Dutchess.
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.

Yor.
Where did I leave?

Dut.
At that sad stop, my lord,
Where rude mis-govern'd hands, from window tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head.

Yor.
Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,—
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,—
With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course,

While all tongues cry'd—Heav'n 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,—
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.

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

Yor.
As, in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scoul on Richard; no man cry'd, Heav'n 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,—
That had not Heav'n, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pity'd him* ^note.
But heaven hath a hand in these events;
To whose high will we bind our calm contents:
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow. Enter Aumerle.

Dut.
Here comes my son Aumerle.

Yor.
Aumerle that was;
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.

Dut.
Welcome, my son: Who are the violets now,
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?

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

Yor.
Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
Lest you be cropt before you come to prime.
What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs?

Aum.
For aught I know, my lord.

Yor.
You will be there?

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

Yor.
What seal is that, which hangs without thy bosom?
Yea, look'st thou pale, sir? let me see the writing.

Aum.
My lord, 'tis nothing.

Yor.
No matter then who sees it:
I will be satisfy'd, 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.

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

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

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

Aum.
'Beseech you, pardon me; I may not shew it.

Yor.
I will be satisfy'd; let me see't, I say:— [snatches it from his Bosom, and reads.
Treason! foul treason!—villain! traitor! slave!

Dut.
What is the matter, my lord?

Yor.
Ho! who is within there? [Servant appears.] Saddle my horse.—
God for his mercy! what treachery is here!

Dut.
Why, what is it, my lord?

Yor.
Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse:— [Exit Servant.

Now by mine honour, by my life, my troth,
I will appeach the villain.

Dut.
What's the matter?

Yor.
Peace, foolish woman.

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

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

Dut.
Thy life answer! Re-enter Servant, with Boots.

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

Dut.
Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amaz'd:—
Hence, villain; never more come in my sight. [to the Servant, driving him out.

Yor.
Give me my boots, I say.

Dut.
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?

Yor.
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.

Dut.
He shall be none;
We'll keep him here; then what is that to him?

Yor.
Away, fond woman! were he twenty times
My son, I would appeach him.

Dut.
Hadst thou groan'd for him,
As I have done, thou'dst 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.

Yor.
Make way, unruly woman. [Exit

Dut.
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. [Exeunt.‡ ^note SCENE II. Windsor. A Room in the Castle. Enter Bolingbroke, as King; Percy, and other Lords, with him.

K. H.
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 Heav'n, my lords, he might be found:
Enquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there,
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;
Whilst he, young, wanton, and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour, to support
So dissolute a crew.

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

K. H.
And what said the gallant?

Per.
His answer was—he would unto the stews;
And from the common'st creature pluck a glove,
And wear it as a favour; and with that
He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.

K. H.
As dissolute as desperate: yet, through both,
I see some sparkles of a better hope,
Which elder years may happily bring forth.
But who comes here?

Enter Aumerle, hastily.

Aum.
Where is the king?

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

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

K. H.
Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone. [Exeunt Per. and Lords.
What is the matter with our cousin now?

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

K. H.
Intended, or committed, was this fault?
If but the first, how heinous e'er 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.

K. H.
Have thy desire. [Aum. rises, and locks the door.

Yor. [within.]
My liege, beware; look to thyself, my liege; [knocking, and crying loud.
Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.

K. H.
Villain, I'll make thee safe. [in act to stab.

Aum.
Stay thy revengeful hand; [witholding him.
Thou hast no cause to fear.

Yor. [within.]
Open the door, secure, fool-hardy king:
Shall I, for love, speak treason to thy face?
Open the door, or I will break it open.

K. H.
What is the matter, uncle? [opens, and shuts again. Enter York.
Recover breath; tell us how near is danger,
That we may arm us to encounter it.

Yor.
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.

Yor.
'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.

K. H.
O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!—
O loyal father of a treacherous son!
Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,
From whence this stream through muddy passages
Hath held his current, and defil'd himself!
Thy overflow of good converts to bad;
And thy abundant goodness shall excuse
This deadly blot in thy digressing son.

Yor.
So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd:
And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,
As thriftless sons their scraping father's 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.

Dut. [within.]
What ho, my liege! for Heaven's sake, let me in.

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

Dut. [within.]
A woman, and thine aunt, great king; 'tis I.
Speak with me, pity me, open the door;
A beggar begs, that never beg'd before.

K. H.
Our scene is alter'd; from a serious thing,
'Tis now chang'd to the beggar and the king.—
My dangerous cousin, let your mother in;
I know, she's come to pray for your foul sin.

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

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

Yor.
Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here?
&blquo;Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?

Dut.
Sweet York, be patient:—Hear me, gentle liege, [kneeling.

K. H.
Rise up, good aunt.

Dut.
Not yet, I thee beseech:
For ever will I kneel upon my knees,
And never see day that the happy sees,
'Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,
By pard'ning Rutland, my transgressing boy.

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

Yor.
Against them both, my true joints bended be.
Ill may'st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!

Dut.
Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face;
His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are jest;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:
He prays but faintly, and would be deny'd;
We pray with heart, and soul, and all beside:
His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;
Our knees shall kneel 'till to the earth 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.

&blquo;K. H.
&blquo;Good aunt, stand up.

&blquo;Dut.
&blquo;Nay, do not say—stand up;
&blquo;But, pardon, first; and afterwards, stand up.
&blquo;An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
&blquo;Pardon—should be the first word of thy speech.
&blquo;I never long'd to hear a word 'till now;
&blquo;Say—pardon, king, let pity teach thee how:
&blquo;The word is short, but not so short as sweet;
&blquo;No word like, pardon, for kings' mouths so meet.

&blquo;Yor.
&blquo;Speak it in French, king; say, pardonnez moy.

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

K. H.
Good aunt, stand up.

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

K. H.
I pardon him, as Heav'n shall pardon me.

Dut.
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.

K. H.
With all my heart
I pardon him.

Dut.
A god on earth thou art.

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

&blquo;Dut.
&blquo;Come, my old son; [to Aum.] I pray Heav'n make thee new. [Exeunt. &blquo;SCENE III. The same. Enter Exton, and Servant.

Ext.
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?

Ser.
Those were his very words.

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

Ser.
He did.

Ext.
And, speaking it, he wistly 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. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV. Pomfret. Dungeon of the Castle. Enter Richard.

Ric.
I have been studying how to compare
This prison, where I live, unto the world:
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it;—yet I'll hammer it out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul;
My soul, the father: and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,
And these same thoughts people this little world;
&blquo;In humours, like the people of this world,
&blquo;For no thought is contented. The better sort,—
&blquo;As thoughts of things divine,—are intermixt
&blquo;With scruples, and do set the word itself
&blquo;Against the word:
&blquo;As thus,—Come, little ones; and then again,—
&blquo;It is as hard to come, as for a camel
&blquo;To thread the postern of a needle's eye* ^note.
&blquo;Thoughts tending to ambition they do plot
&blquo;Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails
&blquo;May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
&blquo;Of this hard world, my ragged prison-walls;
&blquo;And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
&blquo;Thoughts tending to content, flatter themselves,—
&blquo;That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
&blquo;Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,
&blquo;Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame,—
&blquo;That many have, and others must sit there:
&blquo;And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
&blquo;Bearing their own misfortune on the back
&blquo;Of such as have before endur'd the like.
&blquo;Thus play I in one person many people,
&blquo;And none contented: Sometimes am I king;
&blquo;Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,
&blquo;And so I am: Then crushing penury

&blquo;Persuades me, I was better when a king;
&blquo;Then am I king'd again: and, by and by,
&blquo;Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
&blquo;And straight am nothing:—But, whate'er I am,
&blquo;Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
&blquo;With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
&blquo;With being nothing. Music do I hear? [distant Music.
&blquo;Ha, ha! keep time:—How sour sweet music is,
&blquo;When time is broke, and no proportion kept?
&blquo;So is it in the music of men's lives.
&blquo;And here have I the daintiness of ear
&blquo;To hear time broke in a disorder'd string;
&blquo;But, for the concord of my state and time,
&blquo;Had not an ear to hear my true time broke† ^note.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
For now hath time made me his numb'ring clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and, with sighs, they jar
Their watches to mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears:
Now, sir, the sound, that tells what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell: So sighs, and tears, and groans,
Shew minutes, times, and hours—but my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack-o'the clock.
This music mads me, let it sound no more;
For, though it have holp madmen to their wits,
In me, it seem, it will make wise men mad.
Yet, blessing on his heart that gives it me!
For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

Enter Groom.

Gro.
Hail, royal prince!

Ric.
Thanks, noble peer;
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
What art thou? and how cam'st thou hither, man?
Where no man ever comes, but that sad dog
That brings me food, to make misfortune live?

Gro.
I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometime master's face.
O, how it yern'd my heart, when I beheld,
In London streets, that coronation day,
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary!
That horse, that thou so often hast bestrid;
That horse, that I so carefully have dress'd!

Ric.
Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,
How went he under him?

Gro.
So proudly, as if he disdain'd the ground.

Ric.
So proud, that Bolingbroke was on his back!
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down,
(Since pride must have a fall) and break the neck
Of that proud man, that did usurp his back?
Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee† ^note,
Since thou, created to be aw'd by man,
Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;
And yet I bear a burthen like an ass,
Spur-gall'd, and tir'd, by jauncing Bolingbroke. Enter Keeper, with a Dish.

Kee.
Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.

Ric.
If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away.

Gro.
What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say. [Exit Groom.

Kee.
The meat, my lord; wilt please you to fall to?

Ric.
Taste of it first, as thou wert wont to do.

Kee.
My lord, I dare not; for sir Pierce of Exton,
Who late came from the king, commands the contrary.

Ric.
The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and thee! [beating him.
Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.

Kee.
Help, help, help! Enter Exton, and Servants, arm'd.

Ric.
How now? what means death in this rude assault?
Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument.— [snatching an Axe, and killing him.
Go thou, [killing a second Servant.] and fill another room in hell.—
That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire, [receiving a Blow from behind.
That staggers thus my person.—Thy fierce hand [to Exton.
Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land.
Mount, mount, my soul; thy seat is up on high;
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die. [falls down, and dies‡ ^note.

Ext.
As full of valour, as of royal blood:
Both have I spilt; O, would the deed were good!
For now the devil, that told me—I did well,
Says, that this deed is chronicl'd in hell.
This dead king to the living king I'll bear;—
Take hence the rest, and give them burial here. [Exeunt, bearing out the Bodies. SCENE V. Windsor. A Room in the Castle. Enter King Henry, York, and others.

K. H.
Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear,
Is—that the rebels have consum'd with fire
Our town of Cicester in Glostershire;
But whether they be ta'en, or slain, we hear not.—

Enter Northumberland.
Welcome, my lord; what is the news?

Nor.
First to thy sacred state wish I all happiness.
The next news is—I have to London sent
The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent:
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursed in this paper here.

K. H.
We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. Enter Fitzwater.

Fit.
My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
The heads of Brocas and sir Bennet Seely;
Two of the dangerous consorted traitors,
That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

K. H.
Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. Enter Percy, with Carlisle.

Per.
The grand conspirator, abbot of Westminster,
With clog of conscience, and sour melancholy,
Hath yielded up his body to the grave:
But here is Carlisle living, to abide
Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride.

K. H.
Carlisle, this is your doom:—
Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
So, as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife:
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen‡ ^note. Enter Exton, with Persons bearing a Coffin.

Ext.
Great king, within this coffin I present
Thy bury'd fear: herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bourdeaux, by me hither brought.

K. H.
Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought
A deed of slander, with thy fatal hand,
Upon my head, and all this famous land.

Ext.
From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.

K. H.
They love not poison, that do poison need,
Nor do I thee; though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer, love him murdered‡ ^note.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word, nor princely favour:
With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
And never shew thy head by day nor light.—
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me, to make me grow:
Come, mourn with me for what I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent;
I'll make a voyage to the holy land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand:—
March sadly after; grace my mournings here,
In weeping after this untimely bier. [Exeunt. The End of King Richard II.

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