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}