Now, afore God, ’tis shame such wrongs are borne

Northumberland
Now, afore God, ’tis shame such wrongs are borne
In him, a royal prince, and many more
Of noble blood in this declining land.
The King is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers; and what they will inform
Merely in hate ’gainst any of us all,
That will the King severely prosecute
’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.

We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

Ross
The commons hath he pilled with grievous taxes,
And quite lost their hearts. The nobles hath he fined
For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.
Willoughby
And daily new exactions are devised,
As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what.
But what i’ God’s name doth become of this?
Northumberland
Wars hath not wasted it, for warred he hath not,
But basely yielded upon compromise
That which his noble ancestors achieved with blows.
More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.
Ross
The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.
Willoughby
The King grown bankrupt like a broken man.
Northumberland
Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.
Ross
He hath not money for these Irish wars,
His burdenous taxations notwithstanding,
But by the robbing of the banished duke.
Northumberland
His noble kinsman. Most degenerate king!
But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm;
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.
Ross
We see the very wrack that we must suffer,
And unavoided is the danger now
For suffering so the causes of our wrack.
Northumberland
Not so. Even through the hollow eyes of death
I spy life peering; but I dare not say
How near the tidings of our comfort is.