt to die in it, sooner than in any other place.

Adeline. Pshaw! pr'ythee, man, put but a confident look on the matter, and we shall do, I warrant. A bluff and blustering outside often conceals a chicken heart. Mine aches, I am sure! but I will hide my grief under the veil of airy carelessness.—Down, sorrow! I'll be all bustle, like the occasion. Come, Gregory! Mark your mistress, man, and learn: see how she'll play the pert young soldier.

SONG.—ADELINE.

[Exit Adeline.

Gregory. Well, if I must go, I must. I cannot help following my poor Lady Adeline—affection has led many a bolder man by the nose than I. I wonder, though, how your bold fellows find themselves just before they're going to fight. I wonder if they have any uncomfortable sort of sticking in the throat, and a queer kind of a cold tickling feel in some part