No, my good lord, for that is not forgot
Which ne'er I did remember: to my knowledge,
I never in my life did
look on him.
Then learn to know him now; this is the duke.
My gracious lord, I tender you my service,
Such as it is, being tender, raw and young:
Which elder days
shall ripen and confirm
To more approved service and desert.
I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure
I count myself in nothing else so happy
As in a soul remembering
my good friends;
And, as my fortune ripens with thy love,
It shall be still thy true love's recompense:
heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.
How far is it to Berkeley? and what stir
Keeps good old York there with his men of war?
There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees,
Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard;
And in it
are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and Seymour;
None else of name and noble estimate.
Enter LORD ROSS and LORD WILLOUGHBY
Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,
Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.
Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursues
A banish'd traitor: all my treasury
Is yet but unfelt thanks,
which more enrich'd
Shall be your love and labour's recompense.
Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.
And far surmounts our labour to attain it.
Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor;
Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,
Stands for my
bounty. But who comes here?
Enter LORD BERKELEY
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