Bolingbroke.
Bring forth these 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 deaths.
You have mis-led a Prince, a royal King,
A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,
By you unhappy'd, and disfigur'd clean.
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, with your foul wrongs.
My self, a Prince, by fortune of my birth,
Near to the King in blood, and near in love,
Till you did make him mis-interpret me,
Have stoopt 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 Signiories,
Dis-park'd my Parks, and fell'd my forest-woods,
^{3 note}From mine own windows torn my houshold coat,
Raz'd out my Impress, leaving me no sign,
Save mens' opinions, and my living blood,
To shew the world I am a gentleman.
This, and much more, much more than twice all this,
Condemns you to the death. See them deliver'd
T'execution, and the hand of death.

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

Green.
My comfort is, that heav'n will take our souls,
And plague injustice with the pains of hell.

Boling.
My lord Northumberland, see them dispatch'd.
—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 have dispatch'd
With letters of your love to her at large.

Boling.
^{4 note}

[To fight with Glendower and his Complices;]
A while to Work; and, after, Holy-day. [Exeunt. SCENE II. * ^noteChanges to the Coast of Wales. Flourish: Drums and Trumpets. Enter King Richard, Aumerle, Bishop of Carlisle, and Soldiers.

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,
Though Rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs:
As a long-parted mother with her child
Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting;
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 pr'ythee, 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 faulter under foul rebellious arms.

Bishop.
^{5 note}Fear not, my Lord; that Pow'r, that made you King,
Hath pow'r 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 would not heav'n's offer, we refuse
The profer'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 heav'n is hid
* ^note

Behind the globe that 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 ev'ry 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,
Whilst we were wand'ring with the Antipodes,
Shall see us rising in our Throne, the east;
His treasons will 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;
^{6 note}The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The Deputy elected by the Lord.
For every man that Bolingbroke hath prest,
To lift sharp steel against our golden Crown,
Heav'n for his Richard hath in heav'nly Pay
A glorious Angel; then if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heav'n still guards the Right. SCENE III. Enter Salisbury.

Welcome, my lord, how far off lies your Power?

Salis.
Nor near, nor further off, my gracious lord,
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.
Oh, 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, friends, fortune, and thy state.
For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, disperst 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?
All souls, that will be safe, fly from my side;
For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

Aum.
Comfort, my Liege; remember, who you are.

K. Rich.
I had forgot my self. Am I not King?
Awake, thou coward Majesty, thou sleepest;
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 fav'rites of a King, are we not high?
High be our thoughts. I know, my uncle York
Hath pow'r to serve our turn. But who comes here? SCENE IV. Enter Scroop.

Scroop.
More health and happiness betide my Liege,
Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him!

K. Rich.
^{7 note}Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar'd.
The worst is worldly 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, cov'ring 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.
^{8 note}Thy very Beadsmen learn to bend their bows
^{9 note}Of double-fatal Ewe, against thy State.
Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills.
Against thy Seat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have pow'r to tell.

K. Rich.
Too well, too well, thou tell'st a Tale so ill.
^{1 note}

What is become of Bushy? where is Green?
That they have let the dang'rous enemy
Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?
If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.
I warrant, they've made peace with Bolingbroke.

Scroop.
Peace they have 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.
Sweet love, I see, changing his property,
Turns to the sow'rest and most deadly hate.
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 hand,
And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow'd ground.

Aum.
Is Bushy, Green, and th' 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 chuse 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;
^{2 note}

With solemn Rev'rence; throw away respect,
^{5 note}Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while;
I live on 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:
To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength,
Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe;
And so your follies fight against your self.
Fear, and be slain; no worse can come from fight;
And fight and die, is ^{6 note}death destroying death:
Where fearing dying, pays death servile breath.

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 over-blown;
An easy task it is to win our own.
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his Power?
Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sower.

Scroop.
Men judge by the complexion of the sky
  The state and inclination of the day;
So may you, by my dull and heavy eye,
  My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.
I play the torturer, by small and small
To lengthen out the worst, that must be spoken.
Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke,
And all your northern castles yielded up,
And all your southern gentlemen in arms
Upon his faction.

K. Rich.
Thou hast said enough.
Beshrew thee, Cousin, which didst lead me forth [To Aumerle.
Of that sweet way I was in to Despair.
What say you now? what comfort have we now?
By heav'n, ^{7 note}
I'll hate him everlastingly,
That bids me be of comfort any more.
Go to Flint-castle, there I'll pine away,
A King, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey:
That Pow'r I have, discharge; and let 'em go
To ear the land, that hath some hope to grow,
For I have none. Let no man speak again
To alter this, for counsel is but vain.

Aum.
My Liege, one word.

K. Rich.
He does me double wrong,
That wounds me with the flatt'ries of his tongue.
Discharge my Foll'wers; let them hence, away,
From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day. [Exeunt. SCENE V. Bolingbroke's Camp near Flint. Enter with drum and colours, Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, and Attendants.

Boling.
So that by this intelligence we learn,
The Welshmen are dispers'd; and Salisbury
Is gone to meet the King, who lately landed
With some few private friends upon this Coast.

North.
The news is very fair and good, my lord,
Richard, not far from hence, hath hid his head.

York.
It would beseem the lord Northumberland,

To say, King Richard. Ah, the heavy day,
When such a sacred King should hide his head!

North.
Your Grace mistakes me; only to be brief,
Left I his Title out.

York.
The time hath been,
Would you have been so brief with him, he would
Have been so brief with You, to shorten you,
* ^noteFor taking so the Head, the whole Head's Length.

Boling.
Mistake not, uncle, farther than you should.

York.
Take not, good cousin, farther than you should.
Lest you mistake. The heav'ns are o'er your head.

Boling.
I know it, uncle, nor oppose myself
Against their will. But who comes here? Enter Percy.
Welcome, Harry; what, will not this castle yield?

Percy.
The castle royally is mann'd, my lord,
Against your entrance.

Boling.
Royally? why, it contains no King?

Percy.
Yes, my good lord,
It doth contain a King. King Richard lies
Within the limits of yond lime and stone;
And with him lord Aumerle, lord Salisbury,
Sir Stephen Scroop, besides a clergy-man
Of holy reverence; who, I cannot learn.

North.
Belike, it is the bishop of Carlisle.

Boling.
Noble lord, [To North.
Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle,
Through brazen trumpet send the breath of Parle
Into his ruin'd ears, and thus deliver.
Henry of Bolingbroke upon his knees
Doth kiss King Richard's hand, and sends allegiance
And faith of heart unto his royal person.
Ev'n at his feet I lay my arms and pow'r,
Provided, that my banishment repeal'd,

And lands restor'd again, be freely granted:
If not, I'll use th' advantage of my pow'r,
And lay the summer's dust with show'rs of blood,
Rain'd from the wounds of slaughter'd Englishmen.
The which, how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke
It is, such crimson tempest should bedrench
The fresh green lap of fair King Richard's Land,
My stooping duty tenderly shall shew.
Go signify as much, while here we march
Upon the grassy carpet of this Plain.
Let's march without the noise of threat'ning drum,
That from this Castle's tatter'd battlements
Our fair appointments may be well perus'd.
Methinks, King Richard and my self should meet
With no less terror than the elements
Of fire and water, when their thund'ring Shock,
At meeting, tears the cloudy cheeks of heav'n;
Be he the fire, I'll be the yielding water;
The rage be his, while on the earth I rain
My waters; on the earth, and not on him.
March on, and mark King Richard how he looks. SCENE VI. Parle without, and answer within; then a flourish. Enter, on the walls, King Kichard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, Scroop and Salisbury.

York.
^{8 note}See! see! King Richard doth himself appear,
As doth the blushing discontented Sun,
From out the fiery portal of the East,
When he perceives, the envious clouds are bent
To dim his Glory; and to stain the tract
Of his bright Passage to the Occident.

Yet looks he like a King; behold his eye,
As bright as is the Eagle's, lightens forth
Controlling Majesty; alack, for woe,
That any harm should stain so fair a show!

K. Rich.
We are amaz'd, and thus long have we stood
To watch the fearful bending of thy knee, [To North.
Because we thought our self thy lawful King;
And, if we be, how dare thy joints forget
To pay their awful duty to our presence?
If we be not, shew us the hand of God,
That hath dismiss'd us from our Stewardship.
For well we know, no hand of blood and bone
Can gripe the sacred handle of our Scepter,
Unless he do prophane, steal, or usurp.
And though you think, that all, as you have done,
Have torn their souls, by turning them from us,
And we are barren, and bereft of friends,
Yet know,—My Master, God omnipotent,
Is must'ring in his clouds on our behalf
Armies of Pestilence; and they shall strike
Your children yet unborn, and unbegot,
That lift your vassal hands against my head,
And threat the Glory of my precious Crown.
Tell Bolingbroke, (for yond, methinks, he is)
That every stride he makes upon my Land
Is dangerous treason. He is come to ope
The purple Testament of bleeding War;
But ere the Crown, he looks for, live in peace,^{9 note}