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}

Previous section