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.

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