Dutch.
Aumarle, come back, by all the Charms of Duty,
I do conjure you temper your rash Father,
His Zeal can do th' abandoned King no good;
But will provoke th' usurper to our ruin.

Aum.
Already, I have prest beyond his Patience,
What can our poor Endeavours help the King
When he himself comply's with his hard fortune;
He comes this Morning to Resign the Crown.

Dutch.
Where then is that amazing Resolution,
That in his Non-age fir'd his Youthful Brest:
To face Rebellion and strike dead the Monster,
When Tyler's Deluge cover'd all the Land?
Or where the fury that supprest the Kerns;
Whilst numbers perisht by his Royal Arm?

Aum.
With such Malignant fortune he is prest,
As renders bravest Resolution vain;
By force and fraud reduc't to that Distress,
That ev'n ith' best opinion of his Friends
He is advis'd to yield his Scepter up,
This poor reserve being all, to make that seem
As voluntary, which perforce must be;
But how resents the Queen this strange Oppression?

Dutch.
As yet the worst has been dissembled to her,
A slumber now has seiz'd her wakeful Lids:
But heere she comes, I must attend, Away. [Ex. Aum. Enter Queen supported by Ladies.

Qu.
Convey me to my Lord, or bring him hither,
Fate labours in my Brest and frights my Dreams;
No sooner sleep can seize my weeping Eyes,
But boding Images of Death and Horrour
Affright the Infant slumber into Cries,
A Thousand forms of ruin strike my thoughts;
A Thousand various Scenes of Fate are shewn,
Which in their sad Catastrophe agree,
The Moral still concludes in Richard's fall.

Dutch.
How shall we now dare to inform her Grief
Of the sad Scene the King must Act to day?

Qu.
Ev'n now amidst a Chaos of distraction,
A Towring Eagle wing'd his cloudy way,
Pursu'd by rav'nous Kites, and clamorous Daws,
That stript th' imperial Bird of all his Plumes,
And with their Numbers sunk him to the ground:
But as I nearer drew, the Figure chang'd,
My Richard there lay weltring in his gore!
So dreamt Calphurnia, and so fell Cæsar. Enter a Lady.

Lad.
Madam, the King is coming.

Qu.
Thou bring'st a welcom hearing, and already
I feel his powerful influence chase my fears,
For grief it self must smile when Richard's by. Enter King in Mourning.
Oh Heav'n is this? is this my promis'd joy!
Not all the terrours of my sleep presented

A Spectacle like this! O speak, my Lord!
The Blood starts back to my cold Heart; O speak!
What means this dark and mournful Pageantry,
This pomp of Death?

King.
Command your Waiters forth,
My space is short, and I have much to say.

Qu.
Are these the Robes of State? Th' imperial Garb,
In which the King should go to meet his Senate?
Was I not made to hope this Day shou'd be
Your second Coronation, second Birth
Of Empire, when our Civil Broils shou'd sleep,
For ever husht in deep Oblivion's Grave?

King.
O Isabel! This Pageantry suits best
With the black Day's more black Solemnity;
But 'tis not worth a Tear, for, say what part
Of Life's vain Fable can deserve a Tear,
A real Sorrow for a feign'd Distress!
My Coronation was (methinks) a Dream,
Think then my Resignation is no more.

Qu.
What Resignation? Mean you of the Crown?
Will Richard then against himself conspire?
Th'Usurper will have more excuse than he:
No, Richard, never tamely yield your Honours,
Yield me; yield if you must your precious Life,
But seize the Crown, and grasp your Scepter dying.

King.
Why dost thou fret a Lyon in the Toil
To Rage, that only makes his Hunters sport?
Permit me briefly to recount the steps,
By which my Fortune grew to this distress.
Then tell me, what cou'd Alexander do
Against a Fate so obstinate as mine.

Qu.
Oh Heav'n! Is awful Majesty no more?

King.
First, had I not bin absent when th' Invader
Set footing here; or if being then in Ireland,
The cross Winds not forbad the News to reach me;
Or when the shocking Tidings were arriv'd,
Had not the veering Winds agen obstructed
My passage back, 'till rumour of my Death
Disperst the Forces rais'd by Salisbury;
Or when these hopes were perisht, had not Baggot,

Bushie, and Green, by Bullingbrook been murder'd,
Old York himself (our last reserve) surpriz'd,
There were some scope for Resolution lest.
But what curst Accident i'th' power of Chance,
That did not then befall to cross my Wishes;
And what strange hit could Bullingbrook, desire,
That fell not out to push his Forttnes on;
Whatever outmost Fate cou'd do to blast
My hopes was done; what outmost Fate cou'd do
T' advance proud Bullingbrooks as sure befell.
Now which of these Misfortunes was my fault?
Or what cou'd I against resisting Heav'n!

Qu.
Oh my dear Lord, think not I meant t'upbraid [Weeps over him.]
Your Misery—
Death seize my Youth, when any other passion
For injur'd Richard in my Brests finds room,
But tendrest Love and Pity of his Woes.

King.
That I resign the Crown with seeming will,
Is now the best my Friends can counsel me,
Th' usurping House decrees it must be done,
And therefore best that it seem Voluntary.

Qu.
Has Loyalty so quite renounc't the World,
That none will yet strike for an injur'd King?

King.
Alas! my sinking Barque shall wreck no more
My gen'rous Friends, let Crowns and Scepters go
Before I swim to 'em in Subjects blood.
The King in pity to his Subjects quits
His Right, that have no pity for their King!
Let me be blest with cool Retreat and thee,
Thou World of Beauty, and thou Heav'n of Love,
To Bullingbrook I yield the Toils of State:
And may the Crown sit lighter on his Head
Than e're it did on Richard's.

Qu.
Destiny
Is Tyrant over King's; Heav'n guard my Lord.

King.
Weep not my Love, each Tear thou shedst is Theft,
For know, thou robb'st the great ones of their due;
Of Pomp divested we shou'd now put off,
It's dull Companion Grief—Farewel my Love:
Thy Richard shall return to thee again,
The King no more.

Qu.
In spight of me, my sorrow
In sad Prophetic Language do's reply
Nor Richard, nor the King. [Exeunt severally.

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