For in the first Line the Greek lends no Authority for making Timon a Hater of the Gods; and in the Second, there is no Invitation for Passengers to approach his Tomb; but, on the contrary, an express Order for them to go on, and curse in Abundance.

I begin to fear least the Number of Quotations in this Essay should give it an Air rather of Ostentation than Proof; and if I were to go thro' with examining those other Plays, whose Fables are borrow'd from Antiquity, it would swell this Preface to a Bulk inconsistent with the Work to which it is prefix'd. The Troilus and Cressida is the only Play, except Timon, for which Shakespear is indebted to the Greek Story: And He has Three, viz. Coriolanus, Julius Cæsar, and Anthony and Cleopatra, which are founded on Roman History. I could, with the greatest Ease imaginable, produce above 500 Passages from these Plays to evidence his Intimacy with the Latin Classicks: And an impartial Scholar, will, with little Labour, he convinc'd of his deeper Reading, by tracing whole Speeches, and particular Facts, in his Julius Cæsar from Appian and Dion Cassius. Our late Laureat, and some Others before him, have seem'd to be of Opinion that our Poet [illeg.]ok his Troilus and Cressida from Lollius and Chaucer, who

borrow'd his Argument from the Lombard. But the Incidents and Characters of these Poems are so few, their Arguments so narrow, and confin'd, in Comparison to that Scope which our Poet takes, that I dare be positive he a'rew out his Scheme, and modell'd it, from Homer himself. There lies a fair Appeal, on this Head, to his Character of Thersites, the Importance of Antenor to the Trojans, the Challenge of Hector to the Grecian Camp, the Death of Patroclus, and a Multitude more of Instances, which, like Witnesses in a Cause, might be brought to corroborate a single Fact by Variety of concurring Circumstances.

But I am making a Dissertation of what I design'd but an Essay; and have still One part of my Preface untouch'd, upon the Necessity of supporting two Companies of Actors, if the Town would consult their publick Diversions. I have sketch'd out a Method for some abler Pen, at a greater Extent, to vindicate our Author's Acquaintance with the Antients: and shall conclude on that Subject with saying, There is a Party insists that He was but a small Proficient in Letters; but Shakespear himself, if his Remains may be admitted as Testimony, vouches for his better Knowledge of the Classicks; unprejudic'd Judges must decide upon the Question:—Utri creditis, Quirites?

§ II. The Theatre consider'd as a publick Diversion, and of publick Use, justly deserves that Esteem, which all polite Nations have ever bestowed on It. The Greeks, who were the First that brought it into any tolerable Form, made it a part of their Religion; had as many formal Officers to preside over, direct, and regulate the Stage, as we have in the Course of any of our common and distinct Courts of Justice. Their Theatres were not, like Ours, dependant on the good Will, Caprice, or Vanity of particular Persons; but establish'd by Law, directed by Law, and all their Concerns, the Concern of the Civil Magistrate. These Wise People, knowing the Influence that such Representations must have over the Generality of the People, by well adapting an antient Fact in Story to the Circumstance of their Time, have often gain'd a Battle (if I may be allow'd the Expression,) before they fought it, rais'd Taxes at a Juncture of general Complaints, and built Temples, from the Sense of a Theatrical Audience, when Civil Policy could not prevail. Thus it must ever be, when Wise Men, the first in State, as well as Esteem, are at the Head of Scenical Entertainments. Philosophers and Magistrates were seen in the foremost Seats of their Plays; and as all Scandal and Vice were check'd by their Presence, so all Virtue of Course was incourag'd, and if they had no Other Pleasure, the Audience departed at least with the Satisfaction of having been in good Company.

The Number of the Theatres at Athens seems at this Distance of Time to be very uncertain: yet it is plain that they exceeded That of Ours. They were capable of receiving Ten times the Company; and, as far as can be gather'd from History, were always full. The Romans, who did every Thing after the Grecian Model with Improvement, both encreas'd the Number, and inlarg'd the Compass of their Theatres. and that to such a Degree, as, to speak in the Words of an excellent Modern Poet,† ^note One of their Playhouses was of an Extent,

Generals, Magistrates, nay, even private Persons built Stages, and maintain'd Companies of Actors: And, it is plain, it has been familiar even with Us in England, from the Power that every Branch of the Royal Family, and every Nobleman, have (and formerly often exercis'd,) of granting Licenses to a particular Company of Comedians under their Name. How this most reasonable Fashion came to Decay, seems doubtful, unless we will say that Names and Politicks have for the last Age and half eat out good Sense; and grave Outward Pretenses, and an Attention to real private Interest taken off our Appetites to Publick Diversion.

We are a greater, and more flourishing People than either the Greeks, or Romans; and, as some say, more by Genius inclin'd to Theatrical Representations. Why then has not this Inclination it's Effect? Why cannot we support Two Theatres in our Metropolis, as well as They could Twenty in Either of Theirs? But the general Cry is, that the Town is justly entertain'd but at One Theatre, and thither All flock by Consent to see, and be seen. Can we think it was ever an Objection at Rome, that a few Principal Parts were acted better at Pompey's Theatre, than at Lucullus's; or, perhaps, better at Cæsar's Theatre, than Both? No, no; Encouragements were given to All, with the generous Thought, that He, who did not excell This Year, might the Next; and He, who did excell This Year, the Next might be no more. Tho' then they had their Favourite Actors, yet they were no longer so, than they perform'd well, did the Business of the State as well as of the Stage, and were under that Regulation of Behaviour, which common Decency, and their peculiar Laws requir'd. When a Player was silenc'd with Them, he was

silenc'd for ever. No Retractations, no Appeals could be from a Virtuous People generously resenting a particular Assurance. Affronts to Noble Personages then, whether design'd, light, or rash, were consider'd as the Concerns of the State: and a Roman Audience would sooner have call'd for a Ropedancer, or an Elephant, than an Actor suffering under his own Indiscretion.

This I only intend as a backward View of what has been, what may be, is in the Breast of the proper Judges: but, surely, 'tis very hard that a Company endeavouring to please, risquing their Lives, Fortunes, and Reputations on that Bottom, should thro' unhappy Prejudices never get the better of Partiality, I dare not say, ill Judgment. There have been before now accidental Separations of the Companies; and both Parties have stood it well in the Eye of the Town: But never, till of late, did it appear, that a Fondness to One or Two private Persons, personating publick Characters, should lead the Town after Them whereever they pleas'd.

To reason a little upon this Subject; There is as absolute a Necessity for keeping Two Companies, even under Disadvantages, as there is for a Gard'ner, who has a handsome Plantation, to keep a Nursery, As it would be Madness in Him to cut down his Young Trees, because he has Older; so it seems equal Folly to destroy the growing Hopes of a Young Company, because you may lodge a Summer or Two under the Shade of the Elder. To go on with the Metaphor, Transplantation has been found to be very necessary; otherwise Both Groves might have flourish'd with equal Beauty, and Encrease.

If Two Houses are not encourag'd, what must be the Consequence? The Town, Authors, and Actors, will All suffer by it. The Town will have every Thing palm'd upon them, good or bad, at the Humour, or pretended Judgment, of the principal Actors. The brightest Performance, if not forc'd upon the Stage by a high Hand, or creeping to it with a servile Submission, may be neglected, lost, or what is worse, the Writer abus'd, and his Reputation, as Such, lost, before he has tried it. Thus no New Plays may happen to be receiv'd, but what are bad: and the Town, of course, contented to take up with the Repetition of a narrow Catalogue of Plays in the House's Stock. Upon the same Foot, Actors must expect to be retrench'd in their Salaries; and, which is more grating, depress'd in their Merit. For Players, as has been observed by Many before Me, cannot shine at once but by New Principal Parts; and All, who have ever made any Figure in the Business, have work'd up by these Means to the Height of their Profession. Kindness, and good Opinion naturally follow Endeavours to excell; This, as it daily encreases, gives both Pleasure to the Audience, and Spirit to the Player. His Fears wear away, as their Approbation

heightens, and his Ambition rises with their Hopes. But in One Company This can never be obtain'd; Oppression, so natural to Power, the Fear of being eclips'd, which always carries strong Jealousies with It, will both contribute largely to suppress a Rival, in the Favours of the Town. To give an Instance, or two: Had it not been for the Division of the Companies, the Town might never have seen Mr. Ryan in the beautiful Lights, in which it has since admir'd Him. They lik'd him in the First Characters of Old Plays, and so were prepar'd to receive him better in any good New One: where He could have no Pattern before his Eye to act by Imitation. If he charm'd as Howard in Sir Walter Raleigh, he certainly exceeded in the Character of Richard in the following Scenes: and These, I think, will be allow'd to be as distinct and different Parts as any One Man could excell in. The Same must be said of Mr. Boheme, who, if he had never play'd Cobham, might have rais'd no Hopes in the Company, that he could shine in the Person of York. Fear, and Horror, One would imagine to be very different from the Character of a grave Statesman, a just Magistrate, and a tender Father; and yet One Person perform'd Both with a just Applause. This gives an Evidence, that while the Companies are divided, the Necessity of Things puts the Managers upon searching into the Merit of People's Talents, and shewing Them to the best Advantage: an Effect not to be expected, where an Idolatry to particular Persons is constantly paid, and to have excell'd in One Thing makes an Excellence in All.

A little Favour might give greater Hopes, and encourage more Persons to exert themselves, and Others of great Abilities to enter into a Company; where, if there be not the strongest View, at present, of flourishing, there is, at least, of being well receiv'd and cherish'd. Put to play in Misery is breaking the Spirit of an Actor, and bidding him do That, which Humanity never expected, and Tyranny never commanded in any parallel Circumstance of Life. If this Representation of the State of the Stage will not do any Good, I can only say I have perform'd what seems to be just, fair, and impartial; and shall be unconcern'd at any Exceptions to a Design that carries with It Nothing but the Common Good, and Improvement of the Pleasure of the Town.

PROLOGUE; Spoken by Mr. Ryan.

The Tragick Muse aspires by various Ways
To catch the Soul, and to command your Praise;
Oft, breathing War, to generous Acts She warms,
And animates your Martial Breasts to Arms:
Then, as the personated Hero fights,
Your Bosoms kindle in your Country's Rights.
Our Author labours in an humbler Strain,
But hopes to sooth you with a pleasing Pain;
To move your Hearts, and force your Eyes to flow
With Tears, drawn from an English Monarch's Woe.
Justly his Pen's mistaken Task he'll own,
If you can see a Prince, without a Groan,
Forc'd by his Subjects to renounce his Throne.
  If recent Times more fresh Examples bring,
How we can murther, or depose a King,
Fearful of Censure, and offended Law,
The Muse presumes no Parallels to draw;
Nor aims to make the sullen, factious Stage
Bellow with Anti-Revolution Rage.
From Richard's Ruin, only, she intends
To wound your Souls, and make you Richard's Friends.
  Immortal Shakespear on this Tale began,
And wrote it in a rude, Historick Plan,
On his rich Fund our Author builds his Play,
Keeps all his Gold, and throws his Dross away;
Safe in this Aid, he can no Thunder dread,
Fenc'd with the God's own Laurel round his Head.

EPILOGUE; Written by Mr. Sewel. And Spoken by Mrs. Bullock.

Like a poor Ghost, which left some Wealth behind it,
I come to point the Place, where you may find it.
You strait will answer, (as you Moderns measure,)
Can a dead Husband be accounted Treasure!
Yes, had be left me, as your Spouses true,
A Modern Settlement;—why, Things might do.
Then I could view him stretch'd upon his Bier,
And seem to shed the fashionable Tear:
O'er the pale Corps, more pale, devoutly shriek,
But read the Joynture with a glowing Cheek.
Instead of This, our Poet took a Dance,
And forc'd me, on his Whimsies into France:
Sad Things these Wits! Who, with convenient Ease,
Can Banish, Kill, or Marry, as they please.
But for my Self, and Sex, I here engage,
How Wits should fix this Matter on the Stage.
  He should have made me like lamenting Dido,
A sad, a weeping, a despairing Wi&wblank;dow;
With Sword in Hand, with Tears unnumber'd shed,
Look, and point out—the Consummation Bed!
Then mount the funeral Pile, with dreadful Ire,
And, as in Life Time, set the House on Fire.

  There were a thousand Ways his Art might try,
To kill me fairly, if I was to dye.
But to survive, and Nothing to come after,
But carrying me on t'other side the Water,
This is a Trick that I'll revenge on Him,
By asking whether,—He shall sink, or swim;
A Husband kill'd, and no Provision known,
Dear Ladies, do but make the Case your own:
What e'er by Tragick Scenes the Bard intends,
I'll Swear, that He and I will ne'er be Friends,
Till he can place me by his Magick Pen
In Statu quo, and marry me again
But, for my Sake, not that the Bard may thrive,
Give me your Leave, that Richard may revive.

Dramatis Personæ.

K. Richard the II [King Richard the Second].	Mr. Ryan.
Duke of York [Edmund of Langley],	Mr. Boheme.
Duke of Aumerle,	Mr. Smith.
Lord Salisbury [Earl of Salisbury],	Mr. Egleton.
Bishop of Carlisle,	Mr. C. Bullock.
Bolingbroke [Henry Bolingbroke],	Mr. Leigh.
Earl of Northumberland,	Mr. Ogden.
Lord Ross,	Mr. Diggs.
Lord Willoughby,	Mr. Coker.
Exton [Sir Pierce of Exton],
Lieut. of the Tower [Lieutenant],
Queen,	Mrs. Bullock.
Lady Piercy,	Mrs. Spiller.

Scene the Tower of London.

King RICHARD the II. ACT I. Scene 1 SCENE, the Outside of the Tower. Enter Duke of York, Earl of Salisbury, Lord Ross and Lord Willoughby.

York.
Heav'n of his Mercy! What a Tide of Woes
Comes rushing on this ruin'd Land at once!
My Lords of Salisbury, Ross, and Willoughby,
What wou'd your Wisdoms counsel me to do?
I would, old York had dropt into his Grave,
E'er taken this unwieldy Task of Pow'r;
Here am I left to underprop the Land,
Who, weak with Age, can scarce support my Self:
I fear me, Bolingbroke comes on too fast.

Sal.
The haughty Lords, Northumberland and Wor'ster,
Cov'ring foul Treason with pretence of Wrongs,
Come in his Train, and draw their Brother Peers
To aid Rebellion, and dethrone King Richard.

York.
'Twas ill advis'd, when first th' unhappy King
Set out for this too fatal Irish War,

So rashly to proclaim Northumberland
A Traytor; on Surmise he was not Sound,
Because he wou'd not send the Force requir'd,
And, by disfurnishing the Northern Castles,
Invite Invasion from th' unfriendly Scots.

Ross.
By Heav'n, it shames us that such Wrongs are born,
That great Northumberland, and many more
Of noble Blood, in this declining Land,
Must crouch to Sycophants and base-born Slaves,
Or be content to meet the King's Displeasure.

Will.
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 he most severely prosecute
Against our Lives, our Fortunes, and our Heirs.

Ross.
The Commons hath he pill'd with grievous Taxes,
The Nobles hath he fin'd on ancient Quarrels,
And daily new Exactions are devis'd,
Benevolences, and I know not what.

Will.
But what becomes of all th' extorted Treasure?

Ross.
Wars have not wasted it, for war'd he hath not;
But basely yielded upon Compremise,
What his great Ancestors atchiev'd with Blows.

Will.
Nor had he Money for this Irish War,
His burthenous Taxations notwithstanding,
But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke,
Who now will pay himself.

York.
—My Lords, my Lords,
You do forget your selves, and are too bold:
'Tis not the business of a Subject's Tongue
Rashly to censure, and traduce his King;
A thousand Flatt'rers sit within a Crown,
Sway'd by whose Councils Richard may have err'd:
But since Correction lyeth in his Hands
That did the Fault, which we cannot correct,
Put we our Quarrel to the Will of Heaven.

Ross.
And see our Rights and Royalties usurp'd,
Pluck'd from our Arms perforce, and given away
To upstart Unthrifts! To submit to This,
You cannot call it Patience, but Despair;
That which in mean Men we entitle Patience,
Is pale, cold, Cowardice in noble Breasts.

York.
I see you take Advantage from the Time,
To shew your Dispositions; and bark loud,
Because my Power is weak, and all ill-left:
I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,
But if I cou'd, by Him that gave me Life,
I wou'd attach you both, and make you stoop
Unto the Sovereign Mercy of the King.
Urge me no farther, Lords; I wou'd not be
Compell'd to exert the Rage of gasping Pow'r,
And gripe You to Destruction.—

Will.
Come, my Lord,
We, that can hear this fearful Tempest sing,
Shou'd seek a Shelter to avoid the Storm. Exeunt Ross and Willoughby.

Sal.
They go to swell the Force of Bolingbroke.

York.
Why, let 'em go;—I wou'd, the King were come!
For Age, and Sickness, that makes Years more irksome,
Join with the Weight of Pow'r to crush me down.

Sal.
Strange Superstitions side with Hereford's Arms,
To draw the People from King Richard's Cause.
Near Bedford, late, a River stopt its Course;
In Wales, they say, the Bay-trees all are wither'd;
And Meteors fright the fixed Stars of Heav'n;
The pale-fac'd Moon looks bloody on the Earth,
And lean-look'd Prophets whisper dreadful Change:
Signs that too oft forerun the Death of Kings!

York.
Ah! Richard! with wet Eyes, and 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,
And Night-birds triumph in his known Decay.

Enter Aumerle, who kneels to York.

[Sal. to York:]
But see, the noble Duke, your Son's arriv'd.

York.
Welcome, Aumerle;—Where is our Sovereign Liege?

Aum.
King Richard comes,—And so does Bolingbroke;
Pawning his Dignity to Shouting Slaves,
By prostituted Smiles and whore-like Kindness.
O I remember, when he first was banish'd,
Such was his Courtship to the Common People;
How did he seem to dive into their Hearts,
With humble and familiar Courtesie,
And patient under-bearing of his Fortune,
As 'twere to banish their Affections with him.
With,—Thanks, my Country Men, my loving Friends,
As England then were in Reversion His,
And he the Subject's next Degree in Hope.

York.
What must we do? The Task we undertake
Is numb'ring Sands, and drinking Oceans dry.

Aum.
Proclaim we him a Traytor strait, and dare him
To prove his Loyalty by Single Combat.

York.
Your Zeal points out too dangerous a Course.

Aum.
Why dangerous, my Lord? So thrive my Soul,
I'll answer him in any fair Degree,
Or Chivalrous Design of Knightly Trial,
And put his Treasons to the Sword's Decision:
Or if he fears, I will allow him Odds;
Or meet him, were I ty'd to run a-foot,
Ev'n to the frozen Ridges of the Alps,
Or any more unhospitable Spot,
Where ever Englishman durst set his Foot,
And there make good against him, Arm to Arm,
More than I here shou'd boast of.

York.
Be advis'd:
You are too hot, I say; and push Resentment
Beyond the Level of our Common Safeties.

Aum.
Never did Captive with a freer Heart
Cast off the Chains of Bondage, and embrace
His golden, uncontrol'd Enfranchisement,
More than my dancing Soul wou'd celebrate
This Feast of Battle with my Adversary!
More welcome is the Stroke of Death to me,
Than Bolingbroke to England.—

Salis.
All that love
King Richard must, with You, dread his Arrival.

Aum.
And shall we tamely Suffer him to lord it?
Mischief o'erwhelm me, if I had not rather
Sigh out my English Breath in foreign Clouds,
Eating the bitter Bread of Banishment,
Than bow my Neck to voluntary Shame,
And court his Injuries!

York.
Let him have way;
Tell me, Aumerle, how is the King attended?

Aum.
By some few private Friends who landed with him,
Such as the Rev'rend Prelate, old Carlisle,
In Number few, but rich in Estimation,
Loyal, and far above the Summer-Flies
That gild their Vanities in Rebellion's Sunshine.

Sal.
And did the Populace, my Lord, receive him
With Shews of Love, and Willingness to aid him?

Aum.
Wou'd I were dumb upon that Theme of Baseness,
Unless I cou'd, with pestilential Breath,
Blast the ungrateful Herd that did him Wrong.
'Twas Bolingbroke they did expect to meet,
And usher in with hateful Acclamations:
But when they miss'd the Object of their Wishes,
As, in our Theatres, the Eyes of Men,
After some well-grac'd Actor leaves the Stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his Prattle to be stale and tedious:
Ev'n so, or with much more Contempt, their Eyes
Did Scowl on Richard: No Man cry'd, Heav'n save him!

No Joyful Tongue gave him his Welcome home;
But some from Windows, with unrev'rend Hands,
Threw Dust and Rubbish on his Sacred Head;
Which with such gentle Sorrow he shook off,
His Face still combating with Tears and Smiles,
That had not Heav'n for some strong Purpose steel'd
The Wretches Hearts, they must perforce have melted,
And Barbarism it Self have pity'd him. [Trumpets within.]

York.
But, hark! those Trumpets speak the King is enter'd
The Tower-Walls: Please you, my good Lord Salisbury,
From Us to greet the Queen, and bless her Ear
With the glad Tidings of her Lord's Return. [Exit Salisbury.]

Aum.
I hope, tho' proud Northumberland revolts,
The Beauteous Piercy still attends her Highness.

York.
She still is faithful to her Queen and Vows.
Aumerle, I'm glad to think nor absent Hours,
Nor bustling War, cou'd from thy gen'rous Breast
Erase the Mem'ry of that beauteous Maid.

Aum.
O She was born to please, and to enslave me!
By Heaven, I've found the Influence of her Name
Add Proof unto my Armour in the Fight;
And with a two-fold Vigour lift me up
To reach at Victory above my Head.
Then, when the busy Hour of War was done,
Ev'n in the dead and sullen Waste of Night,
The bare Remembrance of her beauteous Eyes
Has kindled up the Gloom, and made it gay,
And entertaining, as the Golden Beams
Of the rich Planet that adorns the Day.
But This is prattling—See, the King's at hand. Trumpets. Enter King Richard, Bishop of Carlisle, Lords, Guards, &c.

King.
Dear Earth, I do salute Thee with my Hand,
Tho' Rebels wound Thee with their Horses Hoofs:

As a long-parted Mother from her Child,
Plays fondly with her Tears, and smiles in meeting,
So weeping, smiling, greet I Thee, my Earth,
And do Thee Favour with my Royal Hands.
Feed not thy Sovereign's Foe, my Gentle Earth,
Nor with thy Sweets comfort his rav'nous Sense:
But let thy Spiders that suck up thy Venom,
And heavy-gated Toads lye in their Way,
Doing Annoyance to the treach'rous Feet
Which with usurping Steps do trample Thee.
Yield stinging Nettles to mine Enemies,
And when they from thy Bosom pluck a Flow'r,
Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking Adder,
Whose double Tongue may with a mortal Touch
Throw Death upon thy Sovereign's Enemies.
Mock not my senseless Conjuration, Lords,
This Earth shall have a Feeling, and these Stones
Prove armed Soldiers, e'er her native King
Shall falter under foul rebellious Arms.

Carl.
Distrust not but the Power, that made you King,
Hath Pow'r to keep you so, in Spight of Rebels.

York.
My gracious Lord,— [To the King, kneeling.]

King.
O York, when we entrusted
Our England to your Charge, I little thought
You wou'd have let the dang'rous Enemy
Measure our Confines with such peaceful Steps;
—But Bolingbroke prevails.—

Aum.
And must prevail,
If we let Leisure yield the further Means
For his Advantage, and oppose it not.

King.
Discomfortable Cousin, know'st thou not,
That when the searching Eye of Heav'n is hid,
Behind the Globe, that lights the lower World,
Then Thieves and Robbers range abroad unseen,
In Outrage, and in Murthers bloody here;
But when from under this Terrestrial Ball
He fires the proud Tops of the Eastern Pines,
And darts his Lightning thro' each guilty Hole,

Then Murthers, Treasons, and detested Crimes,
The Cloak of Night being pluck'd from off their Backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves.
So when this Thief, this Traytor Bolingbroke,
Who all this while has revel'd in the Night,
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. Enter Salisbury.
Welcome, my Lord; How far off lies your Pow'r?

Sal.
Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious Liege,
Than this weak Arm; Discomfort guides my Tongue,
And bids me speak of nothing but Despair;
O call back Yesterday, bid Time return,
And twenty thousand fighting Men are thine:
Who now, on a false Rumour of your Death,
Are all dispers'd, or fled to Bolingbroke.

Carl.
Have Comfort, Royal Sir; your Grace looks pale.—

King.
And dost thou wonder that my Colour fades?
But now the Blood of twenty thousand Soldiers
Did triumph in my Face, and they are fled.
And till so much Blood thither comes again,
Have I not reason to look pale?

Carl.
My Lord,
Remember who you are; you do discourage
What Friends are left us by this ill-tim'd Sorrow.

King.
I had forgot my self:—Am I not King?
Awake, thou sluggard Majesty, awake!
Is not the King's Name forty thousand Names?
Arm, arm, my Name! A puny Subject strikes
At thy great Glory. Look not to the Ground,
Ye Fav'rites of a King: Are we not high?
High be our Thoughts.—Aumerle, thy Face is busy,
Thy Friendship has been out upon the Wing,
To fetch some stragling Comfort to thy Prince.

Aum.
More Health and Happiness betide my Liege,
Than can my care-tun'd Tongue deliver him.

King.
My Ear is open, 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;—He may be happier!
Revolt our Subjects? That we cannot mend:
They break their Faith to Heaven, as well as Us;
And, who will break with Heav'n, what Ties can bind?

Aum.
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;
So, high above his Limits, swells the Rage
Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring the fearful Land
With hard bright Steel, and Hearts more hard than Steel.
Old bearded hoary Russians arm their thin
And hairless Scalps, and Boys, with Women's Voices,
Strive to speak big, and clap their Female Joints
In stiff unweildy Arms against thy Crown.
The very Beads-men learn to bend the Bow,
And Distaff-women manage rusty Bills:
Against thy State both Old and Young combine,
And All goes worse than I have Pow'r to tell.

King.
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?
Wou'd they permit Rebellion thus to march
Upon the peaceful Bosom of our Realm,
Frighting her pale-fac'd Villages with War;
If we prevail, their Heads shall pay for it.
I warrant, They've made Peace with Bolingbroke.

Sal.
Peace have they made with him, indeed, my Lord.

King.
O Villains! Vipers! damn'd without Redemption!

Dogs, easily won to fawn on any Man!
Snakes, in my Heart's-blood warm'd, that sting my Heart!
Wou'd They make Peace? Terrible Hell make War
Upon their spotted Souls for this Offence!

Carl.
Sweet Love, I see, changing his Property,
Turns to the sow'rest and most deadly Hate.
Again uncurse their Souls: Their Peace is made
With Heads, and not with Hands: I learn'd but now,
(But wou'd not grieve you with the heavy Tale,)
They fell into the Snare of Bolingbroke,
And dy'd at Bristol, Victims to his Rage.

King.
O Carlisle, thou hast said enough, and brought me
Again into the Road of sweet Despair:
By Heav'n, I'll hate him everlastingly,
That bids me be of Comfort any more:
But, see! She comes, whose lovely Face has Pow'r
To charm Calamity, and sooth my Sorrows. Enter Queen, and Lady Piercy.
Welcome, my Queen! O welcome to my Arms,
Thou Rose of Beauty! Ha!—What mean these Tears,
That heaving Bosom, and this Burst of Sorrow?

Queen.
O Richard! These are but the Remnant Drops
Of that large Stock, with which I've mourn'd thy Absence;
But my poor Heart, tho' yet I hold thee safe,
Sickens at the bad Contention of the Times,
And, Prophet-like, shakes with approaching Horrors.

King.
O let not hateful Apprehension, Sweet,
With Giant Steps stride o'er thy peaceful Thoughts,
And shock the Quiet of thy tender Soul.
Not all the Water in the rough rude Sea
Can wash the Balm from an anointed King:
The Breath of Worldly Men cannot depose
The Deputy, and Substitute of Heav'n.

For ev'ry Man that Bolingbroke has prest
To lift the Sword against our sacred Crown,
Heav'n for his Richard hath in Heav'nly Pay
Miriads of Angels; and if Angels fight,
What Mortal Force can stand th' unequal Combat?

Queen.
But if the Pow'rs, that oft withhold the Scourge,
Till we have fill'd the Measure of our Crimes,
Shou'd stretch the Hand of Indignation out,
In fierce Revenge on the Licentious Land,
And suffer Usurpation to prevail,
Thou wou'dst not chide me for my loving Fears?
O let us arm against the worst, my Lord,
And better Fate will then be doubly welcome.

King.
But wilt Thou not despise me, when I fall,
And drag thee down to share my ruin'd Fortunes?
Wilt Thou not then, in bitterness of Anguish,
Reproach me, that I drew thy helpless Youth,
From the strong Sanctuary of paternal Love,
To share the State of an unscepter'd King,
And grow acquainted with the Bed of Sorrow?

Queen.
Tho' doubly I'm ally'd to Royalty,
Daughter of France, and Wife of England's King,
I have a Soul that can look down on Pomp,
And count it the Incumbrance of my Fortune.
Thy Virtues, not thy Scepter, make thee rich:
Let me enjoy the Blessing of thy Heart,
Tho' rude Ambition rob thee of the Crown,
In Privacy I shall be still the same,
Obey thee with the Duty of a Wife,
And the Devotion of a Subject's Love.

King.
So young, and so resign'd! Thou chid'st me well,
For setting up my Rest in giddy State,
And Ostentation of despised Empire.
By Heav'n, I want no Kingdom having thee:
Let restless Spirits parcel out the Globe,
And sweat for Limit and Prerogative;
Vexing the States, in which they Monarchize,

With Starts and Tumults of ungovern'd Pride.
I here disclaim all Thrones; nor will embroil
A Nation's Safety in my doubtful Quarrel.
All you, that wou'd be safe, fly from my Side;
Crowns shall no more from Love my Thoughts divide;
Discharge my Followers, let 'em hence, away,
From Richard's Night to Bolingbroke's fair Day. [Exeunt. End of the First ACT. ACT II. Scene 1 SCENE, an Apartment in the Tower. Enter Aumerle, following Lady Piercy.

Aum.
Why dost thou fly me, Piercy? why look strange,
And, when I gaze with Transport on thy Beauties,
Turn'st thy fair Eyes to Earth with sullen Pride,
As Thou did'st envy me the mighty Pleasure?

Piercy.
We must no more indulge the Theme of Love:
The Time's Severity hath interpos'd
A strong Correction: Now Allegiance calls thee,
A Subject's Duty, and a suff'ring Prince,
Demand the Care of thy collected Soul;
And must extinguish ev'ry lighter Thought.

Aum.
Give me not Reason, Fair One, to suspect
Your Heart is fashion'd of that common Stuff,
Which prompts your giddy Sex to sudden Change.
Such is the Rhet'rick of the wav'ring Maid,
Who hunts Occasions to retract her Vows,
And studies to be false with Decency.
Wherefore, if I'm grown cheap in your Opinion,

Did you but now delude my cred'lous Heart,
Why give me Welcome in such tender Terms,
And bless the Pow'rs, that brought me back in Safety?

Piercy.
Heav'n witness to my Truth, I still rejoice,
Still bless th' indulgent Pow'rs, that you're return'd:
But pardon me, my Lord, if I am deaf,
(Deaf as the Adder to the Charmer's Voice)
When you hereafter shall discourse of Love,
Or urge me to confess a mutual Fondness.

Aum.
Amazement seize me Madness wreck my Brain!
Or bear me, Whirlwinds, to the Verge of Earth,
Where the wild infinite Abyss begins,
That I may drop at once, and lose my Sorrows!
Ye list'ning Heav'ns, that register'd her Vows,
In whose sweet Face she has so often sworn,
She wou'd be constant as your glitt'ring Orbs,
Hear This, and wonder at a Woman's Falshood!

Piercy.
Ungen'rous, rash Aumerle! What have I done,
Thus to be branded with the Name of False?
Virtue shou'd blush at such an Imputation,
Where Crimes are multiply'd:—The Breach of Faith
Bespeaks the base Ingratitude of Fiends,
And Infamy of Strumpets.—Can I bear
A Calumny like This, and think the Man,
Who durst impose it, cou'd pretend to love?

Aum.
What can you call it less than Breach of Faith,
Falshood avow'd, to say you wou'd be deaf,
If I hereafter shou'd discourse of Love?

Piercy.
Did you but know the Cause,—

Aum.
I have a Soul,
That, conscious of the Frailties of your Sex,
Can easily devine, some cringing Courtier
Has in my Absence, (or, by Heav'n, he durst not,)
Breathing Perfumes like an Arabian Wind,
Poison'd your Ear with his Extatic Nonsence,
And Prodigality of Protestation;
The Trick of Flatt'ry, which your Self-Conceit

Misconstrues Passion! But take heed, I warn you,
Let me not find the Fav'rite Minion out,
Give him in Charge to trusty Waiting-women,
Let him be closeted from my Resentment,
Or I, in just Revenge, shall rush upon him,
And tear thy Image from his bleeding Heart.

Piercy.
O give me Patience to support this Usage!
The rising Spleen swells in my lab'ring Breast,
And Indignation, and affronted Love,
Like boistrous Tempests, harrow up my Soul.
But that I know thy wild tumultuous Spirit
Hafty as Fire, and as its Flames outrageous,
Silent I shou'd disdain thy mean Suspicions,
And count thy Jealousies beneath my Notice.
To let Thee see how far I can o'erlook
The unbecoming Transports of thy Temper,
Peruse this Paper; and when next we meet,
Spight of your Pride, you must confess you've wrong'd me. [Exit Piercy.

Aumerle Solus.
What Terrors lurk within this mystic Scroll,
That thus I'm seiz'd with unacquainted Tremblings,
Like Prophets lab'ring with a Birth of Fate?
And yet had ev'ry baleful Letter here
The Pow'r of Basilisks, to dart Destruction
By being look'd upon; I'd strain each Nerve
To trace it's Horrors, tho' the Knowledge blast me. [Reads]

You have my Leave still to attend the Queen, but if you any farther listen to the Duke of Aumerle's Address, expect to be the Heir only of my Curses. Your Father, as you shall in This obey him,

Northumberland.

Poor Piercy! I, indeed, have wrong'd thy Goodness:
Rigid Northumberland! Inveterate Lord!
Standeth thy Hate so strict on Sympathies,
That not alone King Richard, but his Friends,
Must be its Objects?—Hear me, gracious Heav'n,
And ratify my Words on this bad Man!
Ruin o'ertake his Pride, and let him fall
By the same Int'rest he would now establish,
Pierc'd to the Soul by black Ingratitude,
And sent to Death, in that unguarded Hour,
When least he dreams of Danger! Enter Salisbury.

Sal.
My Lord Aumerle, the King's impatient for you:
Proud Bolingbroke requires an instant Parly,
Or threatens he will scale our Tower-Walls;
The Council have agreed, his Grace of York,
Your noble Father, and your Self, shou'd meet him,
And hear the Substance of his full Demands.

Aum.
But let him learn to speak them then in Terms
Such as befit a loyal Subject's Mouth,
Or I will ram 'em down his trait'rous Throat,
And see if his own Insolence will choak him.
He knows, I love him not; and We shou'd meet,
Methinks, in Terror, like the Elements
Of Fire and Water, when their bursting Rage
In Thunder tears the cloudy Cheeks of Heav'n. Exeunt. Scene 2 SCENE, changes to the Outward Part of the Tower. Enter Bolingbroke, Northumberland, Ross, and Willoughby, with their Powers.

Bol.
Silence the Clamours of the threatning Drum,
And let us march like Subjects of the Land,

Courting fair Peace, not breathing big Defiance.
My Lord Northumberland, please you, give Orders
The Forces may stretch out in wide Array,
That, from this Castle's tatter'd Battlements,
Our fair Appointments may be well perus'd.
My Lords, I'm much indebted to your Loves, [To Ross, Will. &c.]
And zealous Service: All my Treasury
Is yet but unfelt Thanks; which, more enrich'd,
Shall be your Love, and Labour's Recompence.

Ross.
Your Presence makes us rich, most noble Lord.

Will.
Our Hearts have still been Exiles with your Grace,
And scarce your noble Father wish'd this Day
With more impatient Ardour than our Selves.

Bol.
Evermore Thanks; th' Exchequer of the Poor!
Which, till my Infant Fortune comes to Years,
Stands for my Bounty; but of This be sure,
I count my Self in nothing else so happy,
As in a Soul rememb'ring my good Friends.
But, see, the Lord Aumerle approaches us. Enter Aumerle.

Aum.
My Lord of Hereford, my Message is to you.—

Bol.
My Lord, my Answer is to Lancaster;
And I am come to seek that Name in England,
And I must find that Title granted me,
Before I make Reply to Ought You say.

Aum.
Mistake me not, my Lord; 'tis not my Meaning
To raze one Title of your Honours out.
To You, my Lord, I come, (what Lord you will,)
Sent from the Person of our Sov'reign Liege,
To know what angry Motive pricks you on,
To grieve the Land with hostile Preparation;
And fright her Native Peace with Self-born Arms.

Enter Duke of York.

Bol.
I shall not need transport my Words by You,
Here comes his Grace of York.—My noble Uncle,—

York.
Shew me thy humble Heart and not thy Knee,
Whose Duty is deceivable and false:
Grace me no Grace; I am no Traytor's Uncle.
Why have those banisht and forbidden Legs
Dar'd once to touch a Dust of England's Ground?
Cam'st Thou, because th' anointed King was hence?
Why, foolish Boy, the King was left behind,
And in my loyal Bosom lay his Pow'r.
Were I but now the Lord of such hot Youth,
As when brave Gaunt, thy Father, and my Self
Rescu'd the black Prince, that young Mars of Men,
From forth the Ranks of many thousand French,
Oh! then how quickly wou'd this Arm of mine,
Now Pris'ner to the Palsy, chastise thee,
And minister Correction to thy Fault.

Bol.
My gracious Uncle, let me know my Fault,
On what Condition stands it, and wherein?

York.
Ev'n in Condition of the worst Degree,
In gross Rebellion and detested Treason.
Thou art a banisht Man, and here art come,
Before the Expiration of thy Time,
In braving Arms against thy Sovereign.

Bol.
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 indiff'rent Eye;
You have a Son, Aumerle, my worthy Kinsman,
Had You first dy'd, and He been thus trod down,
He shou'd have found his Uncle Gaunt a Father,
To rouze his Wrongs, and chase 'em to the Bay.
I am deny'd to sue my Livery here,
And yet my Letters-Patent give me Leave:
My Father's Goods are all distrain'd, and sold:

What would you have me do? I am a Subject,
And challenge Law; Attornies are deny'd me;
And therefore pers'nally I lay my Claim
To my Inheritance of free Descent.

Nor.
The noble Duke has been too much abus'd.

Ross.
It stands your Grace upon to do him Right.

Will.
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 cou'd to do him Right:
But, in this kind, to come in braving Arms,
Be his own Carver, and cut out his Way
To find out Right with Wrongs, it must not be:
And You, that do abet him in this kind,
Cherish Rebellion, and are Rebels all.

Aum.
Too well we see the Issue of these Arms!
The Plea of private Right is to protect,
And screen, what the strong Hand of War can grasp,
Till England's Crown is to be grappled for.

Bol.
Cousin Aumerle, there's Danger in your Eye,
And Discontent sits on your moody Brow:
Ill can we brook, the Comments of your Spleen
Shou'd stain the fair Complection of our Business.
My Lord Northumberland, say to my Liege,
Henry of Lancaster, upon his Knees,
Doth kiss King Richard's Hand, and sends Allegiance
And Homage of a Subject: Hither come,
Ev'n at his Feet, to lay my Arms and Pow'r;
Provided that my Banishment repeal'd,
And Lands restor'd again, be freely granted.
If not, I'll use th' Advantage of my Pow'r,
And lay the Summer's Dust with Show'rs of Blood.
The which, how far from Bolingbroke's Intent
It is, such Crimson Tempest shou'd bedrench
The fair green Lap of my dear Country's Soil,
My stooping Duty tenderly shall shew:
My Lords of Ross, and Willoughby, your Ear. Exeunt Bolingbroke, Ross, and Willoughby.

Aum.
'Tis not the Trial of a Woman's War,
The bitter Clamour of two eager Tongues
Can arbitrate this Cause; but Hands and Hearts
Of strong Contention, Souls of Proof, and fit
To wage the Quarrel of disputed Empire.

Nor.
My Lord of York, we need not bandy Words:
You know, the Business, that I have in Charge,
Is to report his Grace of Lancaster
To the King's Ear, and take his Highness' Answer.
I am proclaim'd a Traytor in your Court,
And must have Surety for my Conduct to him.

York.
My Lord, it shall not need: The King himself
Approaches, and will give you ample Audience. Enter King Richard, Attended.

King.
We are amaz'd, and thus long have we stood
To watch the fearful bending of thy Knee,
Because we thought our Self your lawful King:
And if We be, how dare thy Joints forget
To pay the awful Duty to our Presence?
If We be not, shew us the Hand of Heav'n,
That hath dismiss'd Us from th' Imperial Trust.
Tho' you presume that All, as you have done,
Forget the Sanctity of sworn Allegiance,
And We are barren, and bereft of Friends;
Yet know, the great Protector of all Kings
Is mustring in his Clouds, on my Behalf,
Armies of Pestilence; and they shall strike
The Children yet unborn, and unbegot,
Of Such as dare to lift their Vassal Hands
Against the Glory of my Sacred Crown.

Nor.
The King of Heav'n forbid, my Sovereign Liege
Shou'd ever feel the Rage of Civil Arms!

King.
Tell Bolingbroke, for you methinks is He,
That ev'ry Stride he makes upon the Land
Is dangerous Treason: He is come to open

The purple Testament of bleeding War,
But e'er the Crown, he looks for, live in Peace,
Ten thousand shall in Opposition rise;
Change the Complection of affrighted Peace
To Scarlet Indignation, and bedew
The fertile Pastures of this Realm with Blood,
Rain'd from the Wounds of Slaughter'd Englishmen.

Nor.
Your Noble Cousin bad me say, he comes
With all Humility to kiss your 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 bury'd Hand of Warlike Gaunt,
And by the Worth and Honour of himself,
Comprising All that may be sworn, or said,
His coming hither hath no farther Scope,
Than for his lineal Royalties, and to beg
Infranchisement immediate on his Knees,
Which on your Royal Party granted once,
His glitt'ring Arms he will commit to Rust,
His barbed Steeds to Stables, and his Heart
To faithful Service of your Majesty.

King.
Northumberland, say, thus the King returns:
Tho' his Petitions, back'd with Pow'r, do seem
To wear the Figure of compulsive Terms,
Our 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. [Northumberland goes out.]
We do debase our Grandeur, do we not,
To treat so poorly, and to speak so fair?
Shall We call back Northumberland at once,
And send Defiance to th' o'erweening Traytors?

Aum.
Better die Warm, than in a servile Fear
Submit to own the Victor's Pow'r untry'd.

York.
Better submit, than hazard a Defeat;
And rashly make the Realm the Price of Conquest.

King.
Swell'st Thou, proud Heart! Beat in thy troubled Cell,
Till thou hast burst a Passage for my Griefs.
Merciful Heaven! that e'er this Tongue of mine,
That laid the Sentence of dread Banishment
On yon proud Man, shou'd take it off again
With Words of Soothing; and therein confess
My former Sentence was a grievous Wrong!

Aum.
Mark but Northumberland, and Bolingbroke!
See, how they join in a malicious Smile,
And hug themselves in prosp'rous Villany.—

King.
What must the King do now? Must he submit?
The King shall do it—Must he be depos'd?
The King shall be content.—Ungrateful Subjects
Have made him weary of the Regal Burthen!
I'll give my Jewels for a Set of Beads,
My gay Apparel for an Alms Man's Gown,
My gorgeous Palace for a Hermitage,
And my large Kingdom for a little Grave;
Where I may sleep with Peasants in the Dust:
Or, I'll be bury'd in the King's Highway,
Some Path of common Trade, where Subjects Feet
May hourly trample on their Sovereign's Head:
For on my Heart they tread now while I live,
And, bury'd once, why not upon my Head?

York.
Please you, my gracious Liege, the Lords approach. Enter Bolingbroke, Northumberland, &c.

King.
Down, down, I come:—So giddy Phaeton fell,
And frighted Nations with his glittering Ruin!

Bol.
What says the King?—

York.
Sorrow, and Grief of Heart
Make him speak fondly, like a frantick Man.

Bol.
My gracious Lord, thus humbly at your Feet,—

King.
Fair Cousin, you debase your Princely Knee
To make the base Earth proud with kissing it:
I'd rather much, my Heart might feel your Love,
Then my unpleas'd Eye see your Courtesie.
Up, Cousin, up: Your Heart is up, I know:
Thus high at least, altho' your Knee be bent.

Bol.
My gracious Liege, I come but for my Own.

King.
Your Own is Yours, and I am Yours, and All.—

Bol.
So far be mine, my most redoubted Liege,
As my true Service shall deserve your Love.

King.
Well you deserve: They well deserve to have,
Who know the strongest, surest, Way t' obtain!

Bol.
To your own Royal Justice I appeal,
If Injuries, past the Suff'rance of a Man,
Have not been heap'd to spur me to Redress.
That I was banish'd, was your Highness' Will:
But, when I was so, and my Father dy'd,
The Malice, or the Avarice of Slaves,
(Whose Sordid Minds hate all above themselves,)
Seduc'd your Grace to seize upon my Lands,
Strip'd me of all the Rights of fair Succession,
From my own Seats tore down my Houshold-Coat,
Raz'd out my Impress, leaving me no Sign,
Save Men's Opinions, and my Living Blood,
To shew the World I am a Gentleman.

King.
Enough, Complaints too harshly wound my Ears;
You must, and shall have Reparation done you.
Uncle of York, surrender up the Keys;
We to our Cousin's Charge resign our Tow'r,
And will be here henceforward as his Guest.

Aum.
My gracious Liege, recall that hasty Grant,
Or 'tis the last you will have Pow'r to make.

King.
Aumerle, no more.—I am not to be mov'd:
The Die is cast that must decide my Fate.
Cover your Heads, and mock not Flesh and Blood
With solemn Rev'rence; throw away Respect,

Tradition, Form, and ceremonious Duty;
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with Bread like you, feel Want like you,
Taste Grief, need Friends, like you: Why then shou'd Pomp
Distinguish, whom Necessities make equal?

Bol.
Permit us, gracious Sir, as Subjects ought,
To serve, and wait upon your Majesty.

King.
Uncle, your Hand: Nay, do not weep, old Man;
Tears may shew Love, but want their Remedies.—
Cousin, I am too young to be your Father,
Tho' You are old enough to be my Heir.
What you will have, I'll give; possess my Crown;
Let me but live till Nature lets me down:

As some fair Flow'r, that by the Sun Beams chear'd,
Has to the Spring it's blushing Glories rear'd,
If once deserted by the Genial Ray,
Falls from it's Pride, and sickens in Decay:
So I, that have enjoy'd my Fortune's Prime,
Too weak, to bear the Injuries of Time,
Blasted by Fate, shall soon my Honours shed,
Shrink up my Leaves, and drop my wither'd Head. Exeunt. End of the Second ACT.

ACT III. Scene 1 SCENE, an Apartment before the King's Closet. Carlisle and Salisbury meeting.

Sal.
Good Morning, my good Lord; how fares the King?

Carl.
Why just like one, my Lord, whom tardy Custom
Has sunk too long in riotous Excess:
Now the sick Hour's come that his Surfeits made,
He with a forc'd Severity reproaches
The Lux'ry of his late ungovern'd Conduct.

Sal.
Unhappy Prince! Old Gaunt did prophesy
His rash fierce Blaze of Riot cou'd not last;
For violent Fires do soon burn out themselves.
His Court was fill'd with Praises of his State,
And baneful Flatt'ries; to whose venom Sound
The open Ear of Youth does always listen.

Carl.
And Counsel evermore is heard too late,
Where Will doth mutiny 'gainst wiser Reason.
Is Bolingbroke return'd?

Sal.
But now, my Lord.

Carl.
I cannot reason, why he thro' the City
Shou'd make this pompous Cavalcade.—

Sal.
—'Tis thought,
'Twas done to please, and to disperse the People,
Who throng'd with a tumultuous Zeal to see him:
For Crowds, like Rivers, when they flow too strong,
Must e'en be sluic'd into divided Channels,
Or swell above their Banks.

Carl.
Were you, my Lord,
Spectator of the Pageantry?

Sal.
I was,
And saw his Triumph with a grudging Eye.
Mounted upon a hot and fiery Steed,
Which his aspiring Rider seem'd to know,
With slow, but stately Pace, he rode along;
While all Tongues cry'd, Heav'n save thee, Bolingbroke!
You wou'd have thought the very Windows spoke,
So many greedy Looks of Young and Old,
Thro' Casements, darted their desiring Eyes
Upon his Visage; and that all the Walls,
With painted Imag'ry, had said at once,
The Heav'ns preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke!
While He, from one Side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud Steed's Neck,
Bespoke them thus; I thank you, Countrymen:
And, thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

Carl.
Our Master shortly will be but a Name,
The Cypher of himself; for Bolingbroke
Will ease him of th'administrating Pow'r.

Sal.
He has begun to play the Prince already,
And issu'd Writs out, in King Richard's Name,
Convening all the Lords in Town, forthwith,
To make a Parliament here in the Tower.
Where Mem'ry, ever faithful to Revenge,
Will rouze up Motives in proud Bolingbroke,
To work the Fate of All, whom he suspects
But voted to promote his Banishment.

Carl.
Think you, this hot Convention will proceed
T' affect the Crown, and to depose King Richard?

Sal.
Depress'd He is already, and depos'd,
'Tis doubted, he will be; What can prevent?—
His Northern Castles are all yielded up,
And all the Southern Gentlemen in Arms
Upon the Faction of this Bolingbroke;
And with these Odds he weighs King Richard down.
Does my Friend purpose to attend the Court?

Carl.
Else Heav'n forbid! Believe me, noble Lord,
I wou'd not have it said in after Age,
That Carlisle, when the Times look'd frowningly,
Did shrink from Danger, and decline his Duty.

Sal.
The Closet opens, and the King comes forth;
How full of careful Business are his Looks!
Let us withdraw; it may displease him much
To be surpriz'd, when he has chose Retirement. Exeunt Salsbury and Carlisle. Enter King Richard.

King.
My Brain's disorder'd, and the sick'ning Soul
Starts at the Objects of its own Creation:
While Recollection sets before my View
A thousand 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,
Some poison'd by their Wives, Some sleeping kill'd,
All murther'd—For within the hollow Crown,
That rounds the mortal Temples of a King,
Keeps Death his Court; and there the Antick fits,
Scoffing his State, and grinning at his Pomp;
Allowing him a Breath, a little Scene
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 his potent Dart
Strikes thro' the Soul of brittle Majesty. Enter Queen.

Queen.
What have I done, O Richard? For what Crime
Am I neglected, that no more you meet me
With wonted Tenderness, and young Desire;
No more embrace me in the Arms of Love?

How is it with you, Sir, that you do chuse
To hold Discourse with baneful Solitude,
And Thought, the dire Companions of Distress,
And care-incumber'd Minds? You are not well;
Your languid Eyes confess some inward Pain,
That preys upon your Heart, and racks your Soul.

King.
Join not with Grief, fair Creature, do not so,
To make my End too sudden. Learn, my Love,
To think our former State a happy Dream,
From which awak'd, the Truth of what we are,
Shews us but This:—I am sworn Brother, Sweet,
To grim Necessity, and He and I
Must keep a League till Death.

Queen.
Admit Me too
Into this Partnership of lasting Sorrow:
I will be wondrous faithful to Despair,
And copy Sadness from your Looks and Gesture.
Sit silent as the Night, and mingle Tears,
Count Sigh for Sigh, and answer ev'ry Groan.
I have a Heart dispos'd to welcome Grief,
Some unborn Sorrow, ripe in Fortune's Womb,
Is coming towards me, and my inward Soul
Trembles and shudders at the threaten'd Woe.

King.
These are Convulsions of too strong Conceit,
Thy Fondness working on thy Woman's Weakness:
Love is a Being made of Hopes and Fears,
Soothing us with imaginary Joys,
And giving real Pain from fancy'd Terrors.

Queen.
Mine may be but the Shadow of a Grief,
Like other Shadows, not to be divorc'd
From the strong Source, and Substance, whence it springs!
My lab'ring Heart is anxious but for You;
Your Safety gives it this Alarm of Fear;
It beats, and throbs with a tumultuous Motion,
As it wou'd warn me of approaching Danger.

King.
Torment not thy poor Breast; all will be well.
Alas! Thou weep'st, my tender-hearted Love;

We'll make foul Weather with despised Tears;
They, and our Sighs shall lodge the Summer Corn,
And make a Dearth in this revolting Land.

Queen.
But let us leave this ill-erected Tower;
A thousand Terrors fill the hideous Place,
And grisly Death broods on its flinty Bosom:
Here Apprehension takes the part of Grief,
And starts me from the peaceful Arms of Sleep.

King.
Harbour no Fears; the Business of my Life
Shall be but to requite your Love. How now?— Enter Lieutenant of the Tower.

Lieut.
The Lord Northumberland attends your Pleasure.

King.
'Tis well:—

Queen.
O there again my Fears return;
I shudder at the Sight of that proud Man:
Why does He come?

King.
I sent for him, my Love: Nay, be not Sad:
Thy Smiles, like Sun-Shine that dispels the Clouds,
Will make the Fates asham'd to low'r upon us.
Tho' Sorrow may be proud to be thy Guest,
Yet trust it not; for, like a treach'rous Friend,
Twill sooth but to betray, and blast thy Beauties. Exeunt. Scene 2 SCENE changes to a large Hall. A Throne at the Upper End. Bolingbroke, Ross, Willoughby, York, Aumerle, Carlisle, Salisbury, &c. discover'd as in Parliament.

Bol.
This I have urg'd the more at large, to shew you,
'Twas not to vindicate a private Wrong,

Or, on a desperate Discontent, to put
The King in Fear, the Kingdom in a Flame,
Or with ambitious Purpose for the Crown,
I ventur'd to set Footing on the Realm:
But, lest you shou'd surmize that I have open'd
The Flaws of Government, and charg'd Mis-rule,
Rather with Malice than Regard to Truth,
'Tis meet we trace some Matters to their Proof.
Call forth Sir Pierce of Exton. Enter Exton.
Now declare
What thou do'st know of noble Gloster's Death:
Who wrought it with the King, and who perform'd
The bloody Office of his timeless End.

Exton.
Then set before my Face the Lord Aumerle.

Bol.
Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that Man.

Aum.
This is Confed'racy! Does his Ambition
Follow the Scent of Blood so hot already?

Ext.
My Lord Aumerle, I know, your daring Tongue
Scorns to unsay what it hath once deliver'd.
In that dead time, when Glo'ster's Death was plotted,
I heard you say, Is not my Arm of Length,
That reacheth from the restful English Court
So far as Calais, to my Uncle's Head?
Amongst much other Talk, that very Time,
You likewise said you rather wou'd refuse
The Offer of a hundred thousand Crowns,
Than Bolingbroke shou'd e'er return to England;
Adding withal, how blest this Land might be,
Were He but Dead.—

Aum.
Princes, and noble Lords,
What Answer shall I make to this base Man?
Yet can I not of such tame Patience boast,
As to be hush'd, and nought at all to say.
Shall I so much dishonour my fair Stars,
On equal Terms to give him Chastisement?

Either I must, or have my Honour spoil'd
With the Attainder of his sland'rous Lips.
There is my Gage; and, in King Richard's Name,
I challange Law, and do demand the Combat.

Bol.
Exton, forbear; you shall not take it up.

Aum.
Setting aside his high Blood's Royalty,
And let him be no Kinsman to my Liege,
I wou'd he were the best in all this Presence,
Hath mov'd me so.—

Sal.
My Lord,—

York.
Aumerle, be patient.

Aum.
I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and scandaliz'd;
Pierc'd to the Soul with Slander's venom'd Spear,
The which no Balm can cure, but his Heart's Blood,
Who breath'd this Poison,

Bol.
Exton, wait without:
Cousin Aumerle, you shall have Justice done you:
This Difference shall rest, till stiller Times
Give Scope, and Leisure to debate the Question. Enter Northumberland.

North.
Great Duke of Lancaster, to You I come
From Royal Richard, who with willing Soul
Adopts you Heir, and his high Scepter yields
To the Possession of your gracious Hand:
Ascend the Throne, descending now from him,
And long live Henry, of that Name the Fourth.

Ross.
With Joy we tender to your Grace our Homage.

Carl.
Worst in this Royal Presence may I speak,
Yet best beseems it me to speak the Truth.
Let us not, Lords, infringe and overturn
The sacred Laws with this ungovern'd Heat.
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,
Altho' apparent Guilt be seen in them;

And shall the Figure of Heav'n's Majesty,
His Captain, Steward, and Deputy elect,
Anointed, crown'd, and planted many Years,
Be judg'd by Subjects, and inferior Breath,
And he himself not present? O forbid it,
That, in a Christian Climate, Souls refin'd
Shou'd shew so heinous and so black a Deed.

Will.
You know, my Lord, if Richard be depos'd,
It is no Precedent with us in England.

Carl.
What if it be no Precedent, my Lord,
We are to live by Law, and not Example.
But, granting Royal Richard were depos'd,
What Claim has Lancaster to wear the Crown?
All his Pretence must be by Right of Conquest;
'Tis a bad Argument will take no Colour,
What Conquest can a Subject make, where War
Is Insurrection, and the Victory Treason?

North.
Well have you argu'd, Sir, and for your Pains
Of Capital Treason we arrest you here.

Carl.
Death cannot fright me, Lords; I have declar'd
My Judgment with more Words, perhaps, than Wisdom,
But not so many as the Cause requires.
I speak to Subjects, and a Subject speaks,
Stir'd up by Heav'n thus boldly for his King:
My Lord of Hereford here, whom You call King,
Has heavily transgress'd against the Realm,
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 War
Shall Kin with Kin, and Kind with Kind, confound;
Disorder, Horror, Fear and Mutiny
Shall here inhabit, and this cursed Earth
Be subject to th' avenging Wrath of Heav'n.

I have discharg'd my Duty, Lords, and leave it
To your good Consciences, and better Wisdoms. [Exit Carlisle.

North.
Bid the Lieutenant let a Guard attend him,
Till the Lords Pleasures shall be farther known.
Please it your Grace, the Commons think it fit,
Richard be sent for, that in common View
He may Surrender.

Bol.
Let it then be so.

York.
It wou'd beseem the Lord Northumberland
To say King Richard.

North.
Only to be brief
Left I his Title out.

York.
The Time has been,
Shou'd you have been so brief with him, my Lord,
He wou'd have shorten'd you the whole Head's Length.

Bol.
Mistake not, Uncle, farther than you shou'd.

York.
Take not, good Cousin, farther than you shou'd;
Lest you mistake,—the Heav'ns are o'er your Head.

Bol.
I do not, Uncle, nor oppose my Self
Against their Will; but do not let us jarr,
Nor foil our Dignities with course Contention,
Wrangling like Robbers, that in drunken Broils
Divide the Spoil of their illegal Earning.

North.
The King,— Enter King Richard Crown'd, and in Robes.

Aum.
There is a Gloom about his Brows:
So looks the blushing discontented Sun,
When he perceives the envious Clouds are bent
To dim the Glory of his radiant Progress.

King.
Why am I sent for to attend a King,
Before I have shook off the Regal Thoughts
With which I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd
T' insinuate, flatter, crouch, and bend the Knee;
Give Sorrow Leave a while to reconcile me
To base Submission: I will strive with Pride,

And rein the stubborn Passions to Obedience.
To do what Service am I sent for hither?

North.
To do that Office, of your own free Will,
Which tired Majesty did make you offer;
The Resignation of your State, and Crown,
To Henry Bolingbroke.

King.
Here, Cousin, seize the Crown: Call your Desires
Forth to your Arm, and wrest it from my Gripe.

Bol.
I thought, you had been willing to resign.

King.
My Crown, I am; but take not Honour from me:
I dread that Shame shou'd live upon my Grave,
And base Records reproach my blushing Name,
That I, with abject Willingness of Heart,
Poorly submitted to unking my Self.

Bol.
Are you contented to resign the Crown?

King.
Ay, no;—No, ay;—I have a War within:
Irresolution fights with my Intent,
And gives this Pause, and Respite from Disgrace.
Yet mark me, how I will undo my self.
I give this heavy Diadem from my Head,
And this unwieldy Scepter from my Hand,
The Pride of Kingly Sway from out my Heart;
With my own Tongue deny my Sacred State,
With my own Breath release all dutious Oaths;
All Pomp and Majesty I do forswear;
My Mannors, Rents, Revenues, I forego;
My Acts, Decrees, and Statutes, I deny;
Heav'n pardon ev'ry Oath is broke to Me,
And keep unbroke each Vow they make to You.
Long may'st Thou live in Richard's Seat to sit;
And soon lye Richard in his peaceful Grave.
What more remains?—

North.
No more; but that you read
These Accusations, and this List of Crimes,
Committed by your Person, and your Followers,
Against the State, and Profit of the Land:

That, by confessing them, the Souls of Men
May deem that you are worthily depos'd.

King.
Break Heart! Split Brain!—Sweet Heav'n! It is too much,
Too much for Mortal Man to bear, and live!
Must I do This? And must I ravel out
My weav'd up Follies? Gentle Northumberland,
If thy Offences were upon Record,
Wou'd it not shame thee in so fair a Troop
To read a Lecture of them? If thou did'st,
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 Heav'n.—
Nay, All of You that stand and look upon me,
Whilst that my Wretchedness doth bait my Self,
Tho' Some of you with Pilate wash your Hands,
Shewing an outward Pity, yet you'll find
That Water cannot wash away your Sin.

North.
My Lord, dispatch; read o'er these Articles.

King.
My Eyes are full of Tears, I cannot see;
And yet Salt Water blinds them not so much,
But they can see a Set of Traytors here.
Nay, if I turn my Eyes upon my Self,
I find my Self a Traytor with the rest.
For I have giv'n here my Soul's Consent,
T' undeck the pompous Body of a King;
Made Glory base, a Sovereign a Slave,
Proud Majesty a Subject, State a Peasant.

North.
My Lord,—

King.
No Lord of thine, insulting Man;
Nor no Man's Lord; I have no Name, no Title,
Not ev'n the Name was giv'n me at the Font;
But 'tis usurp'd.—O dreadful Revolution,
That I have worn so many Winters out,
And know not now what Name to call my Self!
If that my Word be Sterling yet in England,

Let it command a Mirror hither strait: [Sals. goes out.]
That it may shew me what a Face I have,
Since it is Bankrupt of it's Majesty.

Nor.
Read o'er this Paper, while the Glass doth come.

King.
Fiend, thou torment'st me.

Bol.
—Urge it not, my Lord.

North.
The Commons will not then be satisfy'd.

King.
They shall be satisfy'd: I'll read enough,
When I do see the very Book indeed,
Where all my Sins are writ, and that's My Self. Re-enter Salsbury, with a Glass.
Give me that Glass, and therein will I read.
No deeper Wrinkles yet? Has 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 the Monarch's Face
That ev'ry Day under his household Roof
Did keep ten thousand Men? Was this the Face
That, like the Sun, did make Beholders wink?
A brittle Glory shineth in this Face;
And brittle as the Glory is the Face; [Breaks the Glass against the Ground.
For there it is, crack'd in an hundred pieces.

Bol.
The Shadow of your Sorrow has destroy'd
The Shadow of your Face.

King.
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 Laments
Are meerly Shadows to the unseen Grief,
That swells with Silence in the tortur'd Soul.
There lies the Substance; and I thank thee, King,
For thy great Bounty, that not only giv'st me
Cause to lament, but teachest me the way
How to lament the Cause. I've but one Suit,

And then I'll go, and trouble you no more.

Bol.
Name it, Fair Cousin, and call it a Command.

King.
Fair Cousin!—I am greater than a King;
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;
Yet give me Leave to go.—

Bol.
Whither, my Lord?

King.
Whither you will, so I were from your Sights:
I'll fly all Commerce, all Discourse with Men;
Steal to some Desart, couch with Snakes and Adders;
Or make my Bed upon a rocky Shore,
Where dashing Billows, and the whistling Winds
Shall hush my Sorrows with a louder Tempest. [Exit King.

Bol.
Uncle of York, attend his Majesty. Enter Exton.
Exton, your Ear: Have Eye upon our Guard;
See, they attend the King, and watch him close.
Our Crown, at best, hangs on a slender Thread
In Richard's Life; but if he scape our Hands,
Danger and Dissolution will o'erwhelm us.
Lords, you shall hear, as we do farther need you:
Cousin Northumberland, come You with us. Exeunt Bol. North. Ross, Will. &c. Manent Aumerle, and Salisbury.

Sal.
A woful Pageant have we here beheld.

Aum.
O Salisbury, I do fear the Woe's to come.
I see your Brow is full of Discontent,
Your Heart of Sorrow, and your Eyes of Tears.
Is there no great Expedient to be found,
How we may shake this Yoak of Bondage off,
Imp out our drooping Country's broken Wing,
Set a new Lustre on the blemish'd Crown,
And make high Majesty look like it Self?

Sal.
If you wou'd aid the Cause of Royal Richard,
Set on, and Salisbury shall go hand in hand,
In Ought you can devise or execute.

Aum.
Nobly resolv'd!—O we will make a League,
Shou'd shake the Counsels of united Monarchs.
The unborn Scheme swells my distended Breast,
And labours to be ripen'd into Form.

Sit fast, proud Hereford, in thy new-got State;
Let thy good Genius strongly guard thy Fate,
I'll strike for Richard's Right, and Aumerle's Hate. Exeunt. End of the Third ACT.

ACT IV. Scene 1 SCENE, an Apartment in the Tower. Enter Aumerle, and Salisbury.

Aum.
By Heav'n, I think the Project cannot fail;
For Bolingbroke of Arms is so enamour'd,
Invite him but to Martial Exercise,
And send a Challenge to his fluttring Son,
Young Harry Monmouth, and you may with Ease
Lead 'em, like Sumpter Horses, round the Realm.

Sal.
You do agree, that if he does consent
To go for Oxford, and to see our Triumphs;
You will begin the rough Assault of Death,
And give a Signal to our Enterprize.

Aum.
And if I do not, may my Hands rot off,
And never more brandish revengeful Steel
Over the glittering Helmet of my Foe!

Sal.
But wherefore, when Carlisle is made a Party,
And Brother Vent'rer in this great Affair,
Did you object, that he shou'd not Subscribe,
Or know the full Scope of our Article?

Aum.
Soft, my good Lord of Salsbury, weigh it thus;
Carlisle is firm to re-instate King Richard;
But had we nam'd the Death of Bolingbroke,
The squeamish Churchman might, perhaps, have started,
And made some Scruples to imbark in Blood.
Then had we lost the Countenance of his Name,
Whose Rev'rence may hereafter give a Sanction,
And upright Comment to the Deed when done.

Sal.
I cry your Mercy, 'twas most fairly constru'd;
And is a Caution, that may much befriend us.

Aum.
But this same Duke of Exeter is slow,
And wants some spurring, or his Spirit sleeps:
Good my Lord, go, and rouze his slumb'ring Virtue:
For Me, my Breast, like Ætna, is on Fire,
And labours to throw out the blazing Ruin.

Sal.
I'll instantly solicite him to Haste:
Heav'n in our good Cause make us prosperous!

Aum.
Strong as a Tow'r in Hope, I cry, Amen! Exit Salisbury at one Door, and Aumerle going out at the other, meets Lady Piercy.
The beauteous Piercy! O thou injur'd Maid!
Justly thou dost upbraid me with thy Eyes;
Let Indignation throw out all its Terrors;
See, Conscience sits in Blushes on my Face,
Owning my Guilt: It throws me at your Feet,
Like a poor Sinner at the last dread Hour,
Longing, and yet despairing of a Pardon.

Piercy.
My Lord, my Bosom swells with no Resentments,
Or treasures None, at least, against your Grace.
If you did wrong me, 'twas your Passion's Fault;
Which now looks back with Shame on its Offence,
And might reproach me, did I not forgive.

Aum.
I thank you; but, no more! Let me remember,
You did forbid me to discourse of Love,
And I must now be dumb: My Tongue, that once
Was licens'd to repeat your Name with Transport,
Is now become like to an Instrument
Of wond'rous Musick, put into his Hands
That knows no Touch to tune its Harmony.

Piercy.
Trust me, I share with you in this Distress;
Witness these streaming Eyes, this bleeding Heart:
But 'tis a dreadful thing to be divorc'd
From the dear Blessing of Paternal Love,
And earn an angry Father's dying Curses.

Aum.
Is it not dreadful too, when I had form'd
The Model of my Thoughts for big Delight,
When I had promis'd my exulting Soul
That Piercy wou'd be mine, the darling Treasure
Of all my Joys, the Softner of my Cares,
The Triumph of my Youth, and Age's Comfort,
Then to be dash'd at once from all my Hopes,
And have the Harvest of my Love o'erthrown,
And wither'd by a Tempest unforeseen?

Pier.
The Times may change, and the relenting Soul
Of stern Northumberland consent to bless us.
Tho' yet Obedience lay this strict Restraint,
And dire Necessity withhold my Hand,
Think, to delude the Rigour of our Fate,
My Heart has seal'd me in Reversion yours.

Aum.
O who can hold a Fire within his Hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus;
Or cloy the hungry Edge of Appetite,
By bare Imagination of a Feast?
The Apprehension of the Good, we want,
Gives but the stronger Feeling to the Worse:
The Times may change, they may, my lovely Piercy,
And I demand thee of thy cruel Father:
O! may I hope, shou'd Danger call me forth,
That Thou with Pray'rs wilt steel my Lance's Point,
Make swift my keen and executing Sword,
That it may fall, like Thunder, on the Head
Of my amaz'd, pernicious, Enemy?

Pier.
Why do you start me with the Name of Danger?
And yet if in the Royal Richard's Cause
The Sword of War is drawn, I must resign you;
I know, you will be foremost in that Quarrel.
But I, with supplicating Tears, will bribe
Each Guardian Pow'r to hover round your Head,
And screen you in the dreadful Ranks of Death.

Aum.
Thus I embrace the Omen of Success;
Thus, kneeling, pay the Tribute of my Thanks: [Aum. pulling out his Handkerchief; drops a Parchment:
Ha! whence these Drops of Blood? why shake my Knees,
As ev'ry Nerve were instantly unbrac'd?
But, Superstition; Thou and I are Strangers;
Converse with Women, droning Priests, and Cowards;
'Tis injur'd Majesty unsheaths our Swords,
And Heav'n and Piercy are on Richard's Side.

Pier.
Alas! my Lord, I fear we are surpriz'd!
Behold, my Father this way bends his Steps:
O lead me from the Terror of his Brow.
My Heart is conscious that I have neglected
His awful Charge, and shudders at his Presence. [Exit Piercy led by Aumerle. Enter Northumberland, and Exton.

North.
Exton, did not our Daughter part from hence,
And with Aumerle?

Exton.
My Lord, I mark'd them not.

North.
No Matter; if She dares oppose my Will,
The Curse of Disobedience be her Portion!
But You were saying, that our Royal Master
Did throw out some dark Words with deep Concern.

Ext.
My Lord, but now I did attend his Grace,
Who seem'd most thoughtful and dissatisfy'd;
When, with a deep-fetch'd Groan, Have I, said He,
No Friend, will rid me of this living Fear?
Those were his very Words, Have I no Friend?
And, as he spoke, he wistly look'd on Me,
As who shou'd say, I wou'd, Thou wert the Man,
That wou'd divorce this Terror from my Heart.

North.
Methinks, it were not difficult t' expound
The Riddle of his Fears, or at what Price
Your self may raise your low, and abject, Fortunes.

Ext.
My Lord, 'tis worth a Thought.

North.
—You judge it well.
Exton, what Parchment's that?— [Exton takes up the Parchment, and gives it to Northumberland]

Exton.
—The Means I know,
Whereby I might be great: 'Tis Richard's Blood
Alone secures Repose to Bolingbroke:
O that the Deed were good! Or, that my Thoughts
Wou'd shake off timerous and nice Regards,
I have a Soul that swells with big Desires,
And points me out the Road to sweet Reward.

North.
O heinous, strong, and bold Conspiracy!
Exton, this Writing is of dear Account:
See, that the Guard on Richard strait be doubled;
If he escapes, your Lives will answer it.
Fate, thou art kind! Aumerle, whom most I fear'd,
By This is fall'n into the Snares of Death;
And Piercy's Heart henceforth will be at Rest.
The Queen, and York!—My Business lies else where. [Exit Northumberland. Enter Queen, and Duke of York.

Queen.
Uncle, for Heav'n's sake speak some Words of Comfort.

York.
Comfort's in Heav'n, and We are on the Earth,
Where nothing lives but Crosses, Care, and Grief.
Your Husband is depos'd; the Regal State
Transferr'd to Bolingbroke: His Friends advanc'd;
And who are not so, brow-beat, and degraded;
Richard is but a Pris'ner now at large,
Guarded by Spies, and base informing Slaves,
Who watch Occasions to report with Malice,
And rise but by industrious Villany.

Queen.
Nimble Mischance! that art so light of Foot,
Does 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. But did you say
My Richard was depos'd, torn from the Throne,
And made a Pris'ner?

York.
Little Joy have I
To breath these News; yet what I said, is true:
My Son Aumerle too is disgrac'd, suspected,
And frown'd at, but for being Richard's Friend:
I am in Parliament Pledge for his Truth,
And lasting Fealty to this Bolingbroke.

Queen.
Who are the Violets then, that strew the Lap
Of this new Spring? But what imports it Me?
I have no more to do with Courts and Fav'rites:
Courts are the Seats of Sorrow, and Unrest,
Where big Disquiet sits inshrin'd in State,
And deals out Torments in the Shape of Greatness.

York.
See, your disconsolate, heart-wounded Lord,
With folded Arms, and down cast Eyes, approaches. Enter King Richard.

Queen.
How my fair Rose is wither'd with the Storm!
That Pity cou'd dissolve me to a Dew,
And wash him fresh again with true Love Tears!
Thou Map of Honour! Thou King Richard's Tomb,
And not King Richard! O my ruin'd Lord,
Raise from the Earth thy sick and heavy Eyes
And look upon me with a Beam of Comfort.

King.
If thou dost love me, do not speak of Comfort,
Let's talk of Graves, of Worms, and Epitaphs;
Make Dust our Paper, and with rainy Eves
Write Sorrow in the Bosom of the Earth.
Let's chuse 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,
Which serves as Paste, and Cover to our Bones.

Queen.
Fate yet may mend, and a glad Hour succeed
These sullen Frowns of stern Calamity.
Do not despair,—

King.
Why, who shall hinder me?
I will despair, and be at Enmity
With coz'ning Hope; he is a Flatterer,
A Parasite, a keeper back of Death;
Who gently wou'd dissolve the Bands of Life,
Which false Hopes linger out for new Afflictions.

York.
My gracious Liege, I hope your Majesty
Does, in your Apprehension, paint your Woe
In stronger Colours than the Cause requires.
Each Substance of a Grief has twenty Shadows,
Which shew like Grief it self yet are not so:
For Sorrow's Eye, glaz'd o'er with blinding Tears,
Divides one Object into many Forms:
So Fancy often, in the Mind's Presentment,
Finds Shapes of Grief, more than we need to wail!

King.
Uncle of York, I pray thee, good old Man,
For Thou canst have the Ear of Bolingbroke,
Go to him; and, in ruin'd Richard's Name,
Beg, he will suffer poor Carlisle t' attend me.

York.
Conclude it granted, and Ought else, my Liege,
That may contribute to asswage your Sorrow:
Learn to forget Afflictions, and believe,
You're still a King. Exit York.

King.
Oh! that I were as great
As are my Griefs, or less than is my Name!
Or that I could forget what I have been,
Or not remember what I must be now!
Alas! my Queen, this is a dismal Day;
Thou must to France, my Love, and leave thy Richard;
There cloister thee in some religious House,
Thy Holy Life will purchase us a Crown,
Which no usurping Hand can snatch away.

Queen.
What, is my Richard both in Shape and Mind
Transform'd, and weaken'd? Has proud Bolingbroke,

Depos'd thy Spirit? Has he been in thy Heart?
The Lyon, dying, strugleth with his Pains,
And wounds the Earth, if nothing else, with Rage
To be o'er-power'd: And wilt Thou, who hast born
The Stamp and awful Character of King,
Take thy Correction mildly, kiss the Rod,
And fawn on Rage with base Humility?

King.
'Tis Heav'n that hath a Hand in these Events,
To whose high Will we must submit our Passions.
Had I been minded to have stood on Terms,
I might, with Friends at home, and foreign Aid,
Have rais'd a dang'rous and a doubtful War;
Laid waste this flourishing and prosp'rous Land,
And rear'd my Greatness on the Subject's Ruin.
But, to my Thought, the Crown it self retriev'd
At such a Price were Sacrilegious Gain.

Queen.
Alas! my Richard, little did I mean
To raise the Spirit of Contention up;
I urg'd thee but to be a King in Soul,
Not reassume the Toils of Regal Pow'r.
Call forth your Vertues, rise above your Griefs,
Let Bolingbroke enjoy the Crown he sought,
But let not the descanting Vulgar think,
Those Virtues, which adorn'd thee as a Prince,
Were link'd to the Possession of the Throne.

King.
Excellent Creature! O my Isabella,
Thy Words with strong Persuasion seize my Mind,
Like Harmony, that wounds the Air with Sweetness,
Piercing my Ear, they sink into my Soul.
O my fair Counsellor! Thou Mine of Comfort!
Be ever near my Heart; and, when I lose thee,
Fate in that dreadful Hour undo my Being!
Believe me, Love, the World's Ingratitude
Hangs with the Weight of Years upon my Frame.
Here let us rest, if this rebellious Earth
Have any Resting for her Sovereign's Griefs.

Queen.
Alas! this Place can yield us no Repose;
For Bolingbroke approaches—

King.
Does the Tyrant
Come, like the wand'ring Spectre of the Night,
To break upon our quiet Hours of Life?
Let us avoid: His Glories, now too bright
For my weak Eye-balls, pain the aking Sight.

We, like dim Stars, when the resplendent Sun
Mounts on the Wings of Morn his Course to run,
Must from his Beams shrink back our fainter Ray,
Lost in the Glare of the refulgent Day. [Exeunt. Enter Bolingbroke, Ross, and Willoughby.

Bol.
Our gloomy Cousin doth decline our Presence,
As if, because we by the Peoples Voice,
And his Consent, stand vested of the Crown,
We were his Enemy, and meant him ill.

Ross.
There is a little Avarice, my Lord,
Planted in humane Breasts, which makes us quit
Ev'n with Regret the Things we cannot hold:
And thence we view, with a malignant Eye,
The Heirs that rise upon our ruin'd Fortunes. Enter Northumberland hastily.

Bol.
What means our Cousin, that he looks so wildly,
And whence this Haste? Tell us how near is Danger,
That we may arm Us to encounter it

North.
Peruse this Writing, and instruct your Self. [Giving Bolingbroke the Parchment]
Is it not monstrous, in a Land like This,
Where Justice for the Subject holds the Scales,
That harden'd Wretches shou'd, with impious Schemes,
Labour t' o'erturn the destin'd Work of Heav'n?—

Bol.
A Dozen of them here have deeply sworn,
And interchangeably have set their Hands,
To murder Me at Oxford.—

Will.
—Horrid Treason! Enter Duke of York.

Bol.
York, there is foul Conspiracy abroad.
What wou'd your Grace advise against such Men,
As, by seal'd Compact, with assassine Hands
Presume t' attempt our Life?

York.
—What less than Death?
Death, in the ugly'st Form the Law can warrant.
Mercy itself would here be Criminal,
And lend it's Countenance to future Treasons.

Bol.
Strait let a Guard secure the Lord Aumerle.

York.
What means your Grace? How has my Son offended?

Bol.
Read there, and judge of his unnat'ral Guilt.
Seize Suffolk, Exeter, and Salisbury,
With all the rest of the consorted Crew;
Destruction strait shall dog them at the Heels.
Uncle, ev'n in the Glasses of thy Eyes
I see thy troubled Heart; but He must die.—

York.
A heavy Sentence, my most Sov'reign Liege,
And all unlook'd for from your Highness Mouth.

Bol.
Thy Son is sentenc'd upon good Advice,
Whereto thy Tongue, unknowing, gave a Verdict:
Why at our Justice do'st thou then repine?

York.
Things, sweet to Taste, are in Digestion sow'r:
You urg'd me as a Judge, as Such I spoke,
But, as a Father, I unsay that Sentence:
His Heart was not confed'rate with his Hand.

Bol.
It must be, e're his Hand did set it down.

York.
See, Nature pleading in an old Man's Griefs,
Bending the Knee, that never yet was bent
To Mortal Pow'r in vain: I sue for Mercy.—

Bol.
Uncle, forbear: You do forget your Self:
Mercy it self would here be Criminal,
And lend its Countenance to future Treasons!
Stand up, old Man.

York.
—Nay, do not say, stand up;
But pardon first, or I must grow to Earth:
He prays but faintly, that will be deny'd.

Bol.
Lose not a Pray'r, York, in so bad a Cause:
Were he our Brother, nay, our Kingdom's Heir,
Think not, That Nearness to our sacred Blood
Should priviledge such Crimes, or partialize
Th' unstooping Firmness of my upright Soul.

York.
O rigid, and inexorable Prince!
Join with the present Sickness that I have,
And thy Unkindness be like crooked Age,
To crop at once a too-long wither'd Flow'r.

Bol.
Forget him, as the Blemish of your Race,
You may have many happy Years to come.

York.
But not a Moment, King, that Thou canst give.
Shorten my Days thou may'st with sudden Sorrow,
And pluck Nights from me, but not lend an Hour:
O Richard! Thou had'st heard thy Kinsman's Voice,
Thou wert all Sweetness, mild as pitying Heav'n,
That waits but for our Sorrow to forgive!
But we contemn'd thy Mildness:—'Wou'd, we find not
With greater Courage greater Cruelty!

Bol.
Be dumb;—

York.
Old York is too far gone with Grief,
Or else he never had compar'd between.

Bol.
Convey him to his Chamber, there to dote,
And exercise his frozen Admonition:
Cousin Northumberland,—

North.
—Impute his Words
To wayward Sickliness, and Age in him;
'Tis his Grief speaks: He loves you, on my Life. [Exeunt Bol. and North.

York.
Not all the Trials of my changing Life
Could ever make me sow'r my patient Cheek,
Or bend one Wrinkle on my Sov'reign's Face:
But This turns the Complection of my Faith,
And pricks my tender Patience to those Thoughts,
Which Honour and Allegiance dread to think.

Is He then gone? And poor Aumerle must dye!
Why do I live to know it? Stubborn Heart,
Can neither Pride, nor Sorrow, crack thy Strings?

I, like old Priam, to the Grave must go,
Distinguish'd by long Life, and lengthen'd Woe;
Reserv'd by Fate to see my self undone,
And mourn the Slaughter of a darling Son:
O that, like Him, I by the Sword of Strife
May find a sudden, kind, Discharge from Life. [Exeunt. End of the Fourth ACT.

ACT V. Scene 1 SCENE, an Apartment in the Tower. Enter Northumberland, follow'd by Lady Piercy

Nor.
Away, fond Girl! Thou might'st as well presume
To heave a Mountain with those feeble Hands,
Or, with Entreaties, still the raging Wind,
As think to shake my steady Disposition,
And make me supplicate a Traytor's Cause.

Pier.
Had he not rashly step'd into Offence,
I had not knelt to intercede for Mercy.
O Sir, consider, 'tis the Work of Gods
To snatch the Wretched from the Verge of Death,
And lengthen out expiring Nature's Date.
Think too, What Praise, what Pleasure crowns the Deed,
What secret Satisfaction swells the Soul,
Which to it self can say, That Man had dy'd,
Had not my Voice revers'd his fatal Doom!
A greater Triumph to a generous Mind,
Than Victories obtain'd, or Crowns bestow'd.

North.
No more;—I charge Thee, think not of Aumerle;
Or, if thou dost, think of him as a Wretch,
Whom his malignant Stars have made my Foe,
And his bad Conduct has mark'd out for Ruin.
Forget him, for he dies this very Hour,

Pier.
Forbid it Heav'n! O heart-distracting Sound!
My shuddering Soul starts at the dire Alarm,
And shakes my Frame with agonizing Fear.
O if you do not wish to see your Child,

Your Piercy, dead, or raving with Despair,
Fly with a pitying Father's kind Concern,
Solicit Bolingbroke for poor Aumerle.
Why do I say, solicit? Do but ask,
And Bolingbroke must grant. 'Tis at your Hands
He holds the Sceptre, and the People's Hearts:
You rais'd him to the Throne, and One poor Life
Is scanty Retribution for such Gifts.

North.
Rise, thou perverse, rash Fool, and loose thy Hold;
Lest I, in just Resentment, do an Act,
Which I shall wish undone.

Pier.
Dash me to Earth,
Tread on my lab'ring Bosom, spurn me, kill me!
Death shall be welcome to my gladden'd Soul,
If you will promise but to spare his Life.
O, are the Springs of Nature quite lock'd up?
That you, unmov'd, can hear your Daughter's Cries,
See her, all bath'd in Tears, crawl at your Feet,
And not once chear her with the Voice of Comfort?

North.
Away!—There is Infection in her Grief,
Which steals into my Heart, and will unman me. Enter Lieutenant of the Tower.
Welcome to my Relief—How brook your Pris'ners
The Sentence of immediate Death?

Lieut.
My Lord,
They do embrace their Doom, with Minds prepar'd;
Rather impatient for the fatal Stroke,
Than startled, that it reaches them so soon.

North.
'Tis well; their Time's expir'd. Go, bring them forth:
The gracious King, in Mercy, has by Me
Sent one of them his Pardon. Exit Lieut.

Pier.
Sacred Powers!
Grant it be for Aumerle, and I am blest

Beyond Misfortune's Reach.

North.
Who waits without? Enter Servant.
Bid her Attendants take her hence with Speed.

Pier.
Hold, cruel Lord, reverse that needless Order.
I will not meanly linger, like a Slave,
To be, by Vassal Hands, dragg'd from your Presence.
Fain would I flatter my despairing Heart,
That Bolingbroke has sav'd the poor Aumerle,
Tho' sternly you disdain to let me know it.
If so, let Peace and Glory bless his Throne!
Let his Great Name stand forth to after Times
Our England's Triumph, and all Europe's Wonder!
But if, strict in Revenge, he thirsts for Blood,
Just Heaven! then short, and bloody be his Reign:
Let Discontents and Tumults wreck his Peace,
Let fresh Rebellions, like the Hydra's Heads,
Sprout on each other's Necks; and let his Own
Wild Offspring help to gaul his Heart with Sorrow!
  Till Anguish on his Soul so heavy lye,
  That He may curse his State, and wish to dye. Exit.

North.
These Violent Transports may be dangerous,
And make her desperate; which to prevent,
Concerns my Love, and Wisdom. Ho! within,— Enter Servant.
Give Charge, that Piercy's Women still be near her:
That they watch close, nor trust her with her self.
Aumerle once dead, this Extasy of Grief,
That, like a Tempest, now plows up her Soul,
Will settle down, and spend it self in Tears. Exit Northumberland.

Scene 2 SCENE changes to the Outward Part of the Tower. Enter Aumerle, Carlisle, Salisbury, as to Execution, Lieutenant, and Guards.

Aum.
I do not wonder, Lords, that his Revenge
Pursues our Lives, with such inveterate Speed;
He knows our Service is so firmly knit
To Royal Richard, that our Pardons seal'd
Could not unhinge our Faith, or buy us o'er
To own his Title in our Master's Wrong.

Sal.
Since Heaven thought fit to disappoint our Hands,
To Day, with Me, stands in the Place of Time,
And instant Death is welcome to my Soul,
As Rest to the o'er labour'd, drudging, Hind.
O Carlisle, venerable, good old Man,
How shall I bless the Wisdom of thy Tongue!
Whose Utt'rance has dispell'd the Doubts I felt,
And planted Paradise around my Heart:
Made calm my Passions, and dislodg'd each Fear,
Each petty Interest that drag'd me down,
Too servilely to wish this Life prolong'd.

Car.
The Praise be to that Power, whose Sacred Counsels
My Tongue is but the Organ to unfold!

Aum.
So Heaven befriend me, as I feel no Care,
No Weight that hangs more heavy on my Thoughts,
Save what may happen to the Royal Richard,
Than that You, Noble Lord, whose rev'rend Head
The hoary Hand of Time has silver'd o'er,
Should taste the bitter Portion of our Fate,
And not be shrouded in the Arms of Peace. Enter Northumberland.

North.
My Lord, the King has graciously been pleas'd,
In Reverence to the sacred Robe you wear,
To sign your Pardon; but, with this Injunction,
That you forthwith do quit the Tower and City,
Repair you to your Castle at Carlisle,

And spend the peaceful Remnant of your Days
In Exposition of the holy Text.
So wipe this Blemish to your Virtues off,
Preaching Obedience, and the Law of Truth,
And dying, in a good old Age, rever'd.

Car.
Believe me, Lords, I joy not in this Grant:
I had divorc'd my Heart from Earth's Concerns,
And next to that strong Comfort which I taste
In full Assurance of a future Bliss,
It was the Triumph of my Soul, to think
I should have dy'd in Royal Richard's Cause.

North.
My Lord, you now must instantly depart,
And leave the Pris'ners to their Doom.

Aum.
Farewel.
O Carlisle, I had treasur'd up a Hope,
You might have seen us take the Stroke of Death,
And to old York reported, that his Son
Fell not unworthy of his Birth or Cause.

Carl.
Had I dy'd with You I had spar'd these Tears;
But these our Friendship and your Virtues claim.
My Lords, one last Embrace: Heav'n make you strong,
And arm your Breasts with Christian Fortitude,
To stand the Terrors of the Scene before you. Exit Carlisle.

Sal.
Come, let us meet this threat'ning Pomp of Death,
For we, my Lord, are like too desp'rate Men,
That vow a long and weary Pilgrimage;
Let us not stand, and count the Way with Sighs,
But start with Hearts resolv'd, e'er Fancy palls,
And makes the Passage irksome to our Thoughts.

Aum.
I paus'd not, Salisbury, to defer my Doom,
But mourn my suff'ring King and Country's Fate.
This Royal Throne of Kings, this little World,
This Earth of Majesty, this Seat of Mars,
This Fortress built by Nature for her self,
Against Infection, and the Hand of War;
This Land of Liberty, this dear, dear, Land,
Dear for her Reputation thro' the World,

This England, that was wont to conquer Others,
Has made a shameful Conquest of it self.
Our forfeit Lives how gladly should we pay,
If that our Blood could wash its Stains away! Exeunt.

Northumberland Solus.
So, now a little Interval of Time
Will, on that Quarter, set my Soul at Rest:
A Work of Consequence is still behind.
Let me confirm the yet unsettled Crown
To Bolingbroke; and Fortune then is mine:
The Means will be to move King Richard hence,
And, by his Absence, cool the People's Love. Exit North. Scene 3 SCENE changes to an inner Apartment. Enter King Richard, and Queen.

King.
O Isabella! Fate cou'd ne'er intend
Those blooming Beauties for the Spoil of Grief,
To waste in Tears, and Health-impairing Woe.
Forsake this Wretch, whom Heav'n has quite thrown off,
And Fortune is commission'd to destroy.
Think, I am dead; or that ev'n now thou tak'st,
As from my Death-bed, my last living Leave:
If Thou wilt bear some Portion of Distress,
Let it be from the Mem'ry of my Wrongs.
In Winter's tedious Nights sit by the Fire,
With good old Folks, and let them tell Thee Tales
Of woful Ages distant far in Time,
Then, e'er thou bid Good Night, to quit their Grief,
Tell thou the lamentable Fall of Me,

And send the Hearers weeping to their Beds.

Queen.
Alas! My Lord, you do distrust my Love;
You think my Heart was wedded to the State,
The Pomp of Courts, and Luxury of Empire,
And that my Soul is weaker than my Sex.
No, let Affliction rain upon our Heads,
Let angry Heav'n pour forth its Stores of Vengeance,
I am prepar'd t' encounter all its Fury,
Share the rough Visitation of the Storm,
That breaks on You, and hush you into Comfort!

King.
Exquisite Goodness! O thou more than Woman,
Thou Angel Form, link'd with an Angel's Mind!
By Heav'n, thy matchless Softness wounds me more
Than all the Rage of rude Calamity.
You righteous Pow'rs! do with Me what you please,
Heap Plagues upon me, let infectious Woe
Vary its Forms, and multiply my Tortures.
I am a Man, black with a Train of Crimes,
That have abus'd your sacred Trust of Pow'r,
And made the Regal Office serve the Turns
Of Appetite, and Arbitrary Will:
And therefore do deserve your just Correction:
But, oh! in Mercy spare her Innocence,
And Me the Pain of seeing her in Anguish.

Queen.
Alas! Misfortunes fall too thick upon us,
For see, the stern Northumberland's at hand. Enter Northumberland.

North.
My Lord, the Mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd:
The Council, careful for the Nation's Safety,
And to prevent Rebellion's busy Rage,
Have judg'd it meet that you shou'd leave the Tow'r,
And privately retire to Pomfret Castle.

King.
Northumberland, thou Ladder, by whose Steps
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my Throne,
The Time shall not be many Hours of Age,

More than it is, e'er foul Sin, gathering Head,
Shall break into Corruption: Thou shalt think,
Tho' he divide the Realm, and give thee Half,
It is too little, helping him to All;
And He shall think, that Thou, who knew'st the way
To plant unrightful Kings, wilt know again,
Being ne'er so little urg'd, another Way,
To pluck him headlong from th' usurped Throne.

North.
My Lord, I came not to discourse of This:
If I've done Ought unwarranted, and ill,
My Guilt be on my Head, and there's an End:
But, Madam, there is Order ta'en for You,
With all swift Speed you must away to France.

Queen.
Has Bolingbroke the Law so much at Will,
That he can abrogate Heav'n's eldest Law,
Step in betwixt the venerable Rites,
Sacred even to the barbarous and rude,
And part, whom strong Connubial Love has join'd?

North.
Custom and Law must, where the Cause requires,
Give way to Time, and strict Necessity:
'Tis fixt beyond Recall; therefore, with Speed,
Take Leave, and part, for you must part forthwith.

King.
Doubly divorc'd!—Bad Men, ye violate
A Two-fold Marriage; 'twixt My Crown and Me,
And then betwixt Me, and my marry'd Wife!
Are there no Bolts of Vengeance for such Crimes!
Was it not Wrong enough to break your Faiths,
And strip me of my Crown, but must you too
Break the Possession of a Royal Bed,
And stain the Beauty of a fair Queen's Cheeks
With Tears, drawn from her Eyes by your foul Wrongs?
O Isabella!

Queen.
Give thy Sorrows Vent,
And I will second them with equal Woe:
O, to what Purpose do'st thou hoard thy Words,
And fix thy Eyes in dumb expressive Sadness?

King.
I have no Words, no Utt'rance for my Thoughts,

When the Tongue's Office should be prodigal,
To breath the Anguish of my breaking Heart.
Our Injuries press too hard upon my Soul,
And, like unruly Children, make their Sire
Stoop with Oppression of their galling Weight.

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

King.
Ay, Hand from Hand, my Love, and Heart from Heart;
Therefore in wooing Sorrow let's be brief,
For Woe's made wanton with this fond Delay.
Let me unkiss the Oath betwixt us, Love;
And yet not so; for with a Kiss 'twas made.
O Isabella! I must towards the North,
Where shiv'ring Cold and Sickness pine the Clime;
And Thou to France, from whence, set forth in Pomp,
You came to my Embrace, adorn'd like May,
Blooming in Sweets, and bright with springing Beauties.

North.
My Lord, you do but aggravate your Pains,
By length'ning out the Circumstance of Parting.

King.
Insolent Man! how dar'st thou treat me thus,
Make pale our Cheek, and chase the Royal Blood
With Fury from its Native Residence?
The blackest Fiends take Lancaster, and Thee!
Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.—
And now, We wo'not part.

North.
—Nay then, a Guard.—

King.
They shall not force thee from me. [Exton and the Guard break in; part of them hurry away the Queen; the King snatches a Sword, kills two of them, and in the Scuffle is kill'd by Exton.

Queen.
Barbarous Men!—
Farewell, O Richard!

King.
Villain, thy own Side
Yields thy Death's Instrument. O, I am slain!

Exton.
Let us away; lest Death, and not Reward
Pursue us for this hasty Deed of Slaughter. [Exeunt Exton and Guard. Enter Bolingbroke, Northumberland, Ross, and Willoughby, at several Doors.

Bol.
What Noise of Tumult did invade our Ears?
Ha! Richard! How came this?

King.
Question it not;
Content, that all thy Fears with me ly bury'd:
Unrival'd, wear the Crown. O Isabella! [Dies. [A Screaming within.]

Bol.
What new Assault of Horror wounds us thus?

Ross.
The beauteous Piercy, with a desp'rate Hand,
Hearing Aumerle was dead, a secret Dagger
Drew from her Side, and plung'd it in her Breast.

North.
My Daughter! Fate pursues my Guilt too fast. [Exit North. Enter York.

York.
Give way, bold Groom; I will not be repuls'd:
Where is my Son, thou Tyrant? Give him back.—

Ross.
My Lord,—

Bol.
To bed, old Man; I see, thou'rt ill.

York.
Now he that made me knows, I see Thee ill:
Thy Death-bed is no less than this wide Land,
Wherein Thou liest in Reputation sick;
Tainted with Murder.—Ha! Start Eyes, break Heart!
My Royal Master welt'ring in his Blood?

Fate, thou art kind; This Blow was home, and sure. [Falls by the Body, and dies.

Bol.
Support him;

Will.
'Tis too late; he's dead at once.

Bol.
Lords, I protest, my Soul is full of Woe;
And to the Realm my Sorrow shall be known,
That I on such Events should fix my Throne:

Tho' Vengeance may a while withhold her Hand,
A King's Blood, unatton'd, must curse the Land. FINIS.

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