Bol.
How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now?

North.
I am a stranger here in Glocestershire.
These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome—
“And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,
“Making the hard way sweet and delectable.”
But I bethink me, what a weary way
From Ravenspurg to Cotswold, will be found
In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company;
Which, I protest, hath very much beguil'd
The tediousness and process of my travel.

Bol.
Of much less value is my company
Than your good words.—But who comes here? Enter Harry Percy.

North.
It is my son, my lord, young Harry Percy,
Sent from my brother Worcester; whencesoever
Harry, how fares your uncle?

Percy.
I had thought,
My lord, to have learn'd his health of you.

North.
Why, is he not with the queen?

Percy.
No, my good lord, he hath forsook the court,

Broken his staff of office, and dispers'd
The household of the king.

North.
What was his reason?
He was not so resolv'd, when last we spake together.

Percy.
Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.
But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurg,
To offer service to the duke of Hereford;
And sent me o'er by Berkely, to discover
What power the duke of York hath levy'd there,
Then with direction to repair to Ravenspurg.

North.
Have you forgot the duke of Hereford, boy?

Percy.
No, my good lord, for that is not forgot
Which ne'er I did remember: to my knowledge,
I never in my life did look on him.

North.
Then learn to know him now: this is the duke.

Percy.
My gracious lord, I tender you my service,
Such as it is, being tender, raw and young;
Which elder days shall ripen, and confirm
To more approved service and desert.

Bol.
I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure,
I count myself in nothing else so happy,
As in a soul, remembering my good friends;
And, as my fortune ripens with thy love,
It shall be still thy true love's recompense:
My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.

North.
How far is't to Berkley? and what stir
Keeps good old York there, with his warlike men?

Percy.
There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees,
Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard,
And in it are the lords—York, Berkley, Seymour—
None else of name and noble estimate. Enter Ross and Willoughby.

North.
Here come the lords of Ross and Willoughby.

Bol.
Welcome, my friends, I wot your love pursue
A banish'd traitor: all my treasury
Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich'd,
Shall be your love and labour's recompense.

Ross.
Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.

Will.
And far surmounts our labours to attain it.

Bol.
Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor,
Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,
Stands for my bounty—But who now comes here? Enter Berkley.

North.
It is my lord of Berkley, as I guess.

Berk.
My lord of Hereford, my message is to you.

Bol.
My lord, my answer is—to Lancaster;
And I am come to seek that name in England;
And I must find that title in your tongue,
Before I make reply to aught you say.

Berk.
Mistake me not, my lord, 'tis not my meaning,
To raze one title of your honour out:

To you, my lord, I come (what lord you will)
From the most gracious Regent of this land,
The duke of York, to know what pricks you on
To take advantage of the absent time,
And fright our native peace with self-born arms?

Bol.
I shall not need transport my words by you:
Here comes his grace in person—Noble uncle! [Kneels.] Enter York, attended.

York.
Shew me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,
Whose duty is deceivable and false.

Bol.
My gracious uncle!—

York.
I am no traitor's uncle; and that word—grace,
In an ungracious mouth, is but prophane.
Why have those banish'd and forbidden legs
Dar'd once to touch a dust of England's ground?
And more than so—why have they dar'd to march
So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,
Frighting her pale-fac'd villages with war?
Cam'st thou because the anointed king is hence?
Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind,
And in my loyal bosom lies his power.
Were I but now the lord of such hot youth,
As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself,
Rescu'd the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,
From forth the ranks of many thousand French,
O, then, how quickly should this arm of mine,
Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee,
And minister correction to thy fault.

Bol.
My gracious uncle, let me know my fault;
On what condition stands it, and wherein?

York.
Even in condition of the worst degree,—
In gross rebellion, and detested treason:
Thou art a banished man, and here art come
Before the expiration of thy time,
In braving arms against thy sovereign.

Bol.
As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford;
But as I come, I come for Lancaster.
And, noble uncle, I beseech your grace,
Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye:
You are my father, for, methinks, in you I see
Old Gaunt alive: O, then, my father,
Will you permit that I shall stand condemn'd
A wand'ring vagabond; my rights and royalties
Pluck'd from my arms perforce, and giv'n away
To upstart unthrifts? wherefore was I born?
If that my cousin king, be king of England,
It must be granted, I am duke of Lancaster.
I am deny'd to see my livery here,
And yet my letters patent give me leave;
My father's goods are all distrain'd and sold.
What would you have me do? I am a subject,
And challenge law: Attorneys are deny'd me,
And therefore personally I lay my claim
To my inheritance of free descent.

North.
The noble duke hath been too much abus'd.

Ross.
It stands your grace upon, to do him right.

York.
My lords of England, let me tell you this,—
I have had a feeling of my cousin's wrongs,
And labour'd all I could to do him right;
But in this kind to come, in braving arms,
Be his own carver, and cut out his way,
To find out right with wrong—it may not be:

And you that do abet him in this kind,
Cherish rebellion, and are rebels all.

North.
The noble duke hath sworn his coming is
But for his own: and, for the right of that,
We all have strongly sworn to give him aid,
And let him ne'er see joy, that breaks his oath.

York.
Well, well, I see the issue of these arms;
I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,
Because my power is weak, and all ill left,
But if I could, by Him that gave me life,
I would attach you all, and make you stoop,
Unto the sovereign mercy of the king:
But, since I cannot, be it known to you,
I do remain as neuter. So fare you well;
Unless you please to enter in the castle,
And there repose you for a while or so.

Bol.
An offer, uncle, that we will accept;
But we must win your grace to go with us,
To Bristol castle; which, they say, is held
By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices,
The caterpillars of the commonwealth,
Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.

York.
It may be, I'll go with you: Yet I'll bethink me,
For I am loth to break our country's laws.
Nor friends, nor foes, to me welcome you are,
Things past redress, are now with me past care. [March.] [Exeunt. SCENE II. A Camp in Wales. Enter Salisbury, and a Captain.

Capt.
My lord of Salisbury, we have stay'd ten days,

And hardly kept our countrymen together,
And yet we hear no tidings of the king;
Therefore we will disperse ourselves: farewell.

Salis.
Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman;
The king reposeth in thee all his confidence.

Capt.
'Tis thought the king is dead: we will not stay.
The bay trees in our country are all wither'd,
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;
The pale fac'd-moon looks bloody on the earth,
And lean look'd prophets whisper fearful change;
These signs forerun the death, or fall of kings.
Farewell: our countrymen are fled and gone,
As well assur'd, Richard their king is dead. [Exit Captain.

Salis.
Ah! Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind,
I see thy glory, like a shooting star,
Fall to the base earth from the firmament!
Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,
Witnessing storms to come—
Thy friends are fled, to wait upon thy foes,
And crossly to thy good all fortune goes. [Exit Salisbury. SCENE III. Another Camp at Bristol. Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Percy, Willoughby, Ross, Officers with Bushy and Green prisoners.

Bol.
Bring forth those men.—
Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls,
(Since presently your souls must part your bodies),

With too much urging your pernicious lives;
For 'twere no charity: yet, to wash your blood
From off my hands, here in the view of men,
I will unfold some causes of your death.
You have misled a prince, a royal king;
You have, in manner, with your sinful hours,
“Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him;
“Broke the possession of a royal bed,
“And stain'd the beauty of a fair queen's cheeks,
“With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs:”
Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth,
Near to the king in blood, and near in love,
Till you did make him misinterpret me,—
Have stoop'd my neck under your injuries,
And sigh'd my English breath in foreign clouds,
Eating the bitter bread of banishment;
While you have fed upon my signories,
Dispark'd my parks, and fell'd my forest woods;
From my own windows torn my household coat,
Raz'd out my impress, leaving me no sign,
Save men's opinions, and my living blood,
To shew the world I am a gentleman.
This, and much more, condemns you to the death.
See them delivered
To execution and the hand of death.

Bush.
More welcome is the stroke of death to me,
Than Bolingbroke to England.—Lords, farewell.

Bol.
My lord Northumberland, see them dispatch'd [Exeunt Northumberland and Prisoners.
Uncle, you say the queen is at your house;
For heav'n's sake, fairly let her be intreated;
Tell her, I send to her my kind commends;
Take special care my greetings be deliver'd.

York.
A gentleman of mine I'll straight dispatch
With letters of your love to her at large. [Exit York.

Bol.
Thanks, gentle uncle.
Now, Henry, steel thy fearful thoughts,
And change misdoubt to resolution:
Be what thou hop'st to be: or what thou art
Resign to death; it is not worth enjoying:
Let pale-fac'd fear keep with the mean-born man,
And find no harbour in a royal heart.
Faster than spring-time showers, comes thought on thought,
And not a thought, but thinks on dignity.
My brain, more busy than a labouring spider,
Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
Now, whilst Richard safely is in Ireland,
I have stirr'd up in England this black storm,
By which I shall perceive the commons' minds:
And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage
Until the golden circuit on my head,
Like to the glorious sun's transparent beams,
Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw:
Come, my lords, away,
Awhile to work, and, after, holiday. [Flourish.] [Exeunt. SCENE IV. The Coast of Wales. [March.] Enter King Richard, Aumerle, Soldiers, &c.

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,
Tho' rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs:
As a long parted mother with her child,
Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in weeping,
So weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth,
And do thee favour with my royal hands.
Feed not thy sovereign'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 pray thee, with a lurking adder;
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy sovereign'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 falter under foul rebellious arms.

Carl.
Fear not, my lord, that power that made you king,
Hath power 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 will 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 heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and 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 every 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,
Shall see us rising in our throne the east,
His treasons shall 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,
Can wash the balm from an anointed king;
For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd
To lift sharp steel against our golden crown,
God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall—for heaven still guards the right. Enter Salisbury.
Welcome, my lord: How far off lies your power?

Sal.
Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious liege,
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:
O, 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, thy fortune, and thy friends;
For, hearing thou wert dead, the Welshmen all
Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers'd, 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?

Aum.
Comfort, my liege, remember who you are.

K. Rich.
I had forgot myself: Am I not king?
Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleep'st.
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 favourites of a king; Are we not high?
High be our thoughts: I know my uncle York
Hath power enough 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 wordly 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, covering 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 women's 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-fated yew against thy state;
And all goes worse than I have power to tell.

K. Rich.
Too well, too well, thou tell'st a tale so ill:
Where is the earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
What is become of Bushy? where is Green?
That they have let the dangerous enemy
Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?

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

Scroop.
Peace have they 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.
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 power,
And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.

Aum.
Are Bushy, Green, and the 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 choose 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 heaven's 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 monarchise, 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,
Bores through his castle-wall, and—farewell king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty:
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with 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.

Aum.
My father hath a power; 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 overblown;
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power?

Scroop.
I play the torturer, by small and small,
To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken:—

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

K. Rich.
Thou hast said enough—
Beshrew thee, cousin, which did'st lead me forth
Of that sweet way I was in to despair!
What say you now? what comfort have we now?
By heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly,
That bids me be of comfort any more.

Aum.
My liege, one word—

K. Rich.
He does me double wrong,
That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.
Discharge my followers, let them hence;—Away,
From Richard's night, to Bolingbroke's fair day. [Exeunt. END OF ACT III.

Previous section

Next section