Queen.
This way the king will come; this is the way
To Julius Cæsar's ill-erected tower^{8 note}

Is doom'd a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke:
Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth
Have any resting for her true king's queen^{9 note}

Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee,
When triumph is become an alehouse guest?

K. Rich.
Join not with grief^{4 note}; fair woman, do not so,
To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul,
To think our former state a happy dream;
From which awak'd, the truth of what we are
Shows us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet,
To grim necessity^{5 note}

Queen.
What, is my Richard both in shape and mind
Transform'd and weakened? Hath Bolingbroke
Depos'd thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart?
The lion, dying, thrusteth forth his paw,
And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o'erpower'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take thy correction mildly? kiss the rod;
And fawn on rage with base humility,

Which art a lion, and the king of beasts^{6 note}?

K. Rich.
A king of beasts, indeed; if aught but beasts,
I had been still a happy king of men^{7 note}.
Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France:
Think, I am dead; and that even here thou tak'st,
As from my death-bed, my last living leave.
In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire
With good old folks; and let them tell thee tales
Of woeful ages, long ago betid:
And, ere thou bid good night, to quit their griefs^{8 note},
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me^{9 note}

The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,
And, in compassion, weep the fire out:
And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,
For the deposing of a rightful king. Enter Northumberland, attended.

North.
My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd;
You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.—
And, madam, there is order ta'en for you^{2 note}
;
With all swift speed you must away to France.

K. Rich.
Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,—
The time shall not be many hours of age
More than it is, ere foul sin gathering head,
Shall break into corruption: thou shalt think,
Though he divide the realm, and give thee half,
It is too little, helping him to all;
And he shall think^{3 note}, that thou, which know'st the way
To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,
Being ne'er so little urg'd, another way
To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.
The love of wicked friends converts to fear;
That fear, to hate; and hate turns one, or both,
To worthy danger and deserved death.

North.
My guilt be on my head, and there an end.
Take leave, and part; for you must part forthwith.

K. Rich.
Doubly divorc'd?—Bad men, ye violate
A twofold marriage; 'twixt my crown and me;
And then, betwixt me and my married wife.—
Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me;
And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made^{2 note}

.—
Part us, Northumberland; I towards the north,
Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime;
My wife to France; from whence, set forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither like sweet May,
Sent back like Hallowmas^{3 note}, or short'st of day.

Queen.
And must we be divided? must we part?

K. Rich.
Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.

Queen.
Banish us both, and send the king with me.

North.
That were some love, but little policy^{4 note}.

Queen.
Then whither he goes, thither let me go^{5 note}.

K. Rich.
So two, together weeping, make one woe.
Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here;
Better far off, than—near, be ne'er the near'^{6 note}

Go, count thy way with sighs; I, mine with groans.

Queen.
So longest way shall have the longest moans.

K. Rich.
Twice for one step I'll groan, the way being short,
And piece the way out with a heavy heart.
Come, come, in wooing sorrow let's be brief,
Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief:
One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part;
Thus give I mine, and thus I take thy heart. [They kiss.

Queen.
Give me mine own again; 'twere no good part,
To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart^{7 note}

K. Rich.
We make woe wanton with this fond delay:
Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say. [Exeunt.

SCENE II. London. A Room in the Duke of York's Palace. Enter York, and his Duchess^{7 note}.

Duch.
My lord, you told me, you would tell the rest,
When weeping made you break the story off
Of our two cousins coming into London.

York.
Where did I leave?

Duch.
At that sad stop, my lord,
Where rude misgovern'd hands, from windows' tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head.

York.
Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,—
Mounted upon a hot and firy steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,—
With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course,
While all tongues cried—God save thee, Bolingbroke!
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old

Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls,
With painted imag'ry, had said at once^{8 note},—
Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus,—I thank you, countrymen:
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

Duch.
Alas, poor Richard! where rides he the while?

York.
As in a theatre^{9 note}, the eyes of men,
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent^{1 note} on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God save him;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,—
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience^{2 note}

That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in these events;
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow. Enter Aumerle.

Duch.
Here comes my son Aumerle.

York.
Aumerle that was^{3 note};
But that is lost, for being Richard's friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now:
I am in parliament pledge for his truth,
And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

Duch.
Welcome, my son: Who are the violets now,

That strew the green lap of the new-come spring^{4 note}

?

Aum.
Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not:
God knows, I had as lief be none, as one.

York.
Well, bear you well^{5 note} in this new spring of time,
Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime.
What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs* ^{note6 note}

Aum.
For aught I know, my lord, they do.

York.
You will be there, I know.

Aum.
If God prevent it not; I purpose so.

York.
What seal is that, that hangs without thy bosom^{7 note}?
Yea, look'st thou pale? let me see the writing^{8 note}

Aum.
My lord, 'tis nothing.

York.
No matter then who sees it:
I will be satisfied, let me see the writing.

Aum.
I do beseech your grace to pardon me;
It is a matter of small consequence,
Which for some reasons I would not have seen.

York.
Which, for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear,—

Duch.
What should you fear?
'Tis nothing but some bond that he is enter'd into
For gay apparel, 'gainst the triumph day.

York.
Bound to himself, what doth he with a bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.—
Boy, let me see the writing.

Aum.
I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not show it.

York.
I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say. [Snatches it, and reads.
Treason! foul treason!—villain! traitor! slave!

Duch.
What is the matter, my lord?

York.
Ho! who is within there? [Enter a Servant.] Saddle my horse.
God for his mercy! what treachery is here!

Duch.
Why, what is it, my lord?

York.
Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse:—
Now by mine honour, by my life, by my troth,
I will appeach the villain. [Exit Servant.

Duch.
What's the matter?

York.
Peace, foolish woman.

Duch.
I will not peace:—What is the matter, son?

Aum.
Good mother, be content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.

Duch.
Thy life answer! Re-enter Servant with Boots.

York.
Bring me my boots, I will unto the king.

Duch.
Strike him, Aumerle.—Poor boy, thou art amaz'd^{9 note}:—
Hence, villain; never more come in my sight.— [To the Servant.

York.
Give me my boots, I say.

Duch.
Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?

York.
Thou fond mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.

Duch.
He shall be none;
We'll keep him here: Then what is that to him?

York.
Away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son,
I would appeach him.

Duch.
Hadst thou groan'd for him,
As I have done, thou wouldest be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect,
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son:
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me, or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.

York.
Make way, unruly woman. [Exit.

Duch.
After, Aumerle; mount thee upon his horse;
Spur, post; and get before him to the king,
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
I'll not be long behind; though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:
And never will I rise up from the ground,
Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee: Away; begone. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Windsor. A Room in the Castle. Enter Bolingbroke as King; Percy, and other Lords.

Boling.
Can no man tell of my unthrifty son?
'Tis full three months, since I did see him last:—
If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.
I would to God, my lords, he might be found.
Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there,^{1 note}

For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,
With unrestrained loose companions;
Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes,
And beat our watch, and rob our passengers;
While he^{2 note}

Percy.
My lord, some two days since I saw the prince;
And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford.

Boling.
And what said the gallant?

Percy.
His answer was,—he would unto the stews;
And from the commonest creature pluck a glove^{3 note}

Boling.
As dissolute, as desperate: yet, through both
I see some sparkles of a better hope^{4 note}

Enter Aumerle, hastily.

Aum.
Where is the king?

Boling.
What means
Our cousin, that he stares and looks so wildly?

Aum.
God save your grace. I do beseech your majesty,
To have some conference with your grace alone.

Boling.
Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.— [Exeunt Percy and Lords.
What is the matter with our cousin now?

Aum.
For ever may my knees grow to the earth, [Kneels.
My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth,
Unless a pardon, ere I rise, or speak.

Boling.
Intended or committed, was this fault?
If on^{5 note} the first, how heinous ere it be,
To win thy after-love, I pardon thee.

Aum.
Then give me leave that I may turn the key,
That no man enter till my tale be done.

Boling.
Have thy desire. [Aumerle locks the door.

York. [Within]
My liege, beware; look to thyself;
Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.

Boling.
Villain, I'll make thee safe. [Drawing.

Aum.
Stay thy revengeful hand; thou hast no cause to fear.

York. [Within.]
Open the door, secure, foolhardy king:
Shall I, for love, speak treason to thy face?

Open the door, or I will break it open. [Bolingbroke opens the door. Enter York.

Boling.
What is the matter, uncle? speak;
Recover, breath; tell us how near is danger,
That we may arm us to encounter it.

York.
Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know
The treason that my haste forbids me show.

Aum.
Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise past:
I do repent me; read not my name there,
My heart is not confederate with my hand.

York.
'Twas, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.—
I tore it from the traitor's bosom, king;
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence:
Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove
A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.

Boling.
O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!—
O loyal father of a treacherous son!
Thou sheer, immaculate^{6 note}

Thy overflow of good converts to bad^{7 note}

York.
So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd;
And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,
As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold.
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,
Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies:
Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath,
The traitor lives, the true man's put to death,

Duch. [Within.]
What ho, my liege! for God's sake let me in.

Boling.
What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes this eager cry?

Duch.
A woman, and thine aunt, great king; 'tis I.
Speak with me, pity me, open the door;
A beggar begs, that never begg'd before.

Boling.
Our scene is alter'd,—from a serious thing,
And now chang'd to The Beggar and the King^{9 note}

My dangerous cousin, let your mother in;
I know, she's come to pray for your foul sin.

York.
If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
More sins, for this forgiveness, prosper may.
This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rests sound;
This, let alone, will all the rest confound. Enter Duchess.

Duch.
O king, believe not this hard-hearted man;
Love, loving not itself, none other can.

York.
Thou frantick woman, what dost thou make here^{1 note}

Duch.
Sweet York, be patient: Hear me, gentle liege. [Kneels.

Boling.
Rise up, good aunt.

Duch.
Not yet, I thee beseech:
For ever will I kneel upon my knees^{2 note}

Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,
By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.

Aum.
Unto my mother's prayers, I bend my knee. [Kneels.

York.
Against them both, my true joints bended be. [Kneels.
Ill may'st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace^{3 note}!

Duch.
Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face;
His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:
He prays but faintly, and would be denied;
We pray with heart, and soul, and all beside:
His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;
Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow:
His prayers are full of false hypocrisy;
Ours, of true zeal and deep integrity.
Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have
That mercy, which true prayers ought to have.

Boling.
Good aunt, stand up.

Duch.
Nay, do not say—stand up;
But, pardon, first; and afterwards, stand up.
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon—should be the first word of thy speech.

I never long'd to hear a word till now;
Say—pardon, king; let pity teach thee how:
The word is short, but not so short as sweet;
No word like, pardon, for kings' mouths so meet.

York.
Speak it in French, king; say, pardonnez moy^{4 note}.

Duch.
Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?
Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,
That set'st the word itself against the word!
Speak, pardon, as 'tis current in our land;
The chopping French^{5 note}
we do not understand.
Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there:
Or, in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear;
That hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,
Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse.

Boling.
Good aunt, stand up.

Duch.
I do not sue to stand,
Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.

Boling.
I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.

Duch.
O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
Yet am I sick for fear: speak it again;
Twice saying pardon, doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon strong.

Boling.
With all my heart
I pardon him^{6 note}
.

Duch.
A god on earth thou art^{7 note}
.

Boling.
But for our trusty brother-in-law^{8 note},—and the abbot^{9 note},
With all the rest of that consorted crew,—
Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels^{1 note}
.—
Good uncle, help to order several powers
To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are:
They shall not live within this world, I swear,
But I will have them if I once know where.
Uncle, farewell,—and cousin too^{2 note}, adieu:
Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.

Duch.
Come, my old son;—I pray God make thee new. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. Enter Exton, and a Servant.

Exton.
Didst thou not mark the king, what words he spake?

Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?
Was it not so?

Serv.
Those were his very words.

Exton.
Have I no friend? quoth he: he spake it twice,
And urg'd it twice together; did he not?

Serv.
He did.

Exton.
And, speaking it, he wistfully look'd on me;
As who should say,—I would thou wert the man
That would divorce this terror from my heart;
Meaning, the king at Pomfret. Come, let's go
I am the king's friend, and will rid his foe^{3 note}