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.

Next section