K. Rich.
I have been studying how to compare
This prison, where I live, unto the world:
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it;—Yet I'll hammer it out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul;
My soul, the father: and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,
And these same thoughts people this little world;
In humours, like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented. The better sort,—
As thoughts of things divine,—are intermix'd
With scruples, and do set the word itself^{9 note}



Against the word:
As thus,—Come, little ones; and then again,—
It is as hard to come, as for a camel
To thread the postern of a needle's eye.
Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to content, flatter themselves,—
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
Nor shall not be the last; Like silly beggars,
Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame,—

That many have, and others must sit there:
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of such as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play I, in one person^{1 note}, many people,
And none contented: Sometimes am I king;
Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am: Then crushing penury
Persuades me, I was better when a king;
Then am I king'd again: and, by-and-by,
Think, that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing:—But, what-e'er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, 'till he be eas'd
With being nothing.—Music do I hear? [Music.
Ha, ha! keep time:—How sour sweet music is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept?
So is it in the music of mens' lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To hear^{2 note} time broke in a disorder'd string;
But, for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
For now hath time made me his numb'ring clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and, ^{3 note}

Their watches to mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, sir, the sound, that tells what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell: So sighs, and tears, and groans,
Shew minutes, times, and hours:—but my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, ^{4 note}

This music mads me, let it sound no more;
For, though it have holpe madmen to their wits,9Q0663
In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.
Yet, blessing on his heart that gives it me!
For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch ^{5 note}

Groom.
Hail, royal prince!

K. Rich.
Thanks, noble peer;
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
What art thou? and how comest thou hither,
^{6 note}

Groom.
I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometime royal master's face.
O, how it yern'd my heart, when I beheld,
In London streets, that coronation day,

When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary!
That horse, that thou so often hath bestrid;
That horse, that I so carefully have dress'd!

K. Rich.
Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,
How went he under him?

Groom.
So proudly, as if he disdain'd the ground.

K. Rich.
So proud, that Bolingbroke was on his back!
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down,
(Since pride must have a fall) and break the neck
Of that proud man, that did usurp his back?
Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be aw'd by man,
Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;
And yet I bear a burden like an ass,
Spur-gall'd, and tir'd, ^{7 note}

by jauncing Bolingbroke. Enter Keeper, with a dish.

Keep.
Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay. [To the Groom.

K. Rich.
If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away.

Groom.
What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say. [Exit.

Keep.
My lord, will't please you to fall to?

K. Rich.
Taste of it first, as thou wert wont to do.

Keep.
My lord, I dare not; sir Pierce of Exton,
Who late came from the king, commands the contrary.

K. Rich.
The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and thee!

Patience is stale, and I am weary of it. [Beats the Keeper.

Keep.
Help, help, help! Enter Exton, and servants.

K. Rich.
How now? what means death in this rude assault?
Villain, thine own hand yields thy death's instrument. [Snatching a weapon, and killing one.
Go thou, and fill another room in hell. [Kills another. [Exton strikes him down.
That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire,
That staggers thus my person.—Exton, thy fierce hand
Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land.
Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high;
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die, [Dies.

Exton.
As full of valour, as of royal blood:
Both have I spilt; Oh, would the deed were good!
For now the devil, that told me—I did well,
Says, that this deed is chronicled in hell.
This dead king to the living king I'll bear;—
Take hence the rest, and give them burial here. [Exeunt.

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