Bol.
My countrymen, my loving followers,
Friends that have been thus forward in my right,
I thank you all;
And to the love and favour of my country,
Commit myself, my person, and my cause. Enter York, attended.

York.
Great duke of Lancaster, I come to thee

From plume-pluck'd Richard, who with willing soul,
Adopts thee heir, and his high scepter yields
To the possession of thy royal hand:—
Ascend his throne, descending now from him;
And long live Henry, of that name the Fourth.

Bol.
In heaven's name, I'll ascend the regal throne.
Fetch hither Richard, that in common view,
He may surrender, so we shall proceed
Without suspicion.

York.
I will be his conduct. [Exit York, &c.

Bol.
By this—
All little jealousies, which now seem great,
And all great fears,
Which now import their danger,
Will then be nothing.—O, may I never
To this great purpose, that so fairly shows,
Dream of impediment.—Now, Richard, now,
Further this act, and sway my great design. Re-enter York, with King Richard; Attendants, with the Regalia.

K. Rich.
Alack, why am I sent for to a king,
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts
Wherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd
To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee;
Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me
To this submission.
To do what service, am I sent for hither?

York.
To do that office of thine own good will,
Which tir'd majesty did make thee offer—
The resignation of thy state and crown,
To Henry Bolingbroke.

K. Rich.
Give me the crown:—Here, cousin, seize the crown,
Here, on this side, my hand, on that side, thine:

Now mark me,—how I will undo myself:—
I give this heavy weight from off my head,
And this unwieldy scepter from my hand,
The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;
With mine own tears, I wash away my balm,
With mine own hands I give away my crown;
All pomp and majesty I do forswear;
My manors, rents, revenues, I forego:
My acts, decrees, and statues I deny:
Heav'n pardon all oaths, that are broke to me,
And keep all vows unbroke, are made to thee.
What more remains?—

North.
No more, but that you read
These accusations, and these grievous crimes,
Committed by your person, and your followers,
Against the state and profit of this land;
That, by confessing them, the souls of men
May deem that you are worthily depos'd.

K. Rich.
Must I do so? and must I ravel out,
My weav'd up follies? Gentle Northumberland,
If thy offences were upon record,
Would it not shame thee, in so fair a troop,
To read a lecture on them? If thou would'st,
There should'st thou find one heinous article,
Containing the deposing of a king,
And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,
Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heaven.

North.
My lord, dispatch: read o'er these articles.

K. Rich.
Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see,
And yet salt water blinds them not so much,
But they can see a sort of traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,
I find myself a traitor, with the rest:
For I have given here my soul's consent

To undeck the pompous body of a king;
Made glory base; a sovereign a slave;
Proud majesty made a subject; state a peasant!

North.
My lord!

K. Rich.
No lord of thine, thou haught, insulting man,
Nor no man's lord: I have no name, no title,—
No, not that name was given me at the font,—
But 'tis usurp'd: Alack the heavy day,
That I have worn so many winters out,
And know not now what name to call myself!
O! that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt myself away in water drops!
Good king, great king, (and yet not greatly good);
And if my word be sterling yet in England,
Let it command a mirror hither straight,
That it may show me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.

Bol.
Go, some of you, and fetch a looking-glass. [Exit Attendant.

North.
Read o'er this paper, while the glass doth come.

K. Rich.
Fiend! thou torment'st me ere I come to hell.

Bol.
Urge it no more, my lord Northumberland.

North.
The commons will not then be satisfy'd.

K. Rich.
They shall be satisfy'd! I'll read enough,
When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ, and that's—myself. Enter Attendant, with a Glass.
Give me that glass, and therein will I read—
No deeper wrinkles yet? hath sorrow struck

So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds? O flattering glass!
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me.—Was this face, the face,
That every day, under his household roof,
Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face,
That, like the sun, did make beholders wink?
Was this the face, that fac'd so many follies,
And was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face:—
As brittle as the glory, is the face,
For there it is [Dashing it to the ground] crack'd in a hundred shivers—
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport;—
How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.

Bol.
The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd
The shadow of your face.

K. Rich.
Say that again—
The shadow of my sorrow? Ha! let's see—
'Tis very true, my grief lies all within;
And these external manners of lament
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,
That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul:
There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st
Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,
And then be gone, and trouble you no more—
Shall I obtain it?

Bol.
Name it, my fair cousin.

K. Rich.
Fair cousin? I am greater than a king:
For when I was king, my flatterers
Were then but subjects; being now a subject,
I have a king here to my flatterer.
Being so great, I have no need to beg.

Bol.
Yet ask,

K. Rich.
And shall I have?

Bol.
You shall.

K. Rich.
Then give me leave to go.

Bol.
Whither?

K. Rich.
Whither you will, so I were from your sight.

Bol.
Go, some of you, convey him to the Tower.

K. Rich.
O good! convey! conveyers are you all;
That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall. [Exeunt K. Richard, Lords, and Guard.

Bol.
On Wednesday next, we solemnly set down,
Our coronation: Lords, prepare yourselves. [Exeunt Northumberland, and Lords.

Bol.
Thus far my fortune keeps an upward course,
And I am grac'd with wreaths of majesty—
How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown,
Within whose circuit is Elysium,
And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.
Ah! majesty! who would not buy thee dear?—
Let them obey, who know not how to rule.
Now am I seated as my soul delights,
And all my labours have as perfect end
As I could wish—the crown, the crown is mine.
Fortune, I acquit thee—let come what may,
I'll ever thank thee for this glorious day! Exit. END OF ACT IV.

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