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.

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