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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