Queen.
What sport shall we devise here in this garden,
To drive away the heavy thought of care?

Lady.
Madam, we'll play at bowls.

Queen.
'Twill make me think, the world is full of rubs,
And that my fortune runs against the bias.

Lady.
Madam, we'll dance.

Queen.
My legs can keep no measure in delight,
When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief:
Therefore, no dancing, girl; some other sport.

Lady.
Madam, we will tell tales.

Queen.
^{8 note}Of sorrow, or of joy?

Lady.
Of either, madam.

Queen.
Of neither, girl:
For if of joy, being altogether wanting,
It doth remember me the more of sorrow;
Or if of grief, being altogether had,
It adds more sorrow to my want of joy:
For what I have, I need not to repeat;
And what I want, it boots not to complain.

Lady.
Madam, I'll sing.

Queen.
'Tis well, that thou hast cause;
But thou should'st please me better, would'st thou weep.

Lady.
I could weep, madam, would it do you good.

Queen.
^{9 note}And I could weep, would weeping do me good,
And never borrow any tear of thee.
But stay, here come the gardiners:
Let's step into the shadow of these trees.—
My wretchedness unto a row of pins, Enter a gardiner, and two servants.
They'll talk of state; for every one doth so
^{1 note}

Gard.
Go, bind thou up yon' dangling apricocks,
Which, like unruly children, make their sire
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight;
Give some supportance to the bending twigs.—

Go thou, and, like an executioner,
Cut off the heads of too-fast-growing sprays,
That look too lofty in our commonwealth:
All must be even in our government.—
You thus employ'd, I will go root away
The noisome weeds, that without profit suck
The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers.

Serv.
Why should we, in the compass of a pale,
Keep law, and form, and due proportion,
Shewing, as in a model, ^{2 note}

Gard.
Hold thy peace:—
He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring,
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf:
The weeds, that his broad spreading leaves did shelter,
That seem'd, in eating him, to hold him up,
Are pull'd up, root and all, by Bolingbroke;
I mean, the earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

Serv.
What, are they dead?

Gard.
They are; and Bolingbroke
Hath seiz'd the wasteful king.—What pity is it,
That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land,
As we this garden! who at time of year
Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees;

Lest, being over-proud with sap and blood,
With too much riches it confound itself:
Had he done so to great and growing men,
They might have liv'd to bear, and he to taste
Their fruits of duty. All superfluous branches9Q0653
We lop away, that bearing boughs may live:
Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,
Which waste and idle hours hath quite thrown down.

Serv.
What, think you then, the king shall be depos'd?

Gard.
Depress'd he is already; and depos'd,
'Tis doubt, he will be9Q0654: Letters came last night
To a dear friend of the good duke of York's,
That tell black tidings.

Queen.
Oh, I am press'd to death, through want of speaking!—9Q0655 [Coming from her concealment.
Thou old Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden,
How dares thy harsh tongue sound this unpleasing news?
What Eve, what serpent hath suggested thee
To make a second fall of cursed man?
Why dost thou say, king Richard is depos'd?
Dar'st thou, thou little better thing than earth,
Divine his downfal? Say, where, when, and how,
Cam'st thou by these ill tidings? speak, thou wretch.

Gard.
Pardon me, madam: little joy have I,
To breathe these news, yet, what I say, is true.
King Richard, he is in the mighty hold
Of Bolingbroke; their fortunes both are weigh'd:
In your lord's scale is nothing but himself,
And some few vanities that make him light;
But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,
Besides himself, are all the English peers,
And with that odds he weighs king Richard down.—
Post you to London, and you'll find it so;
I speak no more than every one doth know.

Queen.
Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot,
Doth not thy embassage belong to me,

And am I last that knows it? oh, thou think'st
To serve me last, that I may longest keep
Thy sorrow in my breast.—Come, ladies, go,
To meet at London London's king in woe.—
What, was I born to this! that my sad look
Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke!—
Gardiner, for telling me these news of woe,
I would, the plants^{3 note}, thou graft'st, may never grow. [Exeunt Queen, and ladies.

Gard.
Poor queen! so that thy state might be no worse,
I would my skill were subject to thy curse.—
Here did she drop a tear; here, in this place,
I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace:
Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,
In the remembrance of a weeping queen. [Exeunt Gard. and serv.

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