Duch.
My lord, you told me you would tell the rest,
When weeping made you break the story off ^note
Of our two cousins coming into London.

York.
Where did I leave?

Duch.
At that sad stop, my lord,
Where rude misgovern'd hands from windows' ^note tops
Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head.

York.
Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,
With slow but stately pace kept on his course,
Whilst ^note all tongues cried ‘God save thee, ^note Bolingbroke!’
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage, and that all the walls
With painted imagery had said at once
‘Jesu preserve thee! ^note welcome, Bolingbroke!’
Whilst he, from the one ^note side to the other turning,
Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake ^note them thus; ‘I thank you, countrymen:’
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

Duch.
Alack ^note, poor Richard! where rode ^note he the whilst ^note?

York.
As in a theatre, the eyes of men,

After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious;
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on gentle Richard ^note; no man cried ‘God save him!’
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound ^note our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects ^note now,
Whose state and honour I for ^note aye allow. ^note

Duch.
Here comes my son Aumerle.

York.
Aumerle that was;
But that is lost for being Richard's friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now:
I am in parliament pledge for his truth
And lasting fealty to ^note the new made king. Enter Aumerle. ^note

Duch.
Welcome, my son: who are ^note the violets now
That strew the green lap of the new come spring? ^note

Aum.
Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not ^{note note}:
God knows I had as lief be none as one.

York.
Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime.

What news from Oxford? hold those ^note justs and triumphs?

Aum.
For aught I know, my lord ^note, they do ^note.

York.
You will be there, I know ^note.

Aum.
If God prevent ^note not, I purpose ^note so.

York.
What seal is that, that hangs without thy bosom?
Yea, look'st thou pale? ^note let me ^note see the writing ^note.

Aum.
My lord, 'tis nothing.

York.
No matter, then, who see ^note it:
I will be satisfied; let me see the writing.

Aum.
I do beseech your grace to pardon me:
It is a matter of small consequence,
Which for some reasons I would not have seen.

York.
Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear,— ^note

Duch.
What ^note should you fear? ^note
'Tis nothing but some band ^note, that he is ^note enter'd into
For gay ^note apparel 'gainst the triumph day. ^note

York.
Bound to himself! what doth he with a bond ^note
That he is bound to? ^note Wife, thou art a fool.
Boy, let me see the writing.

Aum.
I do beseech ^note you, pardon me ^note; I may not show it.

York.
I will be satisfied; let me see it ^note, I say. [He plucks it out of his bosom and reads it. ^note

Treason! foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave!

Duch.
What is ^note the matter, my lord?

York.
Ho! who is ^note within there? Enter a Servant. ^note
Saddle ^note my horse.
God ^note for his mercy, what treachery is here! ^note

Duch.
Why, what is it ^note, my lord?

York.
Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse. [Exit Servant. ^note
Now, by mine ^note honour, by my life, by my ^note troth,
I will appeach the villain.

Duch.
What is ^note the matter?

York.
Peace, foolish woman ^note.

Duch.
I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle ^note?

Aum.
Good mother, be content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.

Duch.
Thy life answer! ^note

York.
Bring me ^note my boots: I will unto the king. Re-enter ^note Servant with boots.

Duch.
Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amazed. ^note
Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.

York.
Give me my boots, I say ^note.

Duch.
Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not ^note hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?

And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?

York.
Thou fond mad ^note woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down ^note their ^note hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.

Duch.
He shall be none;
We'll keep him here ^note: then what is that to him?

York.
Away, fond woman! were ^note he twenty times my son,
I would appeach him ^note.

Duch.
Hadst thou groan'd for him
As I have done ^note, thou wouldst ^note be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son:
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not ^note like to ^note me, or ^note any of my kin,
And yet I love him.

York.
Make way, unruly woman! [Exit.

Duch.
After, Aumerle! mount thee upon his horse;
Spur post ^note, and get before him to the king,
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
I'll not be long behind; though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:
And never will I rise up from the ground
Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away, be gone ^note! [Exeunt. ^note

^note

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