Mar.
My lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd?

Aum.
Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in.

Mar.
The duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,
Stays but the summons of the appellant's trumpet.

Aum.
Why then, the champions are prepar'd, and stay
For nothing but his majesty's approach. Flourish of Trumpets. Enter King Richard, who takes his seat on his Throne; Gaunt, and several Noblemen, who take their places. A Trumpet is sounded, and answered by another Trumpet within. Then enter Norfolk in armour, preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich.
Marshal, demand of yonder champion

The cause of his arrival here in arms:
Ask him his name; and orderly proceed
To swear him in the justice of his cause.

Mar.
In God's name, and the king's, say who thou art,
And why thou com'st, thus knightly clad in arms:
Against what man thou com'st, and what thy quarrel:
Speak truly, on thy knighthood, and thy oath;
As so defend thee heaven, and thy valour^{1 note}!

Nor.^{2 note}
My name is Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk;
Who hither come engaged by my oath,
(Which, heaven defend, a knight should violate!)
Both to defend my loyalty and truth,
To God, my king, and my succeeding issue^{3 note}

Against the duke of Hereford that appeals me;
And, by the grace of God and this mine arm,
To prove him, in defending of myself,
A traitor to my God, my king, and me:
And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven! [He takes his seat. Trumpet sounds. Enter Bolingbroke, in armour; preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich.
Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms^{4 note}

Mar.
What is thy name? and wherefore com'st thou hither,
Before King Richard, in his royal lists?
Against whom comest thou? and what's thy quarrel?
Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!

Boling.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Am I; who ready here do stand in arms,
To prove by heaven's grace, and my body's valour,
In lists, on Thomas Mowbray duke of Norfolk,
That he's a traitor, foul and dangerous,
To God of heaven, king Richard, and to me;
And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

Mar.
On pain of death no person be so bold,
Or daring hardy, as to touch the lists;
Except the marshal, and such officers
Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Boling.
Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's hand,
And bow my knee before his majesty:
For Mowbray, and myself, are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;
Then let us take a ceremonious leave,
And loving farewell, of our several friends.

Mar.
The appellant in all duty greets your highness,
And craves to kiss your hand, and take his leave.

K. Rich.
We will descend, and fold him in our arms.
Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right,
So be thy fortune in this royal fight!
Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead* ^note.

Boling.
O, let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear;
As confident as is the falcon's flight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.—
My loving lord, [To Lord Marshal.] I take my leave of you;—
Of you, my noble cousin, lord Aumerle:—
Not sick, although I have to do with death;
But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.—
Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet:
O thou, the earthly author of my blood,— [To Gaunt.
Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up
To reach at victory above my head,—
Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers;
And with thy blessings steel my lance's point,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat^{5 note}

And furbish^{6 note}

Gaunt.
Heaven in thy good cause make thee prosperous!
Be swift like lightning in the execution;
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing thunder on the casque^{7 note}

Boling.
Mine innocency^{8 note}

Nor. [Rising.]
However heaven, or fortune, cast my lot,
There lives or dies, true to king Richard's throne,
A loyal, just, and upright gentleman:
Never did captive with a freer heart
Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace
His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement,
More than my dancing soul doth celebrate

This feast of battle^{9 note}

K. Rich.
Farewell, my lord: securely I espy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.—
Order the trial, marshal, and begin. [The King and the Lords return to their seats.

Mar.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Receive thy lance; and God defend the right!

Boling. [Rising.]
Strong as a tower in hope, I cry—amen.

Mar.
Go bear this lance [To an Officer.] to Thomas duke of Norfolk.

1 Her.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself,
On pain to be be found false and recreant,
To prove the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A traitor to his God, his king, and him,
And dares him to set forward to the fight.

2 Her.
Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
Both to defend himself, and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
To God, his sovereign, and to him, disloyal;
Courageously, and with a free desire,
Attending but the signal to begin.

Mar.
Sound, trumpets; and set forward, combatants. [A Charge sounded.
Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down^{2 note}

.

K. Rich.
Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,
And both return back to their chairs again:—
Withdraw with us:—and let the trumpets sound,
While we return these dukes what we decree.— [A long flourish.
Draw near, [To the Combatants.
And list, what with our council we have done.
For that our kingdom's earth should not be soil'd
With that dear blood which it hath fostered^{3 note}

[And for we think the eagle-winged pride^{5 note}

And make us wade even in our kindred's blood;—
Therefore, we banish you our territories:—
You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of death,
Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields,
Shall not regreet our fair dominions,
But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

Boling.
Your will be done: This must my comfort be,—
That sun, that warms you here, shall shine on me;
And those his golden beams, to you here lent,
Shall point on me, and gild my banishment.

K. Rich.
Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,
Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:
The sly-slow hours^{7 note}

Nor.
A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
And all unlook'd for from your highness' mouth:
A dearer merit, not so deep a maim
As to be cast forth in the common air,
Have I deserved^{8 note}

The language I have learn'd these forty years,
My native English, now I must forego:
And now my tongue's use is to me no more,
Than an unstringed viol or a harp;
Or like a cunning instrument cas'd up,
Or, being open, put into his hands
That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue,
Doubly portcullis'd, with my teeth, and lips;
And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance
Is made my gaoler to attend on me.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a pupil now;
What is thy sentence then, but speechless death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

K. Rich.
It boots thee not to be compassionate^{9 note};
After our sentence plaining comes too late.

Nor.
Then thus I turn me from my country's light,
To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. [Retiring.

K. Rich.
Return again, and take an oath with thee.
Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands;
Swear by the duty that you owe to heaven,
(Our part therein we banish with yourselves^{1 note},)

To keep the oath that we administer:—
You never shall (so help you truth and heaven!)
Embrace each other's love in banishment;
Nor never look upon each other's face;
Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile
This lowering tempest of your home-bred hate;
Nor never by advised^{2 note}
purpose meet,
To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,
'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.

Boling.
I swear.

Nor.
And I, to keep all this.

Boling.
Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy^{3 note}

Banish'd this frail sepúlchre of our flesh^{4 note}

Nor.
No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,
My name be blotted from the book of life,
And I from heaven banish'd, as from hence!
But what thou art, heaven, thou, and I do know;
And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue.—
Farewell, my liege:—Now no way can I stray;
Save back to England, all the world's my way^{5 note}

K. Rich.
Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspéct
Hath from the number of his banish'd years
Pluck'd four away;—Six frozen winters spent,
Return [To Boling.] with welcome home from banishment.

Boling.
How long a time lies in one little word!

Four lagging winters and four wanton springs,
End in a word; Such is the breath of kings.

Gaunt.
I thank my liege, that, in regard of me
He shortens four years of my son's exíle:
But little vantage shall I reap thereby;
For, ere the six years, that he hath to spend,
Can change their moons, and bring their times about,
My oil-dried lamp, and time-bewasted light,
Shall be extinct with age and endless night;
My inch of taper will be burnt and done,
And blindfold death not let me see my son.

K. Rich.
Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.

Gaunt.
But not a minute, king, that thou canst give:
Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow,
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow^{6 note}:
Thou canst help time to furrow me with age,
But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;
Thy word is current with him for my death;
But, dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.

K. Rich.
Thy son is banish'd upon good advice^{7 note}

Gaunt.
Things sweet to taste, prove in digestion sour.
You urg'd me as a judge; but I had rather,
You would have bid me argue like a father:—

O, had it been a stranger^{9 note}, not my child,
To smooth his fault I should have been more mild:
A partial slander^{1 note}

K. Rich.
Cousin, farewell:—and, uncle, bid him so;
Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [Flourish. Exeunt King Richard and Train.

Aum.
Cousin, farewell: what presence must not know,
From where you do remain, let paper show.

Mar.
My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride,
As far as land will let me, by your side.

Gaunt.
O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends?

Boling.
I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the tongue's office should be prodigal
To breathe the abundant* ^note dolour of the heart.

Gaunt.
Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

Boling.
Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

Gaunt.
What is six winters? they are quickly gone.

Boling.
To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.

Gaunt.
Call it a travel that thou tak'st for pleasure.

Boling.
My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.

Gaunt.
The sullen passage of thy weary steps
Esteem a foil, wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home-return.

Boling.
Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make^{2 note}
Will but remember me, what a deal* ^note of world
I wander from the jewels that I love.
Must I not serve a long apprenticehood
To foreign passages; and in the end,
Having my freedom, boast of nothing else,
But that I was a journeyman to grief^{3 note}

Gaunt.
All places that the eye of heaven visits^{4 note}

But thou the king^{6 note}

Than a delightful measure^{8 note}

Boling.
O, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus^{9 note}

Gaunt.
Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way:
Had I thy youth, and cause, I would not stay.

Boling.
Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu;
My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet!
Where-e'er I wander, boast of this I can,—
Though banish'd, yet a trueborn Englishman^{1 note}. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. The Same. A Room in the King's Castle. Enter King Richard, Bagot, and Green; Aumerle following.

K. Rich.
We did observe^{2 note}.—Cousin Aumerle,
How far brought you high Hereford on his way?

Aum.
I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,
But to the next highway, and there I left him.

K. Rich.
And, say, what store of parting tears were shed?

Aum.
'Faith, none for me^{3 note}

Which then blew bitterly against our faces,
Awak'd the sleeping rheum; and so, by chance,
Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

K. Rich.
What said our cousin, when you parted with him?

Aum.
Farewell:
And, for my heart disdained that my tongue
Should so profane the word, that taught me craft
To counterfeit oppression of such grief,
That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave.
Marry, would the word farewell have lengthen'd hours,
And added years to his short banishment,
He should have had a volume of farewells;
But, since it would not, he had none of me.

K. Rich.
He is our cousin, cousin; but 'tis doubt,
When time shall call him home from banishment,
Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.
Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green^{3 note}

Observ'd his courtship to the common people:—
How he did seem to dive into their hearts,
With humble and familiar courtesy;
What reverence he did throw away on slaves;
Wooing poor craftsmen, with the craft of smiles,
And patient underbearing of his fortune,
As 'twere, to banish their affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
A brace of draymen bid—God speed him well,
And had the tribute of his supple knee^{4 note},
With—Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends;—
As were our England in reversion his,
And he our subjects' next degree in hope^{5 note}.

Green.
Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts.
Now for the rebels, which stand out in Ireland;—
Expedient^{6 note}
manage must be made, my liege;
Ere further leisure yield them further means,
For their advantage, and your highness' loss.

K. Rich.
We will ourself in person to this war.

And, for our coffers^{7 note}

Bushy.
Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, lord;
Suddenly taken; and hath sent post-haste,
To entreat your majesty to visit him.

K. Rich.
Where lies he?

Bushy.
At Ely-house.

K. Rich.
Now put it, heaven, in his physician's mind,
To help him to his grave immediately!
The lining of his coffers shall make coats
To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.—
Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him:
Pray God, we may make haste, and come too late! [Exeunt.

ACT II. SCENE I. London. A Room in Ely-house. Gaunt on a Couch; the Duke of York^{8 note}

Gaunt.
Will the king come? that I may breathe my last
In wholesome counsel to his unstaied youth.

York.
Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;
For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.

Gaunt.
O, but they say, the tongues of dying men
Enforce attention like deep harmony:
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain;
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
He, that no more must say, is listen'd more,
  Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
More are men's ends mark'd, than their lives before:
  The setting sun, and musick at the close^{9 note}
,
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last;
Writ in remembrance more than things long past:
Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,
My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.

York.
No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds,
As, praises of his state: then, there are found* ^note
Lascivious metres^{1 note}

Whose manners still our tardy apish nation
Limps after, in base imitation.
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
(So it be new, there's no respect how vile,)
That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?
Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,
Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard^{3 note}.
Direct not him, whose way himself will choose^{4 note};
'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

Gaunt.
Methinks, I am a prophet new inspir'd;
And thus, expiring, do foretell of him:
His rash^{5 note}

This happy breed of men, this little world;
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands^{7 note};
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth^{8 note}

Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leas'd out (I die pronouncing it,)
Like to a tenement, or pelting farm^{9 note}

Enter King Richard, and Queen^{3 note}; Aumerle^{4 note}, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Ross^{5 note} and Willoughby^{6 note}.

York.
The king is come: deal mildly with his youth;
For young hot colts, being rag'd, do rage the more^{7 note}
.

Queen.
How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?

K. Rich.
What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt?

Gaunt.
O, how that name befits my composition!
Old Gaunt, indeed; and gaunt in being old:
Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;
And who abstains from meat, that is not gaunt?
For sleeping England long time have I watch'd;
Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt:
The pleasure, that some fathers feed upon,
Is my strict fast, I mean—my children's looks;
And, therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt:
Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,
Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.

K. Rich.
Can sick men play so nicely with their names?

Gaunt.
No, misery makes sport to mock itself:
Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,
I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.

K. Rich.
Should dying men flatter with those that live?

Gaunt.
No, no; men living flatter those that die.

K. Rich.
Thou, now a dying, say'st—thou flatter'st me.

Gaunt.
Oh! no; thou diest, though I the sicker be.

K. Rich.
I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill.

Gaunt.
Now, He that made me, knows I see thee ill;
Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill^{8 note}.
Thy death-bed is no lesser than the land,
Wherein thou liest in reputation sick:
And thou, too careless patient as thou art,
Commit'st thy anointed body to the cure
Of those physicians that first wounded thee:
A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head;
And yet, incaged in so small a verge,
The waste is no whit lesser than thy land.
O, had thy grandsire, with a prophet's eye,
Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons,
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame;
Deposing thee before thou wert possess'd,
Which art possess'd now to depose thyself^{9 note}.

Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world,
It were a shame, to let this land by lease:
But, for thy world, enjoying but this land,
Is it not more than shame, to shame it so?
Landlord of England art thou now, not king:
Thy state of law is bondslave to the law^{1 note}

K. Rich.
&lblank; a lunatick lean-witted fool^{3 note}

Gaunt.
O, spare me not, my brother Edward's son,
For that I was his father Edward's son;
That blood already, like the pelican,
Hast thou tapp'd out, and drunkenly carous'd:
My brother Gloster, plain well-meaning soul,
(Whom fair befal in heaven 'mongst happy souls!)
May be a precedent and witness good,

That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood:
Join with the present sickness that I have;
And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too-long wither'd flower^{4 note}

Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!—
These words hereafter thy tormentors be!—
Convey me to my bed, then to my grave:
Love they^{5 note} to live, that love and honour have. [Exit, borne out by his Attendants.

K. Rich.
And let them die, that age and sullens have;
For both hast thou, and both become the grave.

York.
I do beseech your majesty^{6 note}

K. Rich.
Right; you say true: as Hereford's love, so his:
As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is. Enter Northumberland^{7 note}.

North.
My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty.

K. Rich.
What says he^{8 note}

North.
Nay, nothing; all is said:
His tongue is now a stringless instrument;
Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

York.
Be York the next that must be bankrupt so!
Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich.
The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he;
His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be^{9 note}:
So much for that.—Now for our Irish wars:
We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns;
Which live like venom, where no venom else^{1 note}

York.
How long shall I be patient? Ah, how long
Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?
Not Gloster's death, nor Hereford's banishment,

Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage^{2 note}
, nor my own disgrace,
Have ever made me sour my patient cheek,
Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face.—
I am the last of noble Edward's sons,
Of whom thy father, prince of Wales, was first;
In war, was never lion rag'd more fierce,
In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely gentleman:
His face thou hast, for even so look'd he,
Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours^{3 note};
But, when he frown'd, it was against the French,
And not against his friends: his noble hand
Did win what he did spend, and spent not that
Which his triumphant father's hand had won:
His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
O, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,
Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich.
Why, uncle, what's the matter?

York.
O, my liege,
Pardon me, if you please; if not, I pleas'd
Not to be pardon'd, am content withal.
Seek you to seize, and gripe into your hands,
The royalties and rights of banished Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead? and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt just? and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir?
Is not his heir a well-deserving son?

Take Hereford's rights away, and take from time
His charters and his customary rights;
Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day;
Be not thyself, for how art thou a king,
But by fair sequence and succession?
Now, afore God (God forbid, I say true!)
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's rights,
Call in the letters patents that he hath
By his attornies-general to sue
His livery^{4 note}
, and deny his offer'd homage^{5 note},
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,
You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich.
Think what you will: we seize into our hands
His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.

York.
I'll not be by, the while: My liege, farewell:
What will ensue hereof, there's none can tell;
But by bad courses may be understood,
That their events can never fall out good. [Exit.

K. Rich.
Go, Bushy, to the earl of Wiltshire straight;
Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,
To see this business: To-morrow next

We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow;
And we create, in absence of ourself,
Our uncle York lord governor of England,
For he is just, and always lov'd us well.—
Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [Flourish. [Exeunt King, Queen, Bushy, Aumerle, Green, and Bagot.

North.
Well, lords, the duke of Lancaster is dead.

Ross.
And living too; for now his son is duke.

Willo.
Barely in title, not in revenue.

North.
Richly in both, if justice had her right.

Ross.
My heart is great; but it must break with silence,
Ere't be disburden'd with a liberal tongue.

North.
Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more,
That speaks thy words again, to do thee harm!

Willo.
Tends that thou would'st speak, to the duke of Hereford?
If it be so, out with it boldly, man;
Quick is mine ear, to hear of good towards him.

Ross.
No good at all, that I can do for him;
Unless you call it good, to pity him,
Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

North.
Now, afore heaven, '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.

Ross.
The commons hath he pill'd with grievous taxes,

And quite lost their hearts^{5 note}

Willo.
And daily new exactions are devis'd;
As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what^{6 note}
:
But what, o' God's name, doth become of this?

North.
Wars have not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not,
But basely yielded upon compromise
That which his ancestors achiev'd with blows:
More hath he spent in peace, than they in wars.

Ross.
The earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.

Willo.
The king's grown bankrupt, like a broken man.

North.
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 banish'd duke.

North.
His noble kinsman: most degenerate king!
But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing^{7 note}
,
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm:

We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not^{8 note}

Ross.
We see the very wreck that we must suffer;
And unavoided is the danger^{1 note} now,
For suffering so the causes of our wreck.

North.
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.

Willo.
Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours.

Ross.
Be confident to speak, Northumberland:
We three are but thyself; and, speaking so,
Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore, be bold.

North.
Then thus:—I have from Port le Blanc, a bay
In Britanny, receiv'd intelligence,
That Harry Hereford, Reignold lord Cobham,
[The son of Richard Earl of Arundel,]
That late broke from the duke of Exeter^{2 note}

His brother, archbishop late of Canterbury^{3 note},
Sir Thomas Erpingham, sir John Ramston,

Sir John Norbery, sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Quoint,—
All these well furnish'd by the duke of Bretagne,
With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And shortly mean to touch our northern shore:
Perhaps, they had ere this; but that they stay
The first departing of the king for Ireland.
If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke,
Imp out^{4 note}

Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our scepter's gilt^{5 note}
,
And make high majesty look like itself,
Away, with me, in post to Ravenspurg:
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay, and be secret, and myself will go.

Ross.
To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them that fear.

Willo.
Hold out my horse, and I will first be there. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Same. A Room in the Palace. Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot.

Bushy.
Madam, your majesty is too much sad:
You promis'd, when you parted with the king,
To lay aside life-harming heaviness^{6 note}

Queen.
To please the king, I did; to please myself,
I cannot do it; yet I know no cause

Why I should welcome such a guest as grief,
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest
As my sweet Richard: Yet, again, methinks,
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb,
Is coming towards me; and my inward soul
With nothing trembles: at some thing it grieves^{7 note}

Bushy.
Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,
Which show like grief itself, but are not so:
For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects;
Like pérspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon,
Show nothing but confusion; ey'd awry,

Distinguish form^{8 note}

Finds shapes of grief, more than himself, to wail;
Which, look'd on as it is, is nought but shadows
Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious queen,
More than your lord's departure weep not; more's not seen:
Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye,
Which for things true, weeps things imaginary.

Queen.
It may be so; but yet my inward soul
Persuades me, it is otherwise: Howe'er it be,
I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad,
As,—though, in thinking, on no thought I think^{9 note},—
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

Bushy.
'Tis nothing but conceit^{1 note}, my gracious lady.

Queen.
'Tis nothing less; conceit is still deriv'd
From some forefather grief; mine is not so;
For nothing hath begot my something grief;
Or something hath the nothing that I grieve^{2 note}

'Tis in reversion that I do possess;
But what it is, that is not yet known^{3 note}

Green.
God save your majesty!—and well met, gentlemen:—

I hope, the king is not yet shipp'd for Ireland.

Queen.
Why hop'st thou so? 'tis better hope, he is;
For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope;
Then wherefore dost thou hope, he is not shipp'd?

Green.
That he, our hope, might have retir'd his power^{4 note}

Queen.
Now God in heaven forbid!

Green.
O, madam, 'tis too true: and that is worse,—
The lord Northumberland, his son young Henry Percy,
The lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,
With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.

Bushy.
Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland,
And all the rest of the revolted faction, traitors^{5 note}

Green.
We have: whereon the earl of Worcester
Hath broken his staff, resign'd his stewardship,
And all the household servants fled with him
To Bolingbroke.

Queen.
So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,

And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir^{6 note}

Bushy.
Despair not, madam.

Queen.
Who shall hinder me?
I will despair and be at enmity
With cozening hope; he is a flatterer,
A parasite, a keeper-back of death,
Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,
Which false hope lingers in extremity. Enter York.

Green.
Here comes the duke of York.

Queen.
With signs of war about his aged neck;
O, full of careful business are his looks!—
Uncle,
For heaven's sake speak comfortable words.

York.
Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts^{7 note}:
Comfort's in heaven; and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but crosses, care, and grief.
Your husband he is gone to save far off,
Whilst others come to make him lose at home:
Here am I left to underprop his land;
Who, weak with age, cannot support myself:—
Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made;
Now shall he try his friends that flatter'd him. Enter a Servant.

Serv.
My lord, your son was gone before I came.

York.
He was?—Why, so!—go all which way it will!—
The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold^{8 note}
,
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.—
Sirrah, get thee to Plashy^{9 note}, to my sister Gloster;
Bid her send me presently a thousand pound:—
Hold, take my ring.

Serv.
My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship:
To-day, as I came by, I called there;—
But I shall grieve you to report the rest.

York.
What is it, knave?

Serv.
An hour before I came, the duchess died.

York.
God for his mercy! what a tide of woes

Comes rushing on this woeful land at once!
I know not what to do:—I would to God,
(So my untruth^{1 note} had not provok'd him to it,)
The king had cut off my head with my brother's^{2 note}.—
What, are there no posts dispatch'd for Ireland^{3 note}

Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen;—
The one's my sovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bids defend; the other again,
Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong'd^{5 note}
;
Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.
Well, somewhat we must do.—Come, cousin, I'll
Dispose of you:—Gentlemen, go^{6 note}, muster up your men,
And meet me presently at Berkley-castle* ^note.
I should to Plashy too;—
But time will not permit:—All is uneven.
And every thing is left at six and seven. [Exeunt York and Queen.

Bushy.
The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland† ^note,
But none returns. For us to levy power,
Proportionable to the enemy,
Is all impossible.

Green.
Besides, our nearness to the king in love,
Is near the hate of those love not the king.

Bagot.
And that's the wavering commons: for their love
Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them,
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

Bushy.
Wherein the king stands generally condemn'd.

Bagot.
If judgment lie in them, then so do we,
Because we ever have been near the king.

Green.
Well, I'll for refuge straight to Bristol castle;
The earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy.
Thither will I with you: for little office
Will the hateful commons^{7 note} perform for us;
Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.—
Will you go along with us?

Bagot.
No; I'll to Ireland to his majesty.
Farewell: if heart's presages be not vain,
We three here part, that ne'er shall meet again.

Bushy.
That's as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.

Green.
Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes
Is—numb'ring sands, and drinking oceans dry;
Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.

Bushy.
Farewell at once; for once, for all, and ever.

Green.
Well, we may meet again.

Bagot.
I fear me, never. [Exeunt. SCENE III. The Wilds in Glostershire. Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland, with Forces.

Boling.
How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now?

North.
Believe me, noble lord,
I am a stranger here in Glostershire.
These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome:
And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,
Making the hard way sweet and délectable.
But, I bethink me, what a weary way

From Ravenspurg to Cotswold, will be found
In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company;
Which, I protest, hath very much beguil'd
The tediousness and process of my travel^{6 note}


:
But theirs is sweeten'd with the hope to have
The present benefit which I possess:
And hope to joy^{7 note}

Boling.
Of much less value is my company,
Than your good words. But who comes here? Enter Harry Percy.

North.
It is my son, young Harry Percy,
Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.—
Harry, how fares your uncle?

Percy.
I had thought, my lord, to have learn'd his health of you.

North.
Why, is he not with the queen?

Percy.
No, my good lord; he hath forsook the court,
Broken his staff of office, and dispers'd
The household of the king.

North.
What was his reason?

He was not so resolv'd, when last we spake together^{8 note}.

Percy.
Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.
But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurg,
To offer service to the duke of Hereford;
And sent me o'er by Berkley, to discover
What power the duke of York had levied there;
Then with direction to repair to Ravenspurg.

North.
Have you forgot the duke of Hereford, boy?

Percy.
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.

North.
Then learn to know him now; this is the duke.

Percy.
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.

Boling.
I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure,
I count myself in nothing else so happy,
As in a soul rememb'ring my good friends;
And, as my fortune ripens with thy love,
It shall be still thy true love's recompense:
My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.

North.
How far is it to Berkley? And what stir
Keeps good old York there, with his men of war?

Percy.
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, Berkley, and Seymour;

None else of name, and noble estimate* ^note. Enter Ross and Willoughby.

North.
Here come the lords of Ross and Willoughby,
Bloody with spurring, firy-red with haste.

Boling.
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.

Ross.
Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.

Willo.
And far surmounts our labour to attain it.

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 Berkley.

North.
It is my lord of Berkley, as I guess.

Berk.
My lord of Hereford, my message is to you^{9 note}

Boling.
My lord, my answer is—to Lancaster^{1 note};
And I am come to seek that name in England:
And I must find that title in your tongue,
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^{2 note}:—
To you, my lord, I come, (what lord you will,)
From the most gracious regent of this land^{3 note}

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,
Whose duty is deceivable and false.

Boling.
My gracious uncle!—

York.
Tut, tut!
Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle^{5 note}

I am no traitor's uncle; and that word—grace,
In an ungracious mouth, is but profane.
Why have those banish'd and forbidden legs
Dar'd once to touch a dust of England's ground?
But then more why^{6 note}

Com'st thou because the anointed king is hence?
Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind,
And in my loyal bosom lies his power.
Were I but now the lord* ^note of such hot youth,
As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself,
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,
From forth the ranks of many thousand French;
O, then, how quickly should this arm of mine,
Now prisoner to the palsy, chástise thee,
And minister correction to thy fault!

Boling.
My gracious uncle, let me know my fault;
On what condition^{8 note}

York.
Even in condition of the worst degree,—
In gross rebellion, and detested treason:
Thou art a banish'd man, and here art come,
Before the expiration of thy time,
In braving arms against thy† ^note sovereign.

Boling.
As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford;
But as I come, I come for Lancaster.
And, noble uncle, I beseech your grace,

Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye^{8 note}:
You are my father, for, methinks, in you
I see old Gaunt alive; O, then, my father!
Will you permit that I shall stand condemn'd
A wand'ring vagabond; my rights and royalties
Pluck'd from my arms perforce, and given away
To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born^{9 note}?
If that my cousin king be king of England,
It must be granted, I am duke of Lancaster.
You have a son, Aumerle, my noble kinsman;
Had you first died, and he been thus trod down,
He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father,
To rouse his wrongs, and chase them to the bay^{1 note}


.
I am denied to sue my livery here^{2 note},
And yet my letters patent give me leave:
My father's goods are all distrain'd, and sold;
And these, and all, are all amiss employ'd.
What would you have me do? I am a subject,
And challenge law: Attornies are denied me;
And therefore personally I lay my claim
To my inheritance of free descent.

North.
The noble duke hath been too much abus'd.

Ross.
It stands your grace upon, to do him right^{3 note}

Willo.
Base men by his endowments are made great.

York.
My lords of England, let me tell you this,—
I have had feeling of my cousin's wrongs,
And labour'd all I could to do him right:
But in this kind to come, in braving arms,
Be his own carver, and cut out his way^{4 note}
,
To find out right with wrong,—it may not be;
And you, that do abet him in this kind,
Cherish rebellion, and are rebels all.

North.
The noble duke hath sworn, his coming is
But for his own: and, for the right of that,
We all have strongly sworn to give him aid;
And let him ne'er see joy, that breaks that oath.

York.
Well, well, I see the issue of these arms;
I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,
Because my power is weak, and all ill left:
But, if I could, by him that gave me life,
I would attach you all, and make you stoop
Unto the sovereign mercy of the king;
But, since I cannot, be it known to you,
I do remain as neuter. So, fare you well;—
Unless you please to enter in the castle,
And there repose you for this night.

Boling.
An offer, uncle, that we will accept.
But we must win your grace, to go with us

To Bristol castle; which, they say, is held
By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices,
The caterpillars of the commonwealth,
Which I have sworn to weed, and pluck away.

York.
It may be, I will go with you:—but yet I'll pause^{4 note};
For I am loath to break our country's laws.
Nor friends, nor foes, to me welcome you are:
Things past redress, are now with me past care^{5 note}

. [Exeunt. 6 ^note. SCENE IV A Camp in Wales. Enter Salisbury^{7 note}, and a Captain.

Cap.
My lord of Salisbury, we have staid ten days,
And hardly kept our countrymen together,

And yet we hear no tidings from the king;
Therefore we will disperse ourselves: farewell.

Sal.
Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman;
The king reposeth all his confidence in thee.

Cap.
'Tis thought, the king is dead; we will not stay.
The bay-trees in our country are all wither'd^{8 note}

Sal.
Ah, Richard! with the eyes of heavy mind,
I see thy glory, like a shooting star,

Fall to the base earth from the firmament!
Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,
Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest:
Thy friends are fled, to wait upon thy foes;
And crossly to thy good all fortune goes. [Exit. ACT III. SCENE I. Bolingbroke's Camp at Bristol. Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Percy, Willoughby, Ross: Officers behind with Bushy and Green, prisoners.

Boling.
Bring forth these men.—
Bushy, and Green, I will not vex your souls
(Since presently your souls must part your bodies,)
With too much urging your pernicious lives,
For 'twere no charity: yet, to wash your blood
From off my hands, here, in the view of men,
I will unfold some causes of your deaths.
You have misled a prince, a royal king,
A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,
By you unhappied and disfigur'd clean^{9 note}

And stain'd the beauty of a fair queen's cheeks
With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs.
Myself—a prince, by fortune of my birth;
Near to the king in blood; and near in love,
Till you did make him misinterpret me,—
Have stoop'd my neck under your injuries,
And sigh'd my English breath in foreign clouds,
Eating the bitter bread of banishment:
Whilst you have fed upon my signories,
Dispark'd my parks^{2 note}

Condemns you to the death:—See them deliver'd over
To execution and the hand of death.

Bushy.
More welcome is the stroke of death to me,
Than Bolingbroke to England.—Lords, farewell.

Green.
My comfort is,—that heaven will take our souls,
And plague injustice with the pains of hell.

Boling.
My lord Northumberland, see them dispatch'd. [Exeunt Northumberland and Others, with Prisoners.
Uncle, you say the queen is at your house;
For heaven's sake, fairly let her be entreated:
Tell her I send to her my kind commends;
Take special care my greetings be deliver'd.

York.
A gentleman of mine I have dispatch'd
With letters of your love to her at large.

Boling.
Thanks, gentle uncle.—Come, lords, away;
To fight with Glendower and his complices;
Awhile to work, and, after, holiday.^{5 note}

6 ^note. SCENE II The Coast of Wales. A Castle in view. Flourish: Drums and Trumpets. Enter King Richard, Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, and Soldiers.

K. Rich.
Barkloughly castle call they^{7 note} this at hand?

Aum.
Yea, my lord: How brooks your grace the air,
After your late tossing on the breaking seas^{8 note}
?

K. Rich.
Needs must I like it well; I weep for joy,
To stand upon my kingdom once again.—
Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,
Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs:
As a long parted mother with her child

Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting^{8 note}

Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king
Shall falter under foul rebellion's arms^{2 note}.

Bishop.
Fear not, my lord^{3 note}; that Power, that made you king,
Hath power to keep you king, in spite of all.
The means that heaven yields must be embrac'd,
And not neglected; else, if heaven would,
And we will not, heaven's offer we refuse^{4 note}
;
The proffer'd means of succour and redress.

Aum.
He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;
Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,
Grows strong and great, in substance, and in friends.

K. Rich.
Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not,
That when the searching eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world^{5 note}

Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders and in outrage, bloody here;
But when, from under this terrestrial ball,
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines^{5 note},
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?
So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,—
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilst we were wand'ring with the antipodes,—
Shall see us rising in our throne the east,
His treasons will sit blushing in his face,
Not able to endure the sight of day,
But, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm from* ^note an anointed king:
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord^{6 note}

For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd,
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,
God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards the right. Enter Salisbury.
Welcome, my lord; How far off lies your power?

Sal.
Nor near, nor further off, my gracious lord,
Than this weak arm: Discomfort guides my tongue,
And bids me speak of nothing but despair.
One day too late, I fear, my noble lord,
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth:
O, call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men!
To-day, to-day, unhappy day, too late,
O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state;

For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers'd, and fled.

Aum.
Comfort, my liege: why looks your grace so pale?

K. Rich.
But now the blood of twenty thousand men
  Did triumph in my face, and they are fled;
And, till so much blood thither come again,
  Have I not reason to look pale and dead^{7 note}

Aum.
Comfort, my liege; remember who you are.

K. Rich.
I had forgot myself: Am I not king?
Awake, thou sluggard^{8 note} majesty! thou sleep'st.
Is not the king's name forty thousand names^{9 note}

Enter Scroop.

Scroop.
More health and happiness betide my liege,
Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him.

K. Rich.
Mine ear is open^{1 note}, and my heart prepar'd;
The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold.
Say, is my kingdom lost? why, 'twas my care;
And what loss is it, to be rid of care?
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?
Greater he shall not be; if he serve God,
We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so:
Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend;
They break their faith to God, as well as us:
Cry, woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay;
The worst is—death, and death will have his day.

Scroop.
Glad am I, that your highness is so arm'd
To bear the tidings of calamity.
Like an unseasonable stormy day,
Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,
As if the world were all dissolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits swells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land
With hard bright steel, and hearts harder than steel.
White-beards^{2 note}

Against thy majesty; and boys* ^note, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints^{3 note}

K. Rich.
Too well, too well, thou tell'st a tale so ill.
Where is the earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
What is become of Bushy? where is Green^{6 note}

Scroop.
Peace have they made with him, indeed, my lord.

K. Rich.
O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption!
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!

Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart!
Three Judasses, each one thrice worse than Judas!
Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted souls for this offence!* ^note

Scroop.
Sweet love, I see, changing his property,
Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate:—
Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made
With heads and not with hands: those whom you curse,
Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound,
And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground^{7 note}

.

Aum.
Is Bushy, Green, and the earl of Wiltshire, dead?

Scroop.
Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.

Aum.
Where is the duke my father with his power?

K. Rich.
No matter where; of comfort no man speak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let's choose executors, and talk of wills:
And yet not so,—for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own but death;
And that small model of the barren earth^{8 note}

Which serves as paste and cover to our bones^{9 note}.
For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings:—
How some have been depos'd, some slain in war;
Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd^{1 note};
Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd:—For within the hollow crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps death his court: and there the antick sits^{2 note}

To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,—
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and—farewell king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition^{3 note}, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief,
Need friends:—Subjécted thus,
How can you say to me—I am a king?

Car.
Mylord, wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes* ^note,
But presently prevent the ways to wail.
To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength,
Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe,
And so your follies fight against yourself.
Fear, and be slain; no worse can come, to fight:
And fight and die, is death destroying death^{4 note};
Where fearing dying, pays death servile breath.

Aum.
My father hath a power, enquire of him;
And learn to make a body of a limb.

K. Rich.
Thou chid'st me well:—Proud Bolingbroke, I come
To change blows with thee for our day of doom.
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown;
An easy task it is, to win our own.—
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power?
Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour.

Scroop.
Men judge by the complexion of the sky
  The state and inclination of the day:
So may you by my dull and heavy eye,
  My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.
I play the torturer, by small and small,
To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken:—
Your uncle York hath join'd with Bolingbroke;
And all your northern castles yielded up,
And all your southern gentlemen in arms
Upon his party.

K. Rich.
Thou hast said enough.—
Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth [To Aumerle.
Of that sweet way I was in to despair!
What say you now? What comfort have we now?
By heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly,
That bids me be of comfort^{5 note}
any more.
Go, to Flint castle; there I'll pine away;
A king, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey^{6 note}
.
That power I have, discharge; and let them go
To ear the land^{7 note}
that hath some hope to grow,
For I have none:—Let no man speak again
To alter this, for counsel is but vain.

Aum.
My liege, one word.

K. Rich.
He does me double wrong,
That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.
Discharge my followers, let them hence;—Away,
From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Wales. A Plain before Flint Castle^{7 note}. Enter, with Drum and Colours, Bolingbroke and Forces; York, Northumberland, and Others.

Boling.
So that by this intelligence we learn,
The Welshmen are dispers'd; and Salisbury
Is gone to meet the king, who lately landed,
With some few private friends, upon this coast.

North.
The news is very fair and good, my lord;
Richard, not far from thence, hath hid his head.

York.
It would beseem the lord Northumberland,
To say—king Richard:—Alack the heavy day,
When such a sacred king should hide his head!

North.
Your grace mistakes me^{8 note}; only to be brief,
Left I his title out.

York.
The time hath been,
Would you have been so brief with him, he would
Have been so brief with you, to shorten you,

Far taking so the head^{9 note}, your whole head's length.

Boling.
Mistake not, uncle, further than you should.

York.
Take not, good cousin, further than you should,
Lest you mistake: The heavens are o'er your head.

Boling.
I know it, uncle; and oppose not myself
Against their will^{1 note}



—But who comes here^{2 note}

Percy.
The castle royally is mann'd, my lord,
Against thy entrance.

Boling.
Royally!
Why, it contains no king?

Percy.
Yes, my good lord,
It doth contain a king; king Richard lies
Within the limits of yon lime and stone:
And with him are the lord Aumerle, lord Salisbury,
Sir Stephen Scroop; besides a clergyman
Of holy reverence, who, I cannot learn.

North.
Oh! belike it is the bishop of Carlisle.

Boling.
Noble lord, [To North.
Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle^{3 note}

The which, how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke
It is, such crimson tempest should bedrench
The fresh green lap of fair king Richard's land,
My stooping duty tenderly shall show.
Go, signify as much while here we march
Upon the grassy carpet of this plain.— [Northumberland advances to the Castle with a Trumpet.
Let's march without the noise of threat'ning drum,
That from the castle's totter'd battlements^{4 note}
Our fair appointments may be well perus'd.
Methinks, king Richard and myself should meet
With no less terror than the elements
Of fire and water, when their thund'ring shock
At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven.
Be he the fire, I'll be the yielding water:
The rage be his, while on the earth I rain
My waters; on the earth, and not on him.
March on, and mark king Richard how he looks. A parle sounded, and answered by another Trumpet within. Flourish. Enter on the walls King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle^{5 note}, Aumerle, Scroop, and Salisbury.

York.
See, see, king Richard doth himself appear^{6 note}

As doth the blushing discontented sun
From out the firy portal of the east;
When he perceives the envious clouds are bent
To dim his glory, and to stain the track
Of his bright passage to the occident.
Yet looks he like a king; behold, his eye,
As bright as is the eagle's, lightens forth
Controlling majesty; Alack, alack, for woe,
That any harm should stain so fair a show!

K. Rich.
We are amaz'd; and thus long have we stood
To watch the fearful bending of thy knee, [To Northumberland.
Because we thought ourself thy lawful king:
And if we be, how dare thy joints forget
To pay their awful duty to our presence?
If we be not, show us the hand of God
That hath dismiss'd us from our stewardship;
For well we know, no hand of blood and bone
Can gripe the sacred handle of our scepter,
Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp.
And though you think, that all, as you have done,
Have torn their souls, by turning them from us,
And we are barren, and bereft of friends;—
Yet know,—my master, God omnipotent,
Is must'ring in his clouds, on our behalf,
Armies of pestilence; and they shall strike
Your children yet unborn, and unbegot,
That lift your vassal hands against my head,
And threat the glory of my precious crown.
Tell Bolingbroke, (for yond', methinks, he is,)
That every stride he makes upon my land,
Is dangerous treason: He is come to ope
The purple testament of bleeding war^{7 note}

But ere the crown he looks for live in peace,
Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers' sons
Shall ill become the flower of England's face^{8 note}

North.
The king of heaven forbid, our lord the king
Should so with civil and uncivil arms
Be rush'd upon! Thy thrice-noble cousin,

Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy hand;
And by the honourable tomb he swears,
That stands upon your royal grandsire's bones;
And by the royalties of both your bloods,
Currents that spring from one most gracious head;
And by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt^{1 note}

This swears he, as he is a prince, is just;
And, as I am a gentleman, I credit him.

K. Rich.
Northumberland, say,—thus the king returns;—
His noble cousin is right welcome hither;
And all the number of his fair demands
Shall be accomplish'd without contradiction:
With all the gracious utterance thou hast,
Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends.—
We do debase ourself, cousin, do we not, [To Aumerle.
To look so poorly, and to speak so fair?
Shall we call back Northumberland, and send
Defiance to the traitor, and so die?

Aum.
No, good my lord; let's fight with gentle words,
Till time lend friends, and friends their helpful swords.

K. Rich.
O God! O God! that e'er this tongue of mine,
That laid the sentence of dread banishment
On yon proud man, should take it off again
With words of sooth^{3 note}! O, that I were as great
As is my grief, or lesser than my name!
Or that I could forget what I have been!
Or not remember what I must be now!
Swell'st thou, proud heart? I'll give thee scope to beat,
Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me.

Aum.
Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke.

K. Rich.
What must the king do now? Must he submit?
The king shall do it. Must he be depos'd?

The king shall be contented: Must he lose
The name of king? o' God's name, let it go:
I'll give my jewels, for a set of beads;
My gorgeous palace, for a hermitage;
My gay apparel^{4 note}

Aumerle, thou weep'st; My tender-hearted cousin!—
We'll make foul weather with despised tears;
Our sighs, and they, shall lodge the summer corn,
And make a dearth in this revolting land.
Or shall we play the wantons with our woes,
And make some pretty match with shedding tears?
As thus;—To drop them still upon one place,
Till they have fretted us a pair of graves
Within the earth; and, therein laid,—There lies
Two kinsmen, digg'd their graves with weeping eyes?
Would not this ill do well?—Well, well, I see
I talk but idly, and you mock at me.—
Most mighty prince, my lord Northumberland,
What says king Bolingbroke? will his majesty
Give Richard leave to live till Richard die?
You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says—ay^{7 note}

North.
My lord, in the base court^{8 note} he doth attend
To speak with you; may't please you to come down?

K. Rich.
Down, down, I come; like glistering Phaeton,
Wanting the manage of unruly jades. [North. retires to Boling.

In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base,
To come at traitors' calls, and do them grace.
In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down, king!
For night-owls shriek, where mounting larks should sing. [Exeunt, from above.

Boling.
What says his majesty?

North.
Sorrow and grief of heart
Makes him speak fondly, like a frantick man:
Yet he is come. Enter King Richard, and his Attendants, below.

Boling.
Stand all apart,
And show fair duty to his majesty.—
My gracious lord,— [Kneeling.

K. Rich.
Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee,
To make the base earth proud with kissing it:
Me rather had, my heart might feel your love,
Than my unpleas'd eye see your courtesy.
Up, cousin, up; your heart is up, I know,
Thus high at least, [Touching his own head.] although your knee be low.

Boling.
My gracious lord, I come but for mine own.

K. Rich.
Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all.

Boling.
So far be mine, my most redoubted lord,
As my true service shall deserve your love.

K. Rich.
Well you deserve:—They well deserve to have,
That know the strong'st and surest way to get.—
Uncle, give me your hand: nay, dry your eyes;
Tears show their love, but want their remedies.—
Cousin, I am too young to be your father,

Though you are old enough to be my heir.
What you will have, I'll give, and willing to;
For do we must, what force will have us do.—
Set on towards London:—Cousin, is it so?

Boling.
Yea, my good lord.

K. Rich.
Then I must not say, no^{9 note}. [Flourish. Exeunt. SCENE IV. Langley. The Duke of York's Garden. Enter the Queen, and two Ladies.

Queen.
What sport shall we devise here in this garden,
To drive away the heavy thought of care?

1 Lady.
Madam, we'll play at bowls.

Queen.
'Twill make me think, the world is full of rubs,
And that my fortune runs against the bias.

1 Lady.
Madam, we will dance.

Queen.
My legs can keep no measure in delight,
When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief:
Therefore, no dancing, girl; some other sport.

1 Lady.
Madam, we'll tell tales.

Queen.
Of sorrow, or of joy^{1 note}

1 Lady.
Of either, madam.

Queen.
Of neither, girl:
For if of joy, being altogether wanting,
It doth remember me the more of sorrow;
Or if of grief, being altogether had,
It adds more sorrow to my want of joy:
For what I have, I need not to repeat;
And what I want, it boots not to complain^{2 note}.

1 Lady.
Madam, I'll sing.

Queen.
'Tis well, that thou hast cause;
But thou should'st please me better, would'st thou weep.

1 Lady.
I could weep, madam, would it do you good.

Queen.
And I could weep^{3 note}

Gard.
Go, bind thou up yon' dangling apricocks,
Which, like unruly children, make their sire
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight:
Give some supportance to the bending twigs.—
Go thou, and like an executioner,
Cut off the heads of too-fast-growing sprays,
That look too lofty in our commonwealth:
All must be even in our government.—
You thus employ'd, I will go root away
The noisome weeds, that without profit suck
The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers.

1 Serv.
Why should we, in the compass of a pale,
Keep law, and form, and due proportion,
Showing, as in a model, our firm estate^{5 note}

Gard.
Hold thy peace:—
He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring,
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf:

The weeds, that his broad-spreading leaves did shelter,
That seem'd in eating him to hold him up,
Are pluck'd up, root and all, by Bolingbroke;
I mean, the earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

1 Serv.
What, are they dead?

Gard.
They are; and Bolingbroke
Hath seiz'd the wasteful king.—Oh! What pity is it,
That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land,
As we this garden! We at time of year^{7 note}

1 Serv.
What, think you then, the king shall be depos'd?

Gard.
Depress'd he is already; and depos'd,
'Tis doubt, he will be^{9 note}

To a dear friend of the good duke of York's,
That tell black tidings.

Queen.
O, I am press'd to death, through want of speaking^{1 note}!
Thou, old Adam's likeness, [Coming from her concealment.] set to dress this garden^{2 note}.
How dares thy harsh-rude tongue sound this unpleasing news^{3 note}

Gard.
Pardon me, madam: little joy have I,
To breathe this news; yet, what I say, is true.
King Richard, he is in the mighty hold
Of Bolingbroke; their fortunes both are weigh'd:
In your lord's scale is nothing but himself,
And some few vanities that make him light;

But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,
Besides himself, are all the English peers,
And with that odds he weighs king Richard down.
Post you to London, and you'll find it so;
I speak no more than every one doth know.

Queen.
Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot,
Doth not thy embassage belong to me,
And am I last that knows it? O, thou think'st
To serve me last, that I may longest keep
Thy sorrow in my breast.—Come, ladies, go,
To meet at London London's king in woe.—
What, was I born to this! that my sad look
Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?—
Gardener, for telling me this news of woe,
I would, the plants thou graft'st, may never grow^{4 note}

Gard.
Poor queen! so that thy state might be no worse,
I would, my skill were subject to thy curse.—
Here did she fall a tear^{5 note}

ACT IV. SCENE I. London. Westminster Hall^{6 note}. The Lords spiritual on the right side of the Throne; the Lords temporal on the left; the Commons below. Enter Bolingbroke, Aumerle, Surrey^{7 note}, Northumberland, Percy, Fitzwater^{8 note}, another Lord, Bishop of Carlisle, Abbot of Westminster, and Attendants. Officers behind, with Bagot.

Boling.
Call forth Bagot:—
Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind;
What thou dost know of noble Gloster's death;
Who wrought it with the king, and who perform'd
The bloody office of his timeless end^{9 note}.

Bagot.
Then set before my face the lord Aumerle.

Boling.
Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man.

Bagot.
My lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue
Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver'd.
In that dead time when Gloster's death was plotted,
I heard you say,—Is not my arm of length,

That reacheth from the restful English court
As far as Calais, to my uncle's head?
Amongst much other talk, that very time,
I heard you say, that you had rather refuse
The offer of an hundred thousand crowns,
Than Bolingbroke's return to England;
Adding withal, how blest this land would be,
In this your cousin's death.

Aum.
Princes, and noble lords,
What answer shall I make to this base man?
Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars^{9 note}

Boling.
Bagot, forbear, thou shalt not take it up.

Aum.
Excepting one, I would he were the best
In all this presence, that hath mov'd me so.

Fitz.
If that thy valour stand on sympathies^{1 note},

There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine:
By that fair sun that shows me where thou stand'st,
I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak'st it,
That thou wert cause of noble Gloster's death.
If thou deny'st it twenty times^{2 note}
, thou liest;
And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart,
Where it was forged, with my rapier's point^{3 note}

Aum.
Thou dar'st not, coward, live to see that day.

Fitz.
Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour.

Aum.
Fitzwater, thou art damn'd to hell for this.

Percy.
Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true,
In this appeal, as thou art all unjust:
And, that thou art so, there I throw my gage,
To prove it on thee to the extremest point
Of mortal breathing; seize it if thou dar'st.

Aum.
And if I do not, may my hands rot off,
And never brandish more revengeful steel
Over the glittering helmet of my foe!

Lord.
I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle^{3 note}

And spur thee on with full as many lies
As may be holla'd in thy treacherous ear
From sun to sun^{4 note}

Aum.
Who sets me else? by heaven, I'll throw at all:
I have a thousand spirits in one breast^{5 note}
,
To answer twenty thousand such as you.

Surrey.
My lord Fitzwater, I do remember well
The very time Aumerle and you did talk.

Fitz.
'Tis very true: you were in presence then^{6 note}

Surrey.
As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true.

Fitz.
Surrey, thou liest.

Surrey.
Dishonourable boy!
That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword,
That it shall render vengeance and revenge,
Till thou the lie-giver, and that lie, do lie
In earth as quiet as thy father's scull.
In proof whereof, there is my honour's pawn;
Engage it to the trial, if thou dar'st.

Fitz.
How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse!
If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live,
I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness^{7 note}

And spit upon him, whilst I say he lies,
And lies, and lies: there is my bond of faith,
To tie thee to my strong correction.—
As I intend to thrive in this new world^{8 note},
Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal:
Besides, I heard the banish'd Norfolk say,
That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men
To execute the noble duke at Calais.

Aum.
Some honest Christian trust me with a gage,
That Norfolk lies: here do I throw down this^{9 note}

Boling.
These differences shall all rest under gage,
Till Norfolk be repeal'd: repeal'd he shall be,
And, though mine enemy, restor'd again
To all his land and signories; when he's return'd,
Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial.

Car.
That honourable day shall ne'er be seen.—
Many a time hath banish'd Norfolk fought
For Jesu Christ; in glorious Christian field
Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross,
Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens:
And toil'd with works of war, retir'd himself
To Italy; and there, at Venice, gave
His body to that pleasant country's earth^{1 note}
,
And his pure soul unto his captain Christ,

Under whose colours he had fought so long.

Boling.
Why, bishop, is Norfolk dead?

Car.
As sure as I live, my lord.

Boling.
Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom
Of good old Abraham!—Lords appellants,
Your differences shall all rest under gage,
Till we assign you to your days of trial. Enter York, attended.

York.
Great duke of Lancaster, I come to thee
From plume-pluck'd Richard; who with willing soul
Adopts thee heir, and his high scepter yields
To the possession of thy royal hand:
Ascend his throne, descending now from him,—
And long live Henry, of that name the fourth!

Boling.
In God's name, I'll ascend the regal throne^{1 note}

Car.
Marry, God forbid!—
Worst in this royal presence may I speak,
Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth^{2 note}

Would God, that any in this noble presence
Were enough noble to be upright judge
Of noble Richard; then true nobless^{2 note} would
Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong.
What subject can give sentence on his king?
And who sits here that is not Richard's subject?
Thieves are not judg'd, but they are by to hear,
Although apparent guilt be seen in them:
And shall the figure of God's majesty^{3 note}

Anointed, crowned, planted many years,
Be judg'd by subject and inferior breath,
And he himself not present? O, forfend* ^note it, God,
That, in a Christian climate, souls refin'd
Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed!
I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks,
Stirr'd up by heaven thus boldly for his king.
My lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,
Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king:
And if you crown him, let me prophecy,—
The blood of English shall manure the ground,
And future ages groan for this foul act;
Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,
And, in this seat of peace, tumultuous wars
Shall kin with kin, and kind with kind confound;
Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny,
Shall here inhabit, and this land be call'd
The field of Golgotha, and dead men's sculls.
O, if you raise† ^note this house against this house,
It will the woefullest division prove,
That ever fell upon this cursed earth:
Prevent, resist it, let it not be so,
Lest child, child's children^{4 note}

North.
Well have you argu'd, sir; and, for your pains,
Of capital treason we arrest you here:—
My lord of Westminster, be it your charge
To keep him safely till his day of trial^{5 note}

May't please you, lords, to grant the commons' suit.

Boling.
Fetch hither Richard, that in common view
He may surrender; so we shall proceed
Without suspicion.

York.
I will be his conduct^{6 note}
. [Exit.

Boling.
Lords, you that here are under our arrest,
Procure your sureties for your days of answer:—
Little are we beholden to your love, [To Carlisle.
And little look* ^note for at your helping hands. Re-enter York, with King Richard, and Officers bearing the Crown, &c.

K. Rich.
Alack, why am I sent for to a king,
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts
Wherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd
To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my limbs† ^note:—
Give sorrow leave a while to tutor me
To this submission. Yet I well remember

The favours of these men^{7 note}

York.
To do that office of thine own good will,
Which tired majesty did make thee offer,
The resignation of thy state and crown
To Henry Bolingbroke.

K. Rich.
Give me the crown:—Here, cousin, seize the crown;
On this side^{8 note}

The emptier ever dancing^{9 note} in the air,
The other down, unseen, and full of water:
That bucket down, and full of tears, am I,
Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

Boling.
I thought you had been willing to resign.

K. Rich.
My crown, I am; but still my griefs are mine:
You may my glories and my state depose,
But not my griefs; still am I king of those.

Boling.
Part of your cares you give me with your crown.

K. Rich.
Your cares set up, do not pluck my cares down.
My care is—loss of care, by old care done^{1 note};
Your care is—gain of care, by new care won:
The cares I give, I have, though given away;
They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.

Boling.
Are you contented to resign the crown?

K. Rich.
Ay, no;—no, ay;—for I must nothing be;
Therefore no, no, for I resign to thee.
Now mark me, how I will undo myself:—
I give this heavy weight from off my head,
And this unwieldy scepter from my hand,
The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;
With mine own tears I wash away my balm^{2 note},
With mine own hands I give away my crown,
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,

With mine own breath release all duty's rites* ^note:
All pomp and majesty I do forswear;
My manors, rents, revenues, I forego;
My acts, decrees, and statutes, I deny:
God pardon all oaths, that are broke to me!
God keep all vows unbroke, that swear† ^note to thee!
Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd;
And thou with all pleas'd, that hast all achiev'd!
Long may'st thou live in Richard's seat to sit,
And soon lie Richard in an earthy pit!
God save king Henry, unking'd Richard says,
And send him many years of sunshine days!—
What more remains?

North.
No more, but that you read [Offering a paper.
These accusations, and these grievous crimes,
Committed by your person, and your followers,
Against the state and profit of this land;
That, by confessing them, the souls of men
May deem that you are worthily depos'd.

K. Rich.
Must I do so? and must I ravel out
My weav'd up follies? Gentle Northumberland,
If thy offences were upon record,
Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop,
To read a lecture of them? If thou would'st^{3 note},
There should'st thou find one heinous article,—
Containing the deposing of a king,
And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,—
Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heaven:—
Nay, all of you, that stand and look upon^{4 note},
Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,—

Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands,
Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates
Have here deliver'd me to my sour cross,
And water cannot wash away your sin.

North.
My lord, dispatch; read o'er these articles.

K. Rich.
Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see:
And yet salt water blinds them not so much,
But they can see a sort^{5 note}

North.
My lord,—

K. Rich.
No lord of thine, thou haught^{6 note}
, insulting man,
Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no title,—
No, not that name was given me at the font^{7 note},—
But 'tis usurp'd:—Alack the heavy day,
That I have worn so many winters out,
And know not now what name to call myself!
O, that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt myself away in water drops!—
Good king,—great king,—(and yet not greatly good,)

An if my word be sterling yet in England,
Let it command a mirror hither straight;
That it may show me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty^{8 note}.

Boling.
Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass. [Exit an Attendant.

North.
Read o'er this paper, while the glass doth come.

K. Rich.
Fiend! thou torment'st me ere I come to hell.

Boling.
Urge it no more, my lord Northumberland.

North.
The commons will not then be satisfied.

K. Rich.
They shall be satisfied: I'll read enough,
When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ^{9 note}
, and that's—myself. Re-enter Attendant with a Glass.
Give me the glass, and therein will I read* ^note.—
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds?—O, flattering glass,
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face† ^note,
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men^{1 note}? Was this the face,
That, like the sun, did make beholders wink‡ ^note?

Was this the face, that fac'd so many follies,
And was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face:
As brittle as the glory is the face; [Dashes the Glass against the ground.
For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.—
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,—
How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.

Boling.
The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd
The shadow of your face.

K. Rich.
Say that again.
The shadow of my sorrow? Ha! let's see:—
'Tis very true, my grief lies all within;
And these external manners of lament^{2 note}

Boling.
Name it, fair cousin.

K. Rich.
Fair cousin! I am greater than a king^{3 note}

For, when I was a king, my flatterers
Were then but subjects; being now a subject,
I have a king here to my flatterer.
Being so great, I have no need to beg.

Boling.
Yet ask.

K. Rich.
And shall I have?

Boling.
You shall.

K. Rich.
Then give me leave to go.

Boling.
Whither?

K. Rich.
Whither you will, so I were from your sights.

Boling.
Go, some of you, convey him to the Tower.

K. Rich.
O, good! Convey?—Conveyers are you all^{1 note},
That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall^{2 note}. [Exeunt K. Richard, some Lords, and a Guard.

Boling.
On Wednesday next we solemnly set down
Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves^{3 note}



. [Exeunt all but the Abbot, Bishop of Carlisle, and Aumerle.

Abbot.
A woeful pageant have we here beheld.

Car.
The woe's to come; the children yet unborn
Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn^{4 note}.

Aum.
You holy clergymen, is there no plot
To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?

Abbot.
Before I freely speak my mind herein,
You shall not only take the sacrament
To bury^{5 note}