K. Rich.
Barkloughly-castle call you this at hand?

Aum.
Yea, my good lord; how brooks your Grace the air,
After your tossing on the breaking Seas?

K. Rich.
Needs must I like it well; I weep for joy
To stand upon my Kingdom once again.
Dear Earth, I do salute thee with my hand,
Though Rebels wound thee with their horses hoofs:
As a long-parted mother with 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 Soveraign'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-gaited toads, lye in their way;
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet,
Which with usurping steps do trample thee.
Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies;
And, when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,
Guard it, I pr'ythee, with a lurking adder;
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy Soveraign's enemies.
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords;
This Earth shall have a Feeling: and these stones
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native King
Shall faulter under foul rebellious arms.

Bishop.
Fear not, my lord; that Pow'r, that made you King,
Hath pow'r to keep you King, in spight of all.
The means, that heaven yields, must be embrac'd,
And not neglected: else if heaven would,
And we would not heav'n's offer, we refuse
The proffer'd means of succour and redress.

Aum.
He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;
Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,
Grows strong and great, in substance and in power.

K. Rich.
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 murders, and in outrage bloody here.
But when from under this terrestrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through ev'ry guilty hole;
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves.
So when this thief, this traitor Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilst we were wand'ring with th' Antipodes,
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;
But, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea(11) ^note





Can wash the balm from an anointed King;
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The Deputy elected by the Lord.
For every man that Bolingbroke hath prest,
To lift sharp steel against our golden Crown,
Heav'n for his Richard hath in heav'nly Pay
A glorious Angel; then if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heav'n still guards the Right. Enter Salisbury.
Welcome, my lord, how far off lies your Power?

Salis.
Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious lord,

Than this weak arm: Discomfort guides my tongue,
And bids me speak of nothing but Despair:
One day (too late, I fear, my noble lord)
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.
Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men.
To day, to day,—unhappy day, too late
O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state.
For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, disperst and fled.

Aum.
Comfort, my Liege, why looks your Grace so pale?

K. Rich.
But now the blood of twenty thousand men
Did triumph in my face, and they are fled.
And till so much blood thither come again,
Have I not reason to look pale, and dead?
All souls, that will be safe, fly from my side;
For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

Aum.
Comfort, my Liege; remember, who you are.

K. Rich.
I had forgot my self: am I not King?
Awake, thou coward Majesty, thou sleepest:
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. I know, my uncle York
Hath pow'r to serve our turn. But who comes here? Enter Scroop.

Scroop.
More health and happiness betide my Liege,
Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him!

K. Rich.
Mine 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; if he serve God,
We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so.
Revolt our Subjects? that we cannot mend;
They break their faith to God as well as us.

Cry, Woe, Destruction, Ruin, Loss, Decay;
The worst is death, and death will have his day.

Scroop.
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,
As if the world were all dissolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits swells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring your fearful Land
With hard bright steel, and hearts more hard than steel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy Majesty; boys with womens voices;
Strive to speak big, and clasp their female joints
In stiff unwieldy arms, against thy Crown:
Thy very Beadsmen learn to bend their bows
Of double fatal Ewe, against thy State:
Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills.
Against thy Seat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have pow'r to tell.

K. Rich.
Too well, too well, thou tell'st a Tale so ill.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is He got?(12) ^note

If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.
I warrant, they've made peace with Bolingbroke.

Scroop.
Peace they have made with him, indeed, my lord.

K. Rich.
O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption;
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man;
Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart;
Three Judasses, each one thrice worse than Judas!
Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted souls for this offence!

Scroop.
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: those, whom you curse,
Have felt the worst of death's destroying hand,
And lye full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.

Aum.
Is Bushy, Green, and th' Earl of Wiltshire dead?

Scroop.
Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.

Aum.
Where is the Duke my father, with his Power?

K. Rich.
No matter where; of comfort no man speak:
Let's talk of Graves, of Worms, and Epitaphs,
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on 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.
For heav'ns sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of Kings:
How some have been depos'd, some slain in war:
Some haunted by the Ghosts they dispossess'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 sits
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 a little pin
Boars through his castle-walls, and farewel King!
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 on bread like you, feel want like you,
Taste grief, need friends, like you: subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a King?

Carl.
My lord, wise men ne'er wail their present woes,
But presently prevent the ways to wail:
To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength,
Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe;
And so your follies fight against your self.
Fear, and be slain; no worse can come from fight;
And fight and die, is death destroying death:
Where fearing, dying, pays death servile breath.

Aum.
My father hath a Pow'r, enquire of him,
And learn to make a body of a limb.

K. Rich.
Thou chid'st me well: proud Bolingbroke, I come
To change blows with thee, for our day of doom;
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown;
An easie task it is to win our own.
Say, Scroop, where lyes our uncle with his Power?
Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sower.

Scroop.
Men judge by the complexion of the sky
The state and inclination of the day;
So may you, by my dull and heavy eye,
My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.
I play the torturer, by small and small
To lengthen out the worst, that must be spoken.

Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke,
And all your northern castles yielded up,
And all your southern gentlemen in arms
Upon his faction.

K. Rich.
Thou hast said enough.
Beshrew thee, Cousin, which didst lead me forth [To Aumerle.
Of that sweet way I was in to Despair.
What say you now? what comfort have we now?
By heav'n, I'll hate him everlastingly,
That bids me be of comfort any more.
Go to Flint-castle, there I'll pine away:
A King, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey:
That Pow'r I have, discharge; and let 'em go
To ear the land, that hath some hope to grow:
For I have none. Let no man speak again
To alter this, for counsel is but vain.

Aum.
My Liege, one word.

K. Rich.
He does me double wrong,
That wounds me with the flatt'ries of his tongue.
Discharge my Foll'wers: let them hence, away,
From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day. [Exeunt.

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