Boling.
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 death.
You have misled a prince, a royal king,
A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,
By you unhappy'd and disfigur'd clean.9Q0642
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:
Whilst you have fed upon my signories,
Dispark'd my parks^{1 note}, and fell'd my forest woods;
^{2 note}From mine own windows torn my houshold coat,
^{3 note}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, much more than twice all this,
Condemns you to the death:—See them deliver'd over
To 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 heaven 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 heaven's sake, fairly let her be entreated:
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}

The coast of Wales. A castle in view. 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 lord: How brooks your grace the air,
After your late 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 mother9Q0643 with her child
Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting^{6 note};
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, lie 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 thee9Q0644, 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.
^{7 note}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 would not heaven'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 friends.

K. Rich.
Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not,
That, when the searching eye of heaven9Q0645 is hid
^{8 note}

The deputy elected by the Lord:
For every man that Bolingbroke hath prest,
To lift shrewd 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 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, 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?
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 myself: Am I not king?
Awake, thou coward majesty!9Q0646 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 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.
^{1 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 swell the rage
Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land
With hard bright steel, and hearts harder 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:9Q0647
^{2 note}

^{3 note}

K. Rich.
Too well, too well, thou tell'st a tale so ill.
^{4 note}

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.
Sweet love, I see, changing his property,
Turns to the sourest 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 wound,
And lie full low, grav'd^{5 note}

in the hollow ground.

Aum.
Is 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 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;
^{6 note}

Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
^{1 note}Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live on bread like you, feel want, taste grief,
Need friends;—Subjected thus,
How can you say to me—I am a king?

Carl.
My lord, wise men ne'er wail their present woes^{2 note}
,
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 yourself.
Fear, and be slain; no worse can come, to fight:
And fight and die, is ^{3 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 sour.

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 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 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 heaven, ^{4 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 power I have, discharge; and let them go
To ear the land* ^note 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 flatteries of his tongue.
Discharge my followers, let them hence;—Away,
From Richard's night, to Bolingbroke's fair day. [Exeunt.

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