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.

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