Enter Bolingbroke.
Now climbeth Bolingbroke Olympus' top,
Safe out of fortune's shot, and sits aloft,
Secure of thunder's crack or lightning's flash
Advanc'd above pale envy's threat'ning reach;
As when the golden sun salutes the morn,
And having gilt the ocean with his beams,
Gallops the Zodiac in his glistening car,
And overlooks the highest peering hills.
How now, my lord, what is the matter? Enter Northumberland.

North.
My liege, the queen refuses to obey
Your royal mandate, nor will depart, she says,
From England, till another interview
Is granted her with Richard.—And this way,
Almost frantic with her grief, she seeks you. Enter Queen, and Attendant.

Lady.
Be comforted, dear madam.

Queen.
No, I will not—
All strange and terrible events are welcome,

but comforts we despise; our size of sorrow,
Proportion'd to our cause, must be as great
As that which makes it.—Where is this Bolingbroke.

Lady.
Let me intreat you, moderate your grief.

Queen.
Why tell you me of moderation?
The grief is fine, full perfect that I taste,
How can I moderate it?

Lady.
Behold the king.

Queen.
High Bolingbroke! upon my feeble knee,
I beg this boon with tears not lightly shed;
And never will I rise up from the ground,
Never go from hence, till you do grant
Permission to attend my dying husband,
For so my heart presages.—Noblest of men!
And must I, shall I, can I here abide
In this dull world when thou hast left it?
O, that the thought should make so deep a wound,
And yet detested life not shrink thereat!

Bol.
Rise up, good queen—have thy desire at full;
The anguish of thy bosom pierces to my heart:
Go some of you, conduct her to her lord.

Queen.
O quickly, then—my Richard dies this moment.
Lend me ten thousand eyes, and I will fill them
With prophetic tears—O, my ever-lov'd!
If yet thy gentle soul fly in the air,
And be not fix'd in doom perpetual,
Hover about me with your airy wings,
Till I have printed on thy clay-cold lips
A dying kiss! shed tears upon thy face,
The last true duties of thy noble wife;
And then united, make death proud to take us. [Exeunt Queen, &c.

Bol.
These miseries are more than may be borne—

Why, Richard, have I follow'd thee to this?
Sated ambition! Nature's powerful voice
Arrests thy arm, and thou must now submit.
I'll follow to the Tower the wretched queen,
And there with joy, with pleasure will resign
The rich advantage of my promis'd glory,
If by the deed I can alleviate
The bleeding sorrows of the royal pair,
And, by restoring them their crown and dignity,
Atone in small degree for all the horrors
Which, O shame! they have endur'd through me. [Exit.

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