THE LIFE AND DEATH OF King Richard II. Printed in the Year 1709.

Dramatis Personæ. King Richard the Second. Duke of York [Edmund of Langley]. Unkle to the King. John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. Unkle to the King. Bullingbroke [Henry Bolingbroke], Son to John of Gaunt, afterwards King Henry the Fourth. Aumerle [Duke of Aumerle], Son to the Duke of York. Mowbray [Thomas Mowbray], Duke of Norfolk. Earl of Salisbury. Bushy, Servant to King Richard. Bagot, Servant to King Richard. Green, Servant to King Richard. Earl of Northumberland, Friend to Bullingbroke. Percy [Henry Percy], Son to Northumberland, Friend to Bullingbroke. Ross [Lord Ross], Friend to Bullingbroke. Willoughby [Lord Willoughby], Friend to Bullingbroke. Bishop of Carlisle, Friend to King Richard. Sir. Stephen Scroop [Sir Stephen Scroop], Friend to King Richard. Fitzwater [Lord Fitzwater], Lord in the Parliament. Surrey [Duke of Surrey], Lord in the Parliament. Abbot of Westminster, Lord in the Parliament. Sir Pierce of Exton. Queen to King Richard. Dutchess of Gloucester [Duchess of Gloucester]. Dutchess of York [Duchess of York]. Ladies attending on the Queen. Two Gardiners, Keeper, Messenger and other Attendants. [Lord Marshal], [Herald 1], [Herald 2], [Servant], [Captain], [Lady], [Gardener], [Groom] SCENE, ENGLAND.

THE LIFE and DEATH OF King Richard II. ACT I. SCENE I. Enter King Richard, John of Gaunt, with other Nobles and Attendants.

KING RICHARD.
Old John of Gaunt, time honour'd Lancaster,
Hast thou, according to thy Oathand Band,
Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold Son,
Here to make good the boisterous late Appeal,
Which then our Leisure would not let us hear,
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Gaunt.
I have, my Liege.

K. Rich.
Tell me moreover, hast thou sounded him,
If he appeal the Duke on ancient Malice,
Or worthily, as a good Subject should,
On some known ground of Treachery in him?

Gaunt.
As near as I could sift him on that Argument,

On some apparent Danger seen in him,
Aim'd at your Highness, no inveterate Malice.

K. Rich.
Then call them to our Presence, Face to Face,
And frowning Brow to Brow, our selves will hear
Th' Accuser, and the accused freely speak;
High stomach'd are they both, and full of Ire,
In Rage, deaf as the Sea; hasty as Fire. Enter Bullingbroke and Mowbray.

Bulling.
Many Years of happy Days befal
My gracious Soveraign, my most loving Liege.

Mowb.
Each Day still better others Happiness;
Until the Heav'ns envying Earth's good Hap,
Add an immortal Title to your Crown.

K. Rich.
We thank you both, yet one but flatters us,
As well appeareth by the Cause you come;
Namely, to appeal each other of high Treason.
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Bulling.
First Heaven be the Record to my Speech,
In the Devotions of a Subject's Love,
Tendring the precious Safety of my Prince,
And free from other mis-begotten Hate,
Come I Appealant to this princely Presence.
Now Thomas Mowbray do I turn to thee,
And mark my greeting well; for what I speak,
My Body shall make good upon the Earth,
Or my divine Soul answer it in Heav'n.
Thou art a Traitor and a Miscreant;
Too good to be so, and too bad too live.
Since the more fair and crystal is the Sky,
The uglier seem the Clouds that in it fly:
Once more, the more to aggravate the Note,
With a foul Traitor's Name stuff I thy Throat,
And wish, so please my Soveraign, e'er I move,
What my Tongue speaks, my right drawn Sword may prove.

Mowb.
Let not my cool Words here accuse my Zeal;
'Tis not the Trial of a Woman's War,
The bitter Clamour of two eager Tongues,
Can arbitrate this Cause betwixt us twain:
The Blood is hot that must be cool'd for this.
Yet can I not of such tame Patience boast,

As to be husht, and nought at all to say.
First the fair Reverence of your Highness curbs me,
From giving Reins and Spurs to my free Speech,
Which else would post, until it had return'd
These Terms of Treason doubly down his Throat.
Setting aside his high Blood's Royalty,
And let him be no Kinsman to my Liege,
I do defie him, and I spit at him,
Call him a slanderous Coward, and a Villain;
Which to maintain, I would allow him odds,
And meet him, were I tide to run a-foot,
Even to the frozen Ridges of the Alps,
Or any other Ground inhabitable,
Where-ever Englishman durst set his Foot;
Mean time, let this defend my Loyalty,
By all my Hopes most fasly doth he lie.

Bulling.
Pale trembling Coward, there I throw my Gage,
Disclaiming here the Kindred of a King,
And lay aside my high Blood's Royalty,
Which Fear, not Reverence, makes thee to except;
If guilty Dread hath lest thee so much Strength,
As to take up mine Honour's Pawn, then stoop.
By that, and all the Rights of Knighthood else,
Will I make good against thee Arm to Arm,
What I have spoken, or thou canst devise.

Mowb.
I take it up, and by that Sword I swear,
Which gently laid my Knighthood on my Shoulder,
I'll answer thee in any fair Degree,
Or Chivalrous design of knightly Trial;
And when I mount, alive may I not light,
If I be Traitor, or unjustly fight.

K. Rich.
What doth our Cousin lay to Mowbray's Charge?
It must be great that can inherit us,
So much as of a Thought of ill in him.

Bulling.
Look what I said, my Life shall prove it true,
That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand Nobles,
In name of Lendings for your Highness Soldiers,
The which he hath detain'd for lewd Imployments;
Like a false Traitor and injurious Villain;
Besides, I say, and will in Battel prove,
Or here, or elsewhere, to the furthest Verge

That ever was survey'd by English Eye;
That all the Treasons for these eighteen Years,
Complotted and contrived in this Land,
Fetcht from false Mowbray their first Head and Spring.
Further I say, and further will maintain
Upon his bad Life, to make all this good,
That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's Death,
Suggest his soon believing Adversaries,
And consequently, like a Traitor Coward,
Sluc'd out his innocent Soul through Streams of Blood;
Which Blood, like sacrificing Abel's cries,
Even from the tongueless Caverns of the Earth,
To me for Justice, and rough Chastisement;
And by the glorious worth of my Descent,
This Arm shall do it, or this Life be spent.

K. Rich.
How high a pitch his Resolution soars.
Thomas of Norfolk, what say'st thou to this?

Mowb.
O let my Soveraign turn away his Face,
And bid his Ears a little while be deaf,
'Till I have told this Slander of his Blood,
How God and good Men hate so foul a Liar.

K. Rich.
Mowbray, impartial are our Eyes and Ears.
Were he my Brother, nay, our Kingdom's Heir,
As he is but my Father's Brother's Son;
Now by my Scepter's awe, I make a Vow,
Such neighbour-nearness to our sacred Blood,
Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize
The unstooping Firmness of my upright Soul.
He is our Subject, Mowbray, so art thou,
Free Speech and fearless I to thee allow.

Mowb.
Then, Bullingbroke, as low as to thy Heart,
Through the false Passage of thy Throat, thou liest:
Three parts of that Receipt I had for Callice,
Disburst I to his Highness Soldiers;
The other part reserv'd I by consent,
For that my Soveraign Liege was in my Debt,
Upon remainder of a dear Account,
Since last I went to France to fetch his Queen:
Now swallow down that Lie. For Gloucester's Death,
I slew him not; but, to mine own Disgrace,
Neglected my sworn Duty in that Case.

For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,
The honourable Father to my Foe,
Once I did lay an Ambush for your Life,
A Trespass that doth vex my grieved Soul;
But e'er I last receiv'd the Sacrament,
I did confess it, and exactly begg'd
Your Grace's Pardon; and I hope I had it.
This is my Fault; as for the rest appeal'd,
It issues from the Rancor of a Villain;
A Recreant and most dangerous Traitor,
Which in my self I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurle down my Gage,
Upon this overweening Traitor's Foot,
To prove my self a loyal Gentleman,
Even in the best Blood chamber'd in his Bosom.
In haste whereof most heartily I pray
Your Highness to assign our Trial-Day.

K. Rich.
Wrath-kindled Gentlemen, be rul'd by me;
Let's purge this Choler without letting Blood:
This we prescribe, though no Physician.
Deep Malice makes too deep Incision.
Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed,
Our Doctors say, this is no time bleed.
Good Uncle, let this end where it begun,
We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your Son.

Gaunt.
To be a Make-peace shall become my Age;
Throw down, my Son, the Duke of Norfolk's Gage.

K. Rich.
And, Norfolk, throw down his.

Gaunt.
When Harry, when? Obedience bids,
Obedience bids, I should not bid again,

K. Rich.
Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot.

Mowb.
My self I throw, dread Soveraign, at thy Foot.
My Life thou shalt command, but not my Shame;
The one my Duty owes; but my fair Name,
Despight of Death that lives upon my Grave,
To dark Dishonours use, thou shalt not have.
I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffl'd here,
Pierc'd to the Soul, with Slanders venom'd Spear.
The which no Blame can cure, but his Heart Blood
Which breath'd this Poison.

K. Rich.
Rage must be withstood:

Give me his Gage: Lions make Leopards tame.

Mowb.
Yea, but not change his Spots: Take but my Shame,
And I resign my Gage. My dear, dear Lord,
The purest Treasure mortal times afford,
Is spotless Reputation; that away,
Men are but guilded Loam, or painted Clay.
A Jewel in a ten-times barr'd up Chest,
Is a bold Spirit in a Loyal Breast.
Mine Honour is my Life; both grow in one:
Take Honour from me, and my Life is done.
Then, dear my Liege, mine Honour let me try,
In that I live, and for that will I die.

K. Rich.
Cousin, throw down your Gage; do you begin.

Bulling.
Oh Heav'n defend my Soul from such foul Sin.
Shall I seem Crest-fall'n in my Father's Sight,
Or with pale beggar'd Fear impeach my hight
Before this out-dar'd Bastard? E'er my Tongue
Shall wound my Honour with such feeble Wrong,
Or sound so base a Parle, my Teeth shall tear
The slavish Motive of recanting Fear,
And spit it bleeding in his high Disgrace,
Where Shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's Face. [Exit Gaunt.

K. Rich.
We were not born to sue, but to command,
Which since we cannot do to make you Friends,
Be ready, as your Lives shall answer it,
At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's Day;
There shall your Swords and Lances arbitrate
The swelling Difference of you settled Hate:
Since we cannot attone you, you shall see
Justice design the Victor's Chivalry.
Lord Marshal command our Officers at Arms,
Be ready to direct these home Alarms. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Enter Gaunt, and Dutchess of Gloucester.

Gaunt.
Alas, the part I had in Glo'ster's Blood,
Doth more sollicit me than your Exclaims,

To stir against the Butchers of his Life.
But since Correction lyeth in those Hands
Which made the Fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our Quarrel to the Will of Heav'n;
Who when they see the Hours ripe on Earth,
Will rain hot Vengeance on Offenders Heads.

Dutch.
Finds Brotherhood in thee no sharper Spur?
Hath Love in thy old Blood no living Fire?
Edward's seven Sons, whereof thy self art one,
Were as seven Vials of his sacred Blood;
Or seven fair Branches springing from one Root:
Some of those seven are dry'd by Nature's Course;
Some of those Branches by the Destinies cut:
But Thomas, my dear Lord, my Life, my Glo'ster;
One Vial full of Edward's sacred Blood,
One flourishing Branch of his most Royal Root,
Is crack'd, and all the precious Liquor spilt;
Is hackt down, and his Summer Leaves all faded
By Envy's Hand, and Murder's Bloody Axe.
Ah Gaunt! his Blood was thine; that Bed, that Womb,
That Mettle, that self-Mould that fashion'd thee,
Made him a Man; and though thou liv'st and breath'st,
Yet art thou slain in him; thou dost consent
In some large Measure to thy Father's Death;
In that thou seest thy wretched Brother die,
Who was the Model of thy Father's Life.
Call it not Patience, Gaunt, it is Despair;
In suffering thus thy Brother to be slaughter'd,
Thou shew'st the naked Pathway to thy Life,
Teaching stern Murther how to butcher thee.
That which in mean Men, we intitle Patience,
Is pale cold Cowardise in noble Breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own Life,
The best way is to venge my Glo'ster's Death.

Gaunt.
Heav'n's is the Quarrel; for Heav'n's Substitute,
His Deputy anointed in his Sight,
Hath caus'd his Death; the which if wrongfully
Let Heav'n revenge, for I may never lift
An angry Arm against his Minister.

Dutch.
Where then, alas, may I complain my self?

Gaunt.
To Heav'n, the Widow's Champion and defence.

Dutch.
Why then I will: Farewel; old Gaunt;
Thou go'st to Coventry, there to behold
Our Cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
O sit my Husband's Wrongs on Hereford's Spear,
That it may enter Butcher Mowbray's Breast:
Or if Misfortune miss the first Career,
Be Mowbray's Sins so heavy in his Bosom,
That they may break his foaming Courser's Back,
And throw the Rider headlong in the Lists,
A Caytiff recreant to my Cousin Hereford.
Farewel, old Gaunt; thy sometimes Brother's Wife,
With her Companion Grief, must end her Life.

Gaunt.
Sister, farewel; I must to Coventry.
As much good stay with thee, as go with me.

Dutch.
Yet one Word more; Grief boundeth where it falls,
Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:
I take my Leave, before I have begun;
For Sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
Commend me to my Brother, Edward York.
Lo, this is all; nay yet depart not so,
Though this be all, do not so quickly go;
I shall remember more. Bid him—oh, what?
With all good Speed at Plashie visit me.
Alack, and what shall good old York there see,
But empty Lodgings, and unfurnish'd Walls,
Un-peopl'd Offices, untrodden Stones?
And what hear there for Welcome, but my Groans?
Therefore commend me, let him not come there
To seek out Sorrow that dwells every where;
Desolate, desolate will I hence, and die;
The last Leave of thee, takes my weeping Eye. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter Marshal and Aumerle.

Mar.
My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd?

Aum.
Yea, at all Points, and longs to enter in.

Mar.
The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,
Stays but the Summons of the Appealant's Trumpet.

Aum.
Why then the Champions are prepar'd, and stay
For nothing but his Majesty's Approach. [Flourish. Enter King Richard, Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Green, and others; then Mowbray in Armour, and an Herald.

K. Rich.
Marshal, demand of yonder Champion
The Cause of his Arrival here in Arms;
Ask him his Name, and orderly proceed
To swear him in the Justice of his Cause.

Mar.
In God's Name and the King's, say who thou art? [To Mowb.
And why thou com'st, thus knightly clad in Arms?
Against what Man thou com'st, and what's thy Quarrel;
Speak truly on thy Knighthood, and thine Oath,
And so defend thee Heaven, and thy Valour.

Mowb.
My Name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
Who hither come, engaged by my Oath,
Which Heav'n defend a Knight should viola
Both to defend my Loyalty and Truth,
To God, my King, and his succeeding Issue,
Against the Duke of Hereford, that appeals me;
And by the Grace of God, and this mine Arm,
To prove him, in defending of my self,
A Traitor to my God, my King, and me;
And as I truly fight, defend me Heav'n. A Tucket sounds. Enter Bullingbroke, and an Herald.

K. Rich.
Marshal; ask yonder Knight in Arms,
Both who he is, and why he cometh hither,
Thus placed in Habiliments of War:
And formally according to our Law
Depose him in the Justice of his Cause.

Mar.
What is thy Name, and wherefore com'st thou hither
Before King Richard, in his Royal Lists? [To Bulling.
Against whom com'st thou? And what's thy Quarrel?
Speak like a true Knight, so defend thee Heav'n.

Bulling.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Am I, who ready here do stand in Arms,
To prove, by Heav'n's Grace, and my Body's Valour,
In Lists on Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolk,
That he's a Traitor foul and dangerous,
To God of Heav'n, King Richard, and to me;
And as I truly fight, defend me Heav'n.

Mar.
On pain of Death, no Person be so bold,
Or daring hardy, as to touch the Lists,
Except the Marshal, and such Officers
Appointed to direct these fair Designs.

Bulling.
Lord Marshal, let me kiss my Soveraign's Hand,
And bow my Knee before his Majesty:
For Mowbray and my self are like two Men
That vow a long and weary Pilgrimage,
Then let us take a ceremonious Leave
And loving Farewel of our several Friends.

Mar.
The Appealant in all duty greets your Highness, [To K. Rich.
And craves to kiss your Hand, and take his leave,

K. Rich.
We will descend and fold him in our Arms.
Cousin of Hereford, as thy Cause is just,
So be thy Fortune in this Royal Fight:
Farewel, my Blood, which if to Day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not Revenge thee dead.

Bulling.
Oh let no noble Eye prophane a Tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's Spear:
As confident, as is the Faulcon's flight
Against a Bird, do I with Mowbray fight.
My loving Lord, I take my leave of you,
Of you, my noble Cousin, Lord Aumerle;
Not sick, although I have to do with Death,
But lusty, young, and chearly drawing breath.
Lo, as at English Feasts, so I regreet
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.
Oh thou the Earthy Author of my Blood,
Whose youthful Spirit in me regenerate,
Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up
To reach at Victory above my Head,
Add proof unto mine Armour with thy Prayers,
And with thy Blessings steel my Lance's Point,
That it may enter Mowbray's Waxen Coat,
And furnish new the Name of John a Gaunt
Even in the lusty 'haviour of his Son.

Gaunt.
Heav'n in thy good Cause make thee prosperous,
Be swift like Lightning in the Execution,
And let thy Blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing Thunder on the Cask

Of thy amaz'd pernicious Enemy.
Rouze up thy youthful Blood, be valiant, and live.

Bulling.
Mine Innocence, and St. George to thrive.

Mowb.
However Heav'n or Fortune cast my Lot,
There lives, or dies, true to King Richard's Throne,
A loyal, just, and upright Gentleman:
Never did Captain with a freer Heart
Cast off his Chains of Bondage, and embrace
His golden uncontroul'd Enfranchisement,
More than my dancing Soul doth celebrate
This feast of Battel, with mine Adversary.
Most mighty Liege, and my Companion Peers,
Take from my Mouth the wish of happy Years;
As gentle, and as jocond, as to jest,
Go I to fight: Truth hath a quiet Breast.

K. Rich.
Farewel, my Lord, securely I espy
Virtue with Valour, couched in thine Eye.
Order the Trial, Marshal, and begin.

Mar.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Receive thy Launce, and Heav'n defend thy Right.

Bulling.
Strong as a Tower, in hope, I cry Amen.

Mar.
Go bear this Launce to Thomas Duke of Norfolk.

1 Her.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Stands here for God, his Soveraign, and himself,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A Traitor to his God, his King, and him,
And dares him to set forward to the fight.

2 Her.
Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
Both to defend himself, and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
To God, his Soveraign, and to him disloyal:
Couragiously, and with a free Desire,
Attending but the Signal to begin. [A charge sounded.

Mar.
Sound Trumpets, and set forward Combatants.
Stay, the King hath thrown his Warder down.

K. Rich.
Let them lay by their Helmets, and their Spears,
And both return back to their Chairs again:
Withdraw with us, and let the Trumpets sound,

While we return these Dukes what we decree. [A long Flourish.
Draw near, and list
What with our Council we have done.
For that our Kingdom's Earth should not be soil'd
With that dear Blood which it hath fostered,
And for our Eyes do hate the dire aspect
Of civil Wounds plough'd up with Neighbours Swords,
Which so rouz'd up with boisterous untun'd Drums,
With harsh resounding Trumpets dreadful bray,
And grating shock of wrathful Iron Arms,
Might from our quiet Confines fright fair Peace,
And make us wade even in our Kindreds Blood:
Therefore, we banish you our Territories.
You Cousin Hereford, upon pain of Death,
'Till twice five Summers have enrich'd our Fields,
Shall not regreet our fair Dominions,
But tread the stranger Paths of Banishment,

Bulling.
Your will be done: This must my Comfort be,
That Sun that warms you here, shall shine on me:
And those his golden Beams to you here lent,
Shall point on me, and gild my Banishment.

K. Rich.
Norfolk; for thee remains a heavier Doom,
Which I with some unwillingness pronounce,
The sly slow Hours shall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear Exile:
The hopeless word, of never to return,
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of Life.

Mowb.
A heavy Sentence, my most Soveraign Liege,
And all unlook'd for from your Highness Mouth:
A dearer Merit, not so deep a Maim,
As to be cast forth in the common Air
Have I deserved at your Highness Hands.
The Language I have learn'd these forty Years,
Ny native English, now I must forgo,
And now my Tongue's use is to me no more,
Than an unstringed Viol, or a Harp,
Or like a cunning Instrument cas'd up,
Or being open, put into his Hands
That knows no touch to tune the Harmony.

Within my Mouth you have engoal'd my Tongue,
Doubly percullis'd with my Teeth and Lips,
And dull, unfeeling, barren Ignorance,
Is made my Goaler to attend on me.
I am too old to frown upon a Nurse,
Too far in Years to be a Pupil now:
What is thy Sentence then, but speechless Death,
Which robs my Tongue from breathing native Breath?

K. Rich.
It boots thee not to be compassionate;
After our Sentence, plaining comes too late.

Mowb.
Then thus I turn me from my Country's light,
To dwell in solemn Shades of endless Night.

K. Rich.
Return again, and take an Oath with ye.
Lay on our Royal Sword your banish'd Hands;
Swear by the Duty that you owe to Heav'n,
(Our part therein we banish with your selves,)
To keep the Oath that we administer:
You never shall, so help you Truth, and Heav'n,
Embrace each others Love in Banishment,
Nor ever look upon each others Face,
Nor ever write, regreet, or reconcile
This lowring Tempest of your home-bred Hate,
Nor ever by advised purpose meet,
To plot, contrive, or complot any Ill,
'Gainst us, our State, our Subjects, or our Land.

Bulling.
I swear.

Mowb.
And I, to keep all this.

Bulling.
Norfolk, so far, as to mine Enemy,
By this time, had the King permitted us,
One of our Souls had wandred in the Air,
Banish'd this frail Sepulchre of our Flesh,
As now our Flesh is banish'd from this Land.
Confess thy Treasons, e'er thou fly this Realm,
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty Soul.

Mowb.
No, Bullingbroke; if ever I were Traitor,
My Name be blotted from the Book of Life,
And I from Heav'n banish'd, as from hence;
But what thou art, Heav'n, thou, and I do know,
And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue.

Farewel, my Liege; now no way can I stray,
Save back to England; all the World's my way. [Exit.

K. Rich.
Uncle, even in the Glasses of thine Eyes
I see thy grieved Heart; thy sad Aspect,
Hath from the Number of his banish'd Years
Pluck'd four away; six frozen Winters spent,
Return with welcome home from Banishment.

Bulling.
How long a time lyes in one little word:
Four lagging Winters, and four wanton Springs
End in a Word, such is the Breath of Kings.

Gaunt.
I thank my Liege, that in regard of me
He shortens four Years of my Son's Exile:
But little vantage shall I reap thereby;
For e'er the six Years that he hath to spend,
Can change the Moons, and bring their times about,
My Oil-dry'd Lamp, and time-bewasted Light,
Shall be extinct with Age, and endless Night:
My inch of Taper will be burnt, and done,
And blindfold Death not let me see my Son.

K. Rich.
Why Uncle? Thou hast many Years to live.

Gaunt.
But not a Minute, King, that thou canst give;
Shorten my Days thou canst with sudden Sorrow,
And pluck Nights from me, but not lend a Morrow:
Thou canst help Time to furrow me with Age,
But stop no Wrinkle in his Pilgrimage:
Thy word is currant with him, for my Death;
But dead, thy Kingdom cannot buy my Breath.

K. Rich.
Thy Son is banish'd upon good advice,
Whereto thy Tongue a party-verdict gave;
Why at our Justice seem'st thou then to lowr?

Gaunt.
Things sweet to taste, prove in digestion sowr:
You urg'd me as a Judge, but I had rather
You would have bid me argue like a Father.
Alas, I look'd when some of you should say,
I was too strict to make mine own away:
But you gave leave to my unwilling Tongue,
Against my will, to do my self this wrong.

K. Rich.
Cousin, farewel; and, Uncle, bid him so:
Six Years we banish him, and he shall go. [Exit.

Flourish.

Aum.
Cousin, farewel, what presence must not know,
From where you do remain, let Paper show.

Mar.
My Lord, no leave take I, for I will ride
As far as Land will let me, by your side,

Gaunt.
Oh to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou return'st no greeting to thy Friends?

Bulling.
I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the Tongue's Office should be prodigal,
To breathe th' abundant dolour of the Heart.

Gaunt.
Thy Grief is but thy Absence for a time.

Bulling.
Joy absent, Grief is present for that time.

Gaunt.
What is six Winters, they are quickly gone?

Bulling.
To Men in joy; but grief makes one Hour ten.

Gaunt.
Call it a Travel that thou tak'st for pleasure.

Bulling.
My Heart will sigh, when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an inforced Pilgrimage.

Gaunt.
The sullen Passage of thy weary Steps
Esteem a Soil, wherein thou art to set
The precious Jewel of thy home return.

Bulling.
Oh who can hold a Fire in his Hand
By thinking on the Frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of Appetite,
By bare imagination of a Feast?
Or wallow naked in December Snow
By thinking on fantastick Summer's Heat?
Oh no, the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse;
Fell Sorrow's Tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.

Gaunt.
Come, come, my Son, I'll bring thee on thy way;
Had I thy Youth, and Cause, I would not stay.

Bulling.
Then England's Ground farewel; sweet Soil adieu,
My Mother and my Nurse, which bears me yet:
Where-e'er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banish'd, yet a true-born Englishman. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV. Enter King Richard, Aumerle, Green, and Bagot.

K. Rich.
We did observe. Cousin Aumerle,
How far brought you high Hereford on his way?

Aum.
I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,
But to the next high way, and there I left him.

K. Rich.
And say, what store of parting Tears were shed?

Aum.
Faith none by me; except the North-East Wind,
Which then grew bitterly against our Face,
Awak'd the sleepy Rheume, and so by chance
Did grace our hollow parting with a Tear.

K. Rich.
What said our Cousin when you parted with him?

Aum.
Farewel; and for my Heart disdained that my Tongue
Should so prophane the word, that taught me craft
To counterfeit Oppression of such Grief,
That word seem buried in my Sorrow's Grave.
Marry, would the word Farewel had lengthen'd Hours,
And added Years to his short Banishment,
He should have had a Volume of Farewels;
But since it would not, he had none of me.

K. Rich.
He is our Cousin, Cousin; but 'tis doubt,
When time shall call him home from Banishment,
Whether our Kinsman come to see his Friends.
Our self, and Bushy, Bagot here and Green
Observ'd his Courtship to the common People:
How he did seem to dive into their Hearts,
With humble, and familiar Courtesie,
What Reverence he did throw away on Slaves;
Wooing poor Crafts-men with the craft of Souls,
And patient under-bearing of his Fortune,
As 'twere to banish their Affects with him.
Off goes his Bonnet to an Oyster-wench,
A brace of Dray-men bid God speed him well,
And had the Tribute of his supple Knee,
With Thanks, my Countrymen, my loving Friends,
As were our England in Reversion his,
And he our Subjects next Degree in hope.

Green.
Well, he is gone, and with him go these Thoughts.
Now for the Rebels, which stand out in Ireland,

Expedient manage must be made, my Liege,
E'er further leisure yield the further means
For their Advantage, and your Highness loss.

K. Rich.
We will our self in Person to this War,
And for our Coffers, with too great a Court,
And liberal Largess, are grown somewhat light,
We are inforc'd to farm our Royal Realm,
The Revenue whereof shall furnish us
For our Affairs in hand; if they come short,
Our Substitutes at home shall have blank Charters:
Whereto, when they shall know what Men are rich,
They shall subscribe them for large Sums of Gold,
And send them after to supply our Wants:
For we will make for Ireland presently. Enter Bushy.

K. Rich.
What News?

Bushy.
Old John of Gaunt is very sick, my Lord,
Suddenly taken, and hath sent post haste
To intreat your Majesty to visit him.

K. Rich.
Where lyes he?

Bushy.
At Ely-house.

K. Rich.
Now put it, Heav'n, in his Physician's Mind,
To help him to his Grave immediately:
The lining of his Coffers shall make Coats
To deck our Soldiers for these Irish Wars.
Come, Gentlemen, let's all go visit him:
Pray Heav'n we may make haste, and come too late. [Exe. ACT II. SCENE I. Enter Gaunt sick, with the Duke of York.

Gaunt.
Will the King come, that I may breathe my last
In wholesom Counsel to his unstaid Youth?

York.
Vex not your self, nor strive not with your Breath,
For all in vain comes Counsel to his Ear.

Gaunt.
Oh but, they say, the Tongues of dying Men
Inforce Attention like deep Harmony:
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,

For they breath Truth, that breath their words in pain.
He that no more must say, is listen'd more,
Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
More are Mens ends markt than their lives before,
The setting Sun, and Musick in the close;
At the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance, more than things long past;
Though Richard my life's Counsel would not hear,
My Death's sad Tale may yet undeaf his Ear.

York.
No, it is stopt with other flatt'ring Sounds,
As praises of his State; then there are found
Lascivious Meeters, to whose venom sound
The open Ears of Youth do always listen.
Report of Fashions in proud Italy,
Whose Manners still our tardy apish Nation
Limps after in base Imitation.
Where doth the World thrust forth a Vanity,
So it be new, there's no respect how vile,
That is not quickly buz'd into their Ears?
That all too late comes Counsel to be heard,
Where Will doth mutiny with Wits regard:
Direct not him, whose way himself will chuse,
'Tis Breath thou lack'st, and that Breath wilt thou lose.

Gaunt.
Methinks I am a Prophet new inspir'd,
And thus expiring, do foretel of him,
His rash fierce Blaze of Riot cannot last;
For violent Fires soon burn out themselves.
Small Showers last long, but sudden Storms are short;
He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding, food doth choke the Feeder;
Light Vanity, insatiate Cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon it self.
This Royal Throne of Kings, this scepter'd Isle,
This Earth of Majesty, this Seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demy Paradise,
This Fortress built by Nature for her self,
Against Infection, and the Hand of War;
This happy Breed of Men, this little World,
This precious Stone set in the Silver Sea,
Which serves it in the Office of a Wall,
Or as a Moat defensive to a House,

Against the envy of less happier Lands,
This blessed Plot, this Earth, this Realm, this England,
This Nurse, this teeming Womb of Royal Kings,
Fear'd for their Breed, and famous for their Birth,
Renowned for their Deeds, as far from home,
For Christian Service, and true Chivalry,
As is the Sepulchre in stubborn Jury
Of the World's Ransom, blessed Mary's Son;
This Land of such dear Souls, this dear dear Land,
Dear for her Reputation through the World,
Is now Leas'd out, I dye pronouncing it,
Like to a Tenement or pelting Farm;
England bound in with the triumphant Sea,
Whose rocky Shore beats back the envious Siege
Of watry Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With Inky Blots, and rotten Parchment Bonds.
That England that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful Conquest of it self.
Ah! would the Scandal vanish with my Life,
How happy then were my ensuing Death! Enter King Richard, Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Ross, and Willoughby.

York.
The King is come, deal mildly with his Youth;
For young hot Colts, being rag'd, do rage the more.

Queen.
How fares our noble Uncle, Lancaster?

K. Rich.
What comfort, Man? How is't with aged Gaunt?

Gaunt.
Oh how that Name befits my Composition!
Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old:
Within me Grief hath kept a tedious Fast,
And who abstains from Meat, that is not gaunt?
For sleeping England long time have I watcht,
Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt;
The Pleasure that some Fathers feed upon,
Is my strict Fast, I mean my Childrens looks,
And therein fasting thou hast made me gaunt;
Gaunt am I for the Grave, gaunt as a Grave,
Whose hollow Womb inherits nought but Bones.

K. Rich.
Can sick Men play so nicely with their Names?

Gaunt.
No, Misery makes sport to mock it self:
Since thou dost seek to kill my Name in me,

I mock my Name, great King, to flatter thee.

K. Rich.
Should dying Men flatter those that live?

Gaunt.
No, no, Men living flatter those that die.

K. Rich.
Thou now a dying, say'st thou flatter'st me.

Gaunt.
Oh no, thou dy'st, though I the sicker be.

K. Rich.
I am in health, I breathe, I see thee ill.

Gaunt.
Now he that made me, knows I see thee ill:
Ill in my self to see, and in thee seeing ill.
Thy Death-bed is no lesser than the Land,
Wherein thou liest in Reputation sick;
And thou, too careless Patient as thou art,
Committ'st thy anointed Body to the cure
Of those Physicians that first wounded thee:
A thousand Flatterers sit within thy Crown,
Whose compass is no bigger than thy Hand,
And yet ingaged in so small a Verge,
The waste is no whit lesser than thy Land.
Oh had thy Grandsire with a Prophet's Eye,
Seen how his Son's Son should destroy his Sons,
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,
Deposing thee before thou wert possest,
Which art possest now to depose thy self.
Why, Cousin, wert thou Regent of the World,
It were a shame to let this Land by lease:
But for thy World enjoying but this Land,
Is it not more than shame, to shame it so?
Landlord of England art thou, and not King:
Thy state of Law, is bondslave to the Law,
And—

K. Rich.
And thou, a lunatick lean-witted Fool,
Presuming on an Agues privilege,
Dar'st with thy frozen Admonition
Make pale our Cheek, chasing the Royal Blood
With fury, from his Native Residence:
Now by my Seat's right Royal Majesty,
Wert thou not Brother to great Edward's Son,
This Tongue that runs so roundly in thy Head,
Should run thy Head from thy unreverent Shoulders.

Gaunt.
Oh spare me not, my Brother Edward's Son,
For that I was his Father Edward's Son:
That Blood already, like the Pelican,

Thou hast tapt out, and drunkenly carows'd.
My Brother Glo'ster, plain well meaning Soul,
Whom fair befal in Heav'n 'mongst happy Souls,
May be a President and Witness good,
That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's Blood:
Join with the present Sickness that I have,
And thy unkindness be like crooked Age,
To crop at once a too long wither'd Flower.
Live in thy shame, but dye not shame with thee,
These words hereafter thy Tormentors be.
Convey me to my Bed, then to my Grave:
Love they to live, that Love and Honour have. [Exit.

K. Rich.
And let them die, that Age and Sullens have,
For both hast thou, and both become the Grave.

York.
I do beseech your Majesty impute his words
To wayward sickliness, and age in him:
He loves you on my Life, and holds you dear
As Henry Duke of Hereford, were he here.

K. Rich.
Right, you say true; as Hereford's love, so his;
As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is. Enter Northumberland.

North.
My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty.

K. Rich.
What say's he?

North.
Nay nothing, all is said:
His Tongue is now a stringless Instrument,
Words, Life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

York.
Be York the next, that must be Bankrupt so.
Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal wo.

K. Rich.
The ripest Fruit first falls, and so doth he,
His time is spent, our Pilgrimage must be:
So much for that. Now for our Irish Wars,
We must supplant those rough rug-headed Kerns,
Which live like Venom, where no Venom else
But only they, have privilege to live.
And for these great Affairs do ask some charge,
Towards our Assistance, we do seize to us
The Plate, Coin, and Revenues, and Moveables,
Whereof our Uncle Gaunt did stand possest.

York.
How long shall I be patient? Oh how long
Shall tender Duty make me suffer wrong?
Not Glo'ster's Death, not Hereford's Banishment,

Nor Gaunt's Rebukes, nor England's private Wrongs;
Nor the prevention of poor Bullingbroke,
About his Marriage, nor my own Disgrace,
Have ever made me sower my patient Cheek,
Or bend one Wrinkle on my Soveraign's Face.
I am the last of noble Edward's Sons,
Of whom thy Father, Prince of Wales, was first:
In Wars was never Lion rag'd more fierce;
In Peace, was never gentle Lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely Gentleman;
His Face thou hast, for even so look'd he,
Accomplish'd with the Number of thy Hours:
But when he frown'd, it was against the French,
And not against his Friends: His noble Hand
Did win what he did spend; and spent not that
Which his triumphant Father's Hand had won.
His Hands were guilty of no Kindreds Blood,
But bloody with the Enemies of his Kin:
Oh Richard, York is too far gone with Grief,
Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich.
Why Uncle, what's the matter?

York.
Oh, my Liege, pardon me if you please; if not,
I, pleas'd not to be pardon'd, am content with all:
Seek you to seize, and gripe into your Hands
The Royalties and Rights of banish'd Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an Heir?
Is not his Heir a well-deserving Son?
Take Hereford's Rights away, and take from Time
His Charters, and his customary Rights.
Let not to Morrow then ensue to Day,
Be not thy self. For how art thou a King
But by fair Sequence and Succession?
Now afore God, God forbid I say true,
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's Right,
Call in his Letters Patents that he hath
By his Attorneys-General, to sue
His Livery, and deny his offer'd Homage,
You pluck a thousand Dangers on your Head,
You lose a thousand well disposed Hearts,

And prick my tender Patience to those Thoughts
Which Honour and Allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich.
Think what you will; we seize into our Hands,
His Plate, his Goods, his Mony, and his Lands.

York.
I'll not be by the while; My Leige, farewel:
What will ensue hereof, there's none can tell.
But by bad Courses may be understood,
That their Events can never fall out good. [Exit.

K. Rich.
Go Bushie to the Earl of Wiltshire streight,
Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,
To see this Business done: To morrow next
We will for Ireland, and 'tis time I trow;
And we create, in absence of our self,
Our Uncle York Lord Governor of England:
For he is just, and always lov'd us well.
Come on our Queen, to Morrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [Flourish. [Exeunt King, Queen, &c. Manet Northumberland, Willoughby, and Ross.

North.
Well, Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.

Ross.
And living too, for now his Son is Duke.

Willo.
Barely in Title, not in Revenue.

North.
Richly in both, if Justice had her Right.

Ross.
My Heart is great; but it must break with silence,
E'r't be disburthen'd with a liberal Tongue.

North.
Nay, speak thy Mind; and let him ne'er speak more
That speaks thy Words again to do thee harm.

Willo.
Tends that thou'dst speak to the Duke of Hereford?
If it be so, out with it boldly, Man:
Quick is mine Ear to hear of good towards him.

Ross.
No good at all that I can do for him,
Unless you call it good to pity him,
Bereft and gelded of his Patrimony.

North.
Now afore Heav'n, it's Shame such Wrongs are born,
In him a Royal Prince, and many more,
Of noble Blood in this declining Land;
The King is not himself, but basely led
By Flatterers; and what they will inform
Meerly in Hate 'gainst any of us all,
That will the King severely prosecute
Gainst us, our Lives, our Children, and our Heirs.

Ross.
The Commons hath he pill'd with grievous Taxes,
And quite lost their Hearts; the Nobles hath he fin'd
For ancient Quarrels, and quite lost their Hearts.

Willo.
And daily new Exactions are devis'd;
As Blanks, Benevolences, and I wot not what:
But what o'God's Name doth become of this?

North.
Wars have not wasted it, for war'd he hath not,
But basely yielded upon Compromise,
That which his Ancestors atchiev'd with Blows:
More hath he spent in Peace, than they in Wars.

Ross.
The Earl of Wiltshire hath the Realm in Farm.

Willo.
The King's grown Bankrupt, like a broken Man.

North.
Reproach and Dissolution hangeth over him.

Ross.
He hath not Mony for these Irish Wars,
H s Burthenous Taxations notwithstanding,
But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.

North.
His noble Kinsman—most degenerate King!
But Lords, we hear this fearful Tempest sing,
Yet seek no Shelter to avoid the Storm:
We see the Wind sit sore upon our Sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

Ross.
We see the very Wreck that we must suffer,
A d unavoided is the Danger now,
For suffering so the Causes of our Wreck.

North.
Not so: Even through the hollow Eyes of Death,
I spie Life peering; but I dare not say
How near the Tidings of our Comfort is.

Willo.
Nay, let us share thy Thoughts, as thou dost ours.

Ross.
Be confident to speak, Northumberland,
We three are but thy self, and speaking so,
Thy Words are but as Thoughts, therefore be bold.

North.
Then thus: I have from Port le Blan,
A Bay in Britain, receiv'd Intelligence,
That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainald Lord Cobham,
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
His Brother Archbishop, late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Rainston,
Sir John Norberie, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Quoint,
All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Britain,
With eight tall Ships, three thousand Men of War,
Are making hither with all due Expedience,

And shortly mean to touch our Northern Shore;
Perhaps they had e'er this, but that they stay
The first departing of the King for Ireland.
If then we shall shake off our slavish Yoke,
Imp out our drooping Country's broken Wing,
Redeem from broken Pawn the blemish'd Crown,
Wipe off the Dust that hides our Scepter's Gilt,
And make high Majesty look like it self,
Away with me in haste to Ravenspurg;
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay, and be secret, and my self will go.

Ross.
To Horse, to Horse; urge Doubts to them that fear.

Willo.
Hold out my Horse, and I will first be there. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot.

Bushy.
Madam, your Majesty is too much sad:
You promis'd, when you parted with the King,
To lay aside self-harming Heaviness,
And entertain a chearful Disposition.

Queen.
To please the King, I did; to please my self
I cannot do it; yet I know no Cause
Why I should welcome such a Guest as Grief,
Save bidding farewel to so sweet a Guest
As my sweet Richard; yet again methinks
Some unborn Sorrow, ripe in Fortune's Womb,
Is coming towards me, and my inward Soul
Which nothing trembles at, something it grieves,
More than with parting from my Lord the King.

Bushy.
Each Substance of a Grief hath twenty Shadows,
Which shews like Grief it self, but is not so:
For Sorrow's Eye, glazed with blinding Tears,
Divides one thing entire, to many Objects,
Like Perspectives, which rightly gaz'd upon
Shew nothing but Confusion ey'd awry,
Distinguish Form: So your sweet Majesty,
Looking awry upon your Lord's Departure,
Find Shapes of Grief, more than himself to wail,

Which look'd on as it is, is nought but Shadows
Of what it is not; then thrice gracious Queen,
More than your Lord's Departure weep not, more's not seen:
Or if it be, 'tis with false Sorrow's Eye,
Which for things true, weep things imaginary.

Queen.
It may be so; but yet my inward Soul
Persuades me it is otherwise: How-e'er it be,
I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad,
As though on thinking on no Thought I think,
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

Bushy.
'Tis nothing but Conceit, my gracious Lady.

Queen.
'Tis nothing less; Conceit is still deriv'd
From some fore-father Grief, mine is not so,
For nothing hath begot my something Grief;
Or something, hath the nothing that I grieve,
'Tis in Reversion that I do possess;
But what it is, that is not yet known, what
I cannot Name, 'tis nameless Wo I wot. Enter Green.

Green.
Heav'n save your Majesty, and well met Gentlemen:
I hope the King is not yet shipt for Ireland.

Queen.
Why hop'st thou so? 'Tis better hope he is:
For his Designs crave haste, good Hope,
Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipt?

Green.
That he, our Hope, might have retir'd his Power,
And driven into despair an Enemies Hope,
Who strongly hath set footing in this Land.
The banish'd Bullingbroke repeals himself;
And with up-lifted Arms is safe arriv'd
At Ravenspurg.

Queen.
Now God in Heav'n forbid.

Green.
O, Madam, 'tis too true; and what is worse,
The Lord Northumberland, his young Son Henry Percy,
The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,
With all their powerful Friends are fled to him.

Bushy.
Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland,
And the rest of that revolted Faction, Traitors?

Green.
We have: Whereupon the Earl of Worcester
Hath broke his Staff, resign'd his Stewardship,
And all the Houshold Servants fled with him to Bullingbroke.

Queen.
So Green, thou art the Midwife of my Woe,

And Bullingbroke my Sorrows dismal Heir:
Now hath my Soul brought forth her Prodigy,
And I a gasping new delivered Mother,
Have Wo to Wo, Sorrow to Sorrow join'd.

Bushy.
Despair not, Madam.

Queen.
Who shall hinder me?
I will despair, and be at enmity
With cozening Hope; he is a Flatterer,
A Parasite, a keeper back of Death,
Who gently would dissolve the Bands of Life,
Which false Hopes linger in Extremity. Enter York.

Green.
Here comes the Duke of York.

Queen.
With Signs of War about his aged Neck,
Oh full of careful Business are his Looks:
Uncle, for Heav'n sake speak comfortable Words.

York.
Comfort's in Heav'n, and we are on the Earth,
Where nothing lives but Crosses, Care and Grief;
Your Husband he is gone to save far off,
Whilst others come to make him lose at home.
Here am I left to underprop his Land;
Who, weak with Age, cannot support my self:
Now comes his sick Hour that his Surfeit made,
Now shall he try his Friends that flattered him. Enter a Servant.

Serv.
My Lord, your Son was gone before I came.

York.
He was; why so, go all which way it will:
The Nobles they are fled, the Commons they are cold,
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.
Sirrah, get thee to Plashie, to my Sister Glo'ster;
Bid her send me presently a thousand Pound:
Hold, take my Ring.

Ser.
My Lord, I had forgot
To tell your Lordship, to Day I came by, and call'd there,
But I shall grieve you to report the rest.

York.
What is't, Knave?

Serv.
An Hour before I came, the Dutchess dy'd.

York.
Heav'n for his Mercy, what a Tide of Woes
Come rushing on this woful Land at once?
I know not what to do: I would to Heav'n,
So my Untruth had not provok'd him to it,

The King had cut off my Head with my Brother's.
What, are there Posts dispatch'd for Ireland?
How shall we do for Mony for these Wars?
Come Sister, (Cousin, I would say,) pray pardon me.
Go Fellow, get thee home, provide some Carts, [To the Servant.
And bring away the Armour that is there.
Gentlemen, will you muster Men?
If I know how, or which way to order these Affairs
Thus disorderly thrust into my Hands,
Never believe me. Both are my Kinsmen;
Th' one is my Soveraign, whom both my Oath
And Duty bids defend; th' other again
Is my Kinsman, whom the King hath wrong'd,
Whom Conscience, and my Kindred bids to right.
Well, somewhat we must do: Come, Cousin,
I'll dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster up your Men,
And meet me presently at Barkley Castle:
I should to Plashie too, but time will not permit;
All is uneven, and every thing is left at six and seven. [Exeunt York and Queen.

Bushy.
The Wind sits fair for News to go to Ireland,
But none returns; for us to levy Power
Proportionable to th' Enemy, is all impossible.

Green.
Besides, our nearness to the King in love,
Is near the Hate of those love not the King.

Bagot.
And that's the wavering Commons, for their Love
Lies in their Purses, and whoso empties them,
By so much fills their Hearts with deadly hate.

Bushy.
Wherein the King stands generally condemn'd.

Bagot.
If Judgment lye in them, then so do we,
Because we have been ever near the King.

Green.
Well; I will for Refuge streight to Bristol Castle,
The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy.
Thither will I with you; for little Office
Will the hateful Commons perform for us,
Except like Curs, to tear us all in Pieces:
Will you go along with us?

Bagot.
No, I will to Ireland to his Majesty.
Farewel: If Heart Presages be not vain,
We three here part, that ne'er shall meet again.

Bushy.
That's as York thrives to beat back Bullingbroke.

Green.
Alas poor Duke, the Task he undertakes

Is numbring Sands, and drinking Oceans dry,
Where one on his Side fights, thousands will flye.

Bushy.
Farewel at once, for once, for all, and ever.

Green.
Well, we may meet again.

Bagot.
I fear me never. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter Bullingbroke, and Northumberland.

Bulling.
How far is it, my Lord, to Barkley now?

Noth.
Believe me, noble Lord,
I am a Stranger here in Glo'stershire.
These high wild Hills, and rough uneven Ways,
Draw out our Miles, and make them wearisome:
And yet our fair Discourse hath been as Sugar,
Making the hard Way sweet and delectable.
But I bethink me what a weary Way
From Ravenspurg to Cottshold will be found,
In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your Company,
Which I protest hath very much beguil'd
The Tediousness and Process of my Travel:
But theirs is sweetned with the Hope to have
The present Benefit that I possess:
And hope to joy, is little less in Joy,
Than Hope enjoy'd: By this, the weary Lords
Shall make their Way seem short, as mine hath done,
By sight of what I have, your noble Company.

Bulling.
Of much less Value is my Company,
Than your good Words: But who comes here? Enter Percy.

North.
It is my Son, young Harry Percy,
Sent from my Brother Worcester: Whencesoever
Harry, how fares your Uncle?

Percy.
I had thought, my Lord, to have learn'd hi
Health of you.

North.
Why, is he not with the Queen?

Percy.
No, my good Lord, he hath forsook the Court,
Broken his Staff of Office, and disperst
The Houshold of the King.

North.
What was his Reason?

He was not so resolv'd, when we last spake together.

Percy.
Because your Lordship was proclaimed Traitor.
But he, my Lord, is gone to Ravenspurg,
To offer Service to the Duke of Hereford,
And sent me over by Barkley, to discover
What Power the Duke of York had levy'd there,
Then with Direction to repair to Ravenspurg.

North.
Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, Boy?

Percy.
No, my good Lord; for that is not forgot
Which ne'er I did remember; to my Knowledge,
I never in my Life did look on him.

North.
Then learn to know him now; this is the Duke.

Percy.
My gracious Lord, I tender you my Service,
Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young,
Which elder Days shall ripen, and confirm
To more approved Service and Desert.

Bulling.
I thank thee, gentle Percy, and be sure
I count my self in nothing else so happy,
As in a Soul remembring my good Friends:
And as my Fortune ripens with thy Love,
It shall be still thy true Love's Recompence,
My Heart this Covenant makes, my Hand thus seals it.

North.
How far is it to Barkley? and what stir
Keeps good old York there with his Men of War?

Percy.
There stands the Castle by yond Tuft of Trees,
Mann'd with three hundred Men, as I have heard.
And in it are the Lords of York, Barkley, and Seymour;
None else of Name, and noble Estimate. Enter Ross and Willoughby.

North.
Here comes the Lords of Ross and Willoughby.
Bloody with spurring, fiery red with haste.

Bulling.
Welcome, my Lords; I wot your Love pursues
A banisht Traitor; all my Treasury
Is yet but unfelt Thanks, which more enrich'd,
Shall be your Love and Labours Recompence.

Ross.
Your Presence makes us rich, most noble Lord.

Willo.
And far surmounts our Labour to attain it.

Bulling.
Evermore Thanks, th' Exchequer of the poor,
Which 'till my infant-fortune comes to Years,
Stand for my Bounty. But who comes here?

Enter Barkley.

North.
It is my Lord of Barkley, as I guess.

Bark.
My Lord of Hereford, my Message is to you.

Bulling.
My Lord, my Answer is to Lancaster,
And I am come to seek that Name in England,
And I must find that Title in your Town,
Before I make reply to ought you say.

Bark.
Mistake me not, my Lord, 'tis not my meaning
To raze one Title of your Honour out.
To you, my Lord, I come, what Lord you will,
From the most glorious of this Land,
The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on
To take Advantage of the absent time,
And fright our native Peace, with self-born Arms. Enter York.

Bulling.
I shall not need transport my Words by you,
Here comes his Grace in Person. My noble Uncle. [Kneels.

York.
Shew me thy humble Heart, and not thy Knee,
Whose Duty is deceivable and false.

Bulling.
My gracious Uncle.

York.
Tut, tut, Grace me no Grace, nor Uncle me,
I am no Traitor's Uncle; and that Word Grace,
In an ungracious Mouth, is but prophane.
Why have these banish'd, and forbidden Legs,
Dar'd once to touch a Dust of England's Ground?
But more then, why, why have they dar'd to march
So many Miles upon her peaceful Bosom,
Frighting her pale-fac'd Villages with War,
And Ostentation of despised Arms?
Com'st thou because th' anointed King is hence?
Why, foolish Boy, the King is left behind,
And in my loyal Bosom lyes his Power.
Were I but now the Lord of such hot Youth,
As when brave Gaunt, thy Father, and my self
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of Men,
From forth the Ranks of many thousand French;
Oh then, how quickly should this Arm of mine,
Now Prisoner to the Palsie, chastise thee,
And minister Correction to thy Fault.

Bulling.
My gracious Uncle, let me know my Fault,
On what Condition stands it, and wherein?

York.
Even in condition of the worst degree,
In gross Rebellion, and detested Treason:
Thou art a banish'd Man, and here art come
Before th' Expiration of thy time,
In braving Arms against thy Soveraign.

Bulling.
As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford;
But as I come, I come for Lancaster.
And, noble Uncle, I beseech your Grace,
Look on my Wrongs with an indifferent Eye:
You are my Father, for methinks in you
I see old Gaunt alive. Oh then, my Father,
Will you permit that I shall stand condemn'd
A wandring Vagabond; my Rights and Royalties
Pluckt from my Arms perforce, and given away
To upstart Unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?
If that my Cousin King, be King of England,
It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster.
You have a Son, Aumerle, my noble Kinsman,
Had you first dy'd, and he been thus trod down,
He should have found his Uncle Gaunt a Father,
To rowze his Wrongs, and chase them to the Bay.
I am deny'd to sue my Livery here,
And yet my Letters Patents give me leave:
My Father's Goods are all distrain'd and sold,
And these and all, are all miss imploy'd.
What would you have me do? I am a Subject,
And challenge Law: Attorneys are deny'd me,
And therefore personally I lay my Claim
To mine Inheritance of free Descent.

North.
The noble Duke hath been too much abus'd.

Ross.
It stands your Grace upon to do him right.

Willo.
Base Men by his Endowments are made great.

York
My Lords of England, let me tell you this,
I have had feeling of my Cousin's Wrongs,
And labour'd all I could to do him right:
But in this kind, to come in braving Arms,
Be his own Carver, and cut out his Way,
To find out Right with Wrongs, it may not be;
And you that do abet him in this kind,
Cherish Rebellion, and are Rebels all.

North.
The noble Duke hath sworn his coming is

But for his own; and for the right of that,
We all have strongly sworn to give him Aid,
And let him ne'er see Joy that breaks that Oath.

York.
Well, well, I see the issue of these Arms;
I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,
Because my Power is weak, and all ill left:
But if I could, by him that gave me Life,
I would attach you all, and make you stoop
Unto the Soveraign Mercy of the King.
But since I cannot, be it known to you,
I do remain as Neuter. So fare you well,
Unless you please to enter in the Castle,
And there repose you for this Night.

Bulling.
An Offer, Uncle, that we will accept:
But we must win your Grace to go with us
To Bristow-Castle, which they say is held
By Bushy, Bagot, and their Complices,
The Caterpillars of the Common-wealth,
Which I have sworn to weed, and pluck away.

York.
It may be I will go with you, but yet I'll pause,
For I am loath to break our Country's Laws:
Nor Friends, nor Foes, to me welcome you are,
Things past redress, are now with me past Care. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. Enter Salisbury, and a Captain.

Cap.
My Lord of Salisbury, we have staid ten Days,
And hardly kept your Countrymen together,
And yet we hear no Tidings from the King;
Therefore we all disperse our selves: Farewel.

Salis.
Stay yet another Day, thou trusty Welchman,
The King reposeth all his Confidence in thee.

Cap.
'Tis thought the King is dead, we will not stay,
The Bay-Trees in our Country are all wither'd,
And Meteors fright the fixed Stars of Heav'n?
The pale-fac'd Moon looks bloody on the Earth,
And lean-look'd Prophets whisper fearful Change;
Rich Men look sad, and Ruffians dance and leap;
The one in Fear to lose what they enjoy,

The other to enjoy by Rage and War:
These Signs forerun the Death of Kings.
Farewel; our Countrymen are gone and fled,
As well assur'd, Richard their King is dead. [Exit.

Salis.
Ah Richard, with Eyes of heavy Mind,
I see thy Glory like a shooting Star,
Fall to the base Earth from the Firmament:
Thy Sun sets weeping in the lowly West,
Witnessing Storms to come, Wo, and Unrest:
Thy Friends are fled to wait upon thy Foes,
And crosly to thy good, all Fortune goes. [Exit. ACT III. SCENE I. Enter Bullingbroke, York, Northumberland, Ross, Percy, Willoughby, with Bushy and Green Prisoners.

Bulling.
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 miss-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 Wr
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 Seignories,
Dis-park'd my Parks, and fell'd my Forest Woods;

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 over
To Execution, and the Hand of Death.

Bushy.
More welcome is the Stroak of Death to me,
Than Bullingbroke to England.

Green.
My Comfort is, that Heav'n will take our Souls,
And plague Injustice with the Pains of Hell.

Bulling.
My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatch'd.
Uncle, you say the Queen is at your House;
For Heav'ns 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.

Bulling.
Thanks, gentle Uncle: Come Lords away,
To fight with Glendoure, and his Complices;
A while to work, and after Holiday [Exeunt. SCENE II. Flourish: Drums, and Colours. 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 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 Soveraign's Foe, my gentle Earth,
Nor with thy Sweets comfort his ravenous Sense:

But let thy Spiders that suck up thy Venom,
And heavy-gated 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 prithee with a lurking Adder,
Whose double Tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw Death upon thy Soveraign's Enemies.
Mock not my senseless Conjuration, Lords;
This Earth shall have a feeling, and these Stones
Prove armed Soldiers, e'er her native King
Shall falter under foul rebellious Arms.

Bishop.
Fear not, my Lord, that Power that made you King
Hath Power to keep you King, in spight of all.

Aum.
He means, my Lord, that we are too remiss
Whilst Bullingbroke, through their Security,
Grows strong and great, in Substance and in Friends,

K. Rich.
Discomfortable Cousin, know'st thou not,
That when the searching Eye of Heav'n is hid,
Behind the Globe, that lights the lower World,
Then Thieves and Robbers range abroad unseen,
In Murders, and in Out-rage bloody here.
But when from under this terrestrial Ball
He fires the proud Tops of the Eastern Pines,
And darts his Lightning 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 Bullingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell'd in the Night,
Shall see us rising in our Throne, the East,
His Treasons will set 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;
The Breath of worldly Men cannot depose
The Deputy elected by the Lord:
For every Man that Bullingbroke hath prest,
To lift shrewd 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. Enter Salisbury.
Welcome, my Lord, how far off lyes your Power?

Salis.
Nor near, nor farther 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 my 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 Bullingbroke, 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 sluggard 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 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.
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 Bullingbroke 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 Wo, 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 Bullingbroke, covering your fearful Land
With hard bright Steel, and Hearts harder than Steel.
White Beans have arm'd their thin and hairless Scalps
Against thy Majesty, and Boys with Womens Voices,
Strive to speak big, and clap their female Joints
In stiff unwieldy Arms, against thy Crown;
The very Beadsmen learn to bend their Bows
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 Power to tell.

K. Rich.
Too well, too well thou tell'st a Tale so ill.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? Where is Bigot?
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 Hands shall pay for it.
I warrant they have made Peace with Bullingbroke.

Scroop.
Peace they have made with him, indeed, my Lord.

K. Rich.
Oh 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 sowrest, 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 lye full low, grav'd in the hollow Ground.

Aum.
Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?

Scroop.
Yea, all of them at Bristow 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 in 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 Bullingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own; but Death,
And that small Model of the barren Earth,
Which serves as Paste, and cover to our Bones:
For Heav'ns sake let us sit upon the Ground,
And tell sad Stories of the Death of Kings:
How some have been depos'd, some slain in War;
Some haunted by the Ghosts they have depos'd,
Some poison'd by their Wives, some sleeping kill'd,
All murther'd. For within the hollow Crown
That rounds the mortal Temples of a King,
Keeps Death his Court, and there the Antique sits
Scoffing his State, and grinning at his Pomp,
Allowing him a Breath, a little Scene,
To Monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with Locks,
Infusing him with self and vain Conceit,
As if this Flesh, which walls about our Life,
Were Brass impregnable: And humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little Pin
Boars through his Castle Walls, and farewel King.
Cover your Heads, and mock not Flesh and Blood
With solemn Reverence: Throw away Respect,
Tradition, Form, and ceremonious Duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with 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,
But presently prevent the Ways to wail:

To fear the Foe, since Fear oppresseth Strength,
Gives in your Weakness, Strength unto your Foe;
Fear, and be slain, no worse can come to fight,
And fight and die, is Death destroying Death.
Where fearing, dying, pays Death servile Breath.
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 Bullingbroke, I come
To change Blows with thee, for our Day of Doom;
This Ague-fit of Fear is over-blown,
An easie Task it is to win our own.
Say, Scroop, where lyes 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 to Bullingbroke,
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
Of that sweet way I was into Despair.
What say you now? what Comfort have we now?
By Heav'n I'll hate him everlastingly
That bids me be of comfort any more.
Go to Flint-Castle, there I'll pine away,
A King, Wo's Slave, shall kingly Wo obey:
That Power 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 in 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,
  Richard's Night, to Bullingbroke's fair Day. [Exeunt.

SCENE III. Enter with Drum and Colours, Bullingbroke, York, Northumberland, and Attendants.

Bulling.
So that by this Intelligence we learn
The Welchmen 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. Alack 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,
For taking so the Head, your whole Head's length.

Bulling.
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.

Bulling.
I know it, Uncle, and oppose not my self
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 thy Entrance.

Bulling.
Royally? Why, it contains no King?

Percy.
Yes, my good Lord,
It doth contain a King: King Richard lyes
Within the Limits of yond Lime and Stone,
And with him the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury,
Sir Stephen Scroop, besides a Clergy-man
Of holy Reverence; who, I cannot learn.

North.
Oh, belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle.

Bulling.
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 Bullingbroke upon his Knees doth kiss
King Richard's Hand, and sends Allegiance
And true Faith of Heart to his Royal Person; hither come
Even at his Feet, to lay my Arms and Power,
Provided, that my Banishment repeal'd,
And Lands restor'd again, be freely granted;
If not, I'll use the Advantage of my Power,
And lay the Summer's Dust with Showers of Blood,
Rain'd from the Wounds of slaughter'd Englishmen;
The which, how far off from the Mind of Bullingbroke
It is, such Crimson Tempest should bedrench
The fresh green Lap of fair King Richard's Land,
My stooping Duty tenderly shall shew.
Go signifie as much, while here we march
Upon the grassie Carpet of this Plain;
Let's march without the Noise of threatning 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 thundring Smoak
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. Parle without, and Answer within; then a Flourish. Enter on the Walls, King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, Scroop and Salisbury.
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.

York.
Yet looks he like a King; behold his Eye
As bright as is the Eagle's, lightens forth
Controlling Majesty; alack, alack, for Wo,
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 the 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 mustering 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 Bullingbroke, for yond methinks, he is,
That every Stride he makes upon the Land,
Is dangerous Treason, he is come to ope
The purple Testament of a bleeding War;
But e'er the Crown he looks for, live in Peace,
Ten thousand bloody Crowns of Mothers Sons
Shall ill become the Flower of England's Face,
Change the Complexion of her Maid-pale Peace
To Scarlet Indignation, and bedew
Her Pastors Grass with faithful English Blood.

North.
The King of Heav'n forbid our Lord the King
Should so with civil and uncivil Arms
Be rush'd upon: Thy thrice-noble Cousin,
Harry Bullingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy Hand,
And by the honourable Tomb he swears
That stands upon your Royal Grandsire's Bones,
And by the Royalties of both your Bloods,
Currents that spring from one most gracious Head;
And by the bury'd Hand of warlike Gaunt,
And by the Worth and Honour of himself,
Comprising all that may be sworn, or said,
His coming hither hath no farther Scope,
Than for his lineal Royalties, and to beg
Infranchisement immediate on his Knees:

Which on thy Royal party granted once,
His glittering Arms he will commend to Rust;
His barbed Steeds to Stables, and his Heart
To faithful Service of your Majesty:
This swears he, as he is a Prince, is just,
And as I am a Gentleman, I credit him.

K. Rich.
Northumberland, say thus: The King returns,
His noble Cousin is right welcome hither,
And all the Number of his fair Demands
Shall be accomplish'd without Contradiction;
With all the gracious Utterance thou hast,
Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends.
We do debase our self, Cousin, do we not, [To Aum.
To look so poorly, and to speak so fair?
Shall we call back Northumberland, and send
Defiance to the Traitor, and so die?

Aum.
No, good my Lord, let's fight with gentle Words,
'Till time lend Friends, and Friends their hopeful Swords.

K. Rich.
Oh God, oh God that e'er this Tongue of mine,
That laid the Sentence of dread Banishment
On yond proud Man, should take it off again
With Words of sooth; oh that I were as great
As is my Grief, or lesser than my Name;
Or that I could forget what I have been,
Or not remember what I must be now.
Swell'st thou, proud Heart? I'll give thee Scope to beat,
Since Foes have Scope to beat both thee and me.

Aum.
Northumberland comes back from Bullingbroke.

K. Rich.
What must the King do now? Must he submit?
The King shall do it: Must he be depos'd?
The King shall be contented: Must he lose
The Name of King? o'God's Name let it go.
I'll give my Jewels for a Set of Beads;
My gorgeous Pallace, for a Hermitage;
My gay Apparel, for an Alms-man's Gown;
My figur'd Goblets, for a Dish of Wood;
My Scepter, for a Palmer's walking Staff,
My Subjects, for a Pair of carved Saints,
And my large Kingdom, for a little Grave,
A little little Grave, an obscure Grave.
Or I'll be bury'd in the King's Highway;

Some way of common Trade, where Subjects Feet
May hourly trample on their Soveraign's Head;
For on my Heart they tread now, whilst I live;
And bury'd once, why not upon my Head?
Aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender hearted Cousin,
We'll make foul Weather with despised Tears.
Our Sighs, and they, shall lodge the Summer Corn,
And make a Dearth in this revolting Land.
Or shall we play the Wantons with our Woes,
And make some pretty Match with shedding Tears?
As thus, to drop them still upon one Place,
'Till they have fretted us a Pair of Graves,
Within the Earth; and therein laid, there lyes
Two Kinsmen digg'd their Graves with weeping Eyes?
Would not this ill do well? Well, well, I see
I talk but idely, and you mock at me.
Most mighty Prince, my Lord Northumberland,
What says King Bullingbroke? Will his Majesty
Give Richard leave to live, 'till Richard die?
You make a Leg, and Bullingbroke says I.

North.
My Lord, in the base Court he doth attend
To speak with you, may it please you to come down.

K. Rich.
Down, down I come, like glist'ring Phaeton,
Wanting the Manage of unruly Jades.
In the base Court? base Court where Kings grow base,
To come at Traitors Calls, and do them Grace.
In the base Court come down; down Court, down King,
For Night-Owls shriek, where mounting Larks should sing.

Bulling.
What says his Majesty?

North.
Sorrow, and Grief of Heart
Makes him speak fondly like a frantick Man;
Yet he is come.

Bulling.
Stand all apart,
And shew fair Duty to his Majesty.
My gracious Lord. [Kneels

K. Rich.
Fair Cousin,
You debase your Princely Knee,
To make the base Earth proud with kissing it.
Me rather had, my Heart might feel your Love,
Than my un-pleas'd Eye see your Courtesie.
Up Cousin, up, your Heart is up, I know,

Thus high at least, although your Knee be low.

Bulling.
My gracious Lord, I come but for mine own.

K. Rich.
Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all.

Bulling.
So far be mine, my most redoubted Lord,
As my true Service shall deserve your Love.

K. Rich.
Well you deserv'd:
They well deserve to have,
That know the strong'st and surest way to get.
Uncle, give me your Hand; nay, dry your Eyes,
Tears shew their Love, but want their Remedies.
Cousin, I am too young to be your Father,
Though you are old enough to be my Heir.
What you will have, I'll give, and willing too,
For do we must, what Force will have us do.
Set on towards London:
Cousin, is it so?

Bulling.
Yea, my good Lord.

K. Rich.
Then I must not say no. [Flourish. Exeunt. SCENE V. Enter Queen, and two Ladies.

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'll tell Tales.

Queen.
Of Sorrow, or of Grief?

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.
And I could sing, would weeping do me good,
And never borrow any Tear of thee. Enter a Gardiner, and two Servants.
But stay, here comes the Gardiners;
Let's step into the Shadow of these Trees.
My Wretchedness, unto a row of Pines,
They'll talk of State; for every one doth so,
Against a Change; wo is fore-run with wo.

Gard.
Go bind thou up yond dangling Apricocks,
Which like unruly Children, make their Syre
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 imploy'd, I will go root away
The noisom Weeds that without profit suck
The Soil's fertility from wholsom Flowers.

Serv.
Why should we in the compass of a Pale,
Keep Law and Form, and due Proportion,
Shewing, as in a Model, our firm State?
When our Sea-walled Garden, the whole Land,
Is full of Weeds, her fairest Flowers choakt up,
Her Fruit-trees all uprun'd, her Hedges ruin'd,
Her Knots disorder'd, and her wholsom Herbs
Swarming with Caterpillers.

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 Bullingbroke;
I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

Serv.
What, are they dead?

Gard.
They are,
And Bullingbroke hath seiz'd the wasteful King.

What pity is it, that he had not trimm'd
And drest his Land, as we this Garden at time of Year;
And wound the Bark, the Skin of our Fruit-trees,
Lest being over proud with Sap and Blood,
With too much Riches it confound it self?
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 Branches
We lop away, that bearing Boughs may live:
Had he done so, himself had born the Crown,
Which waste and idle Hours hath quite thrown down.

Serv.
What think you the King shall be depos'd?

Gard.
Deprest he is already, and depos'd
'Tis doubted he will be. Letters came last Night
To a dear Friend of the Duke of York,
That tell black Tidings.

Queen.
Oh I am prest to Death through want of speaking;
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 this ill Tydings? Speak, thou Wretch.

Gard.
Pardon me, Madam. Little joy have I
To breath these News; yet what I say is true;
King Richard, he is in the mighty hold
Of Bullingbroke, 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 Ballance of great Bullingbroke,
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 wo.
What, was I born to this! That my sad Look,
Should grace the Triumph of great Bullingbroke!
Gard'ner, for telling me these News of wo.
I would the Plants thou graft'st may never grow. [Exit.

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 Rew, sowr Herb of Grace:
Rew ev'n for Ruth, here shortly shall be seen,
In the remembrance of a weeping Queen. [Exit. ACT IV. SCENE I. Enter as to the Parliament, Bullingbroke, Aumerle, Northumberland, Percy, Fitzwater, Surrey, Bishop of Carlile, Abbot of Westminster, Herald, Officers, and Bagot.

Bulling.
Call forth Bagot.
Now Bagot, freely speak thy Mind,
What thou dost know of noble Glo'ster's Death;
Who wrought it with the King, and who perform'd
The bloody Office of his timeless End.

Bagot.
Then set before my Face the Lord Aumerle.

Bulling.
Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that Man.

Bagot.
My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring Tongue
Scorns to unsay, what it hath once deliver'd.
In that dead time when Glo'ster's Death was plotted,
I heard you say, Is not my Arm of length,
That reacheth from the restful English Court
As far as Calais to my Uncle's Head?
Amongst much other talk, that very time,
I heard you say that you had rather refuse
The offer of an hundred thousand Crowns,
Than Bullingbroke return to England; adding withal,
How blest this Land would be in this your Cousin's Death.

Aum.
Princes, and noble Lords,
What answer shall I make to this base Man?
Shall I so much dishonour my fair Stars,

On equal terms to give him chastisement?
Either I must, or have mine Honour spoil'd
With the Attainder of his sland'rous Lips.
There is my Gage, the manual Seal of Death,
That marks thee out for Hell. Thou liest,
And I'll maintain what thou hast said, is false,
In thy Heart Blood, though being all too base,
To stain the temper of my Knighty Sword.

Bulling.
Bagot forbear, thou shalt not take it up.

Aum.
Excepting one, I would he were the best
In all this Presence that hath moved me so.

Fitzw.
If that thy Valour stand on Sympathies:
There is my Gage, Aumerle, in Gage to thine:
By that fair Sun, that shews me where thou stand'st,
I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak'st it,
That thou wert cause of noble Glo'ster's Death.
If thou deny'st it, twenty times thou liest,
And I will turn thy falshood to thy Heart,
Where it was forged, with my Rapier's point.

Aum.
Thou dar'st not, Coward, live to see the Day.

Fitzw.
Now, by my Soul, I would it were this Hour.

Aum.
Fitzwater, thou art damn'd to Hell for this.

Percy.
Aumerle, thou liest; his Honour is as true
In this Appeal, as thou art all unjust:
And that thou art so, there I throw my Gage
To prove it on thee, to th' extreamest point
Of mortal Breathing. Seize it, if thou dar'st.

Aum.
And if I do not may my Hands rot off,
And never brandish more revengeful Steel,
Over the glittering Helmet of my Foe.

Surrey.
My Lord Fitzwater
I do remember well the very time
Aumerle and you did talk.

Fitzw.
My Lord,
'Tis very true: You were in Presence then;
And you can witness with me, this is true.

Surrey.
As false, by Heav'n,
As Heav'n it self is true.

Fitzw.
Surrey, thou liest.

Surrey.
Dishonourable Boy,
That Lie, shall lye so heavy on my Sword,

That it shall render Vengeance and Revenge,
'Till thou the Lie-giver, and that Lie, do lye
In Earth as quiet, as thy Father's Scull.
In proof whereof, there is mine Honour's Pawn,
Engage it to the Trial, if thou dar'st.

Fitzw.
How fondly do'st thou spur a forward Horse?
If I dare eat, or drink, or breath, or live,
I dare meet Surrey in a Wilderness,
And spit upon him, whilst I say he lies,
And lies, and lies; there is my Bond of Faith,
To tie thee to my strong Correction.
As I intend to thrive in this new World,
Aumerle is guilty of my true Appeal.
Besides, I heard the banisht Norfolk say,
That thou Aumerle didst send two of thy Men,
To execute the noble Duke at Calais.

Aum.
Some honest Christian trust me with a Gage,
That Norfolk lies; here do I throw down this,
If he may be repeal'd, to try his Honour.

Bulling.
These Differences shall all rest under Gage,
'Till Norfolk be repeal'd: Repeal'd he shall be;
And though mine Enemy, restor'd again
To all his Lands and Seigniories; when he's return'd,
Against Aumerle we will enforce his Trial.

Carl.
That honourable Day shall ne'er be seen.
Many a time hath banisht Norfolk fought
For Jesus Christ, in glorious Christian Field
Streaming the Ensign of the Christian Cross
Against black Pagans, Turks, and Saracens:
And toil'd with works of War, retir'd himself
To Italy, and there at Venice gave
His Body to that pleasant Countries Earth,
And his pure Soul unto his Captain Christ,
Under whose Colours he had fought so long.

Bulling.
Why, Bishop, is Norfolk dead?

Carl.
As sure as I live, my Lord.

Bulling.
Sweet peace conduct his sweet Soul
To the Bosom of good old Abraham.
Lords Appealants, your Differences shall all rest under gage
'Till we assign you to your Days of Trial.

Enter York.

York.
Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee
From plume-pluckt Richard, who with willing Soul
Adopts thee Heir, and his high Scepter yields
To the Possession of thy Royal Hand.
Ascend his Throne, descending now from him,
And long live Henry, of that Name the Fourth.

Bulling.
In God's Name, I'll ascend the Regal Throne.

Carl.
Marry, Heav'n forbid.
Worst in this Royal Presence may I speak,
Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth.
Would God, that any in this noble Presence
Were enough noble to be upright Judge
Of noble Richard, then true Nobleness would
Learn him forbearance from so foul a Wrong.
What Subject can give Sentence on his King?
And who sits here that is not Richard's Subject?
Thieves are not judg'd, but they are by to hear,
Although apparent Guilt be seen in them:
And shall the Figure of God's Majesty,
His Captain, Steward, Deputy elect,
Anointed, crown'd and planted many Years,
Be judg'd by Subject and inferior Breath,
And he himself not present? Oh, forbid it, God,
That in a Christian Climate, Souls refin'd
Should shew so heinous, black, obscene a deed.
I speak to Subjects, and a Subject speaks,
Stirr'd up by Heav'n, thus boldly for his King.
My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call King,
Is a foul Traitor to proud Hereford's King.
And if you crown him, let me prophesie,
The Blood of English shall manure the Ground,
And future Ages groan for his foul Act.
Peace shall go sleep with Turks and Infidels,
And in this Seat of Peace, tumultuous Wars
Shall Kin with Kin, and kind with kind confound.
Disorder, Horror, Fear and Mutiny
Shall here inhabit, and this Land be call'd
The Field of Golgotha, and dead Men's Sculls.
Oh, if you rear this House, against this House,
It will the wofullest Division prove,

That ever fell upon this cursed Earth.
Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so,
Lest Child, Childs Children cry against you, wo.

North.
Well have you argu'd, Sir; and for your pains,
Of Capital Treason we arrest you here.
My Lord of Westminster, be it your Charge,
To keep him safely, 'till his Day of Trial.
May it please you, Lords, to grant the Commons Suit?

Bulling.
Fetch hither Richard, that in common View
He may surrender: So we shall proceed
Without Suspicion.

York.
I will be his Conduct. [Exit.

Bulling.
Lords, you that are here under our Arrest,
Procure your Sureties for your Days of Answer:
Little are we beholding to your Love,
And little look'd for at your helping Hands. Enter King Richard and York.

K. Rich.
Alack, why am I sent for to a King,
Before I have shook off the regal Thoughts
Wherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd
To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my Knee.
Give Sorrow leave a while, to return me
To this Submission. Yet I will remember
The favours of these Men: Were they not mine?
Did they not sometime cry, All hail to me?
So Judas did to Christ: But he in twelve,
Found truth in all, but one; I, in twelve thousand, none.
God save the King: Will no Man say, Amen.
Am I both Priest and Clark? Well then, Amen.
God save the King, although I be not he:
And yet Amen, if Heav'n do think him me.
To do what Service, am I sent for hither?

York.
To do that Office of thine own good Will,
Which tired Majesty did make thee offer:
The Resignation of thy State and Crown
To Henry Bullingbroke.

K. Rich.
Give me the Crown. Here Cousin, seize the Crown;
Here Cousin, on this side my Hand, on that side thine.
Now is this Golden Crown like a deep Well,
That owes two Buckets, filling one another,
The emptier ever dancing in the Air,

The other down, unseen, and full of Water:
That Bucket down, and full of Tears am I,
Drinking my Griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

Bulling.
I thought you had been willing to resign.

K. Rich.
My Crown I am, but still my Griefs are mine:
You may my Glories, and my State depose,
But not my Griefs; still am I King of those.

Bulling.
Part of your Cares you give me with your Crown.

K. Rich.
Your Cares set up, do not pluck my Cares down,
My Care, is loss of Care, by old Care done,
Your Care, is gain of Care, by new Care won.
The Cares I give, I have, though given away,
They tend the Crown, yet still with me they stay.

Bulling.
Are you contented to resign the Crown?

K. Rich.
I no; no I, for I must nothing be:
Therefore no, no, for I resign to thee.
Now, mark me how I will undo my self;
I give this heavy Weight from off my Head,
And this unwieldy Scepter from my Hand,
The pride of Kingly sway from out my Heart,
With mine own Tears I wash away my blame,
With mine own Hands I give away my Crown,
With mine own Tongue deny my sacred State,
With mine own Breath release all dutious Oaths:
All Pomp and Majesty I do forswear:
My Manors, Rents, Revenues, I forgo;
My Acts, Decrees, and Statutes I deny:
God pardon all Oaths that are broke to me,
God keep all Vows unbroke are made to thee.
Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd,
And thou with all pleas'd, that hast all atchiev'd;
Long mayst thou long live in Richard's Seat to sit,
And soon lye Richard in an Earthy Pit.
God save King Henry, un-king'd Richard says,
And send him many Years of Sun-shine Days.
What more remains?

North.
No more; but that you read
These Accusations, and these grievous Crimes
Committed by your Person, and your Followers,
Against the State and Profit of this Land:

That by confessing them, the Souls of Men
May deem that you are worthily depos'd.

K. Rich.
Must I do so? And must I ravel out
My weav'd-up Follies? Gentle Northumberland,
If thy Offences were upon Record,
Would it not shame thee, in so fair a Troop,
To read a Lecture of them? If thou would'st,
There should'st thou find one heinous Article,
Containing the deposing of a King,
And cracking the strong Warrant of an Oath,
Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the Book of Heav'n.
Nay, all of you, that stand and look upon me,
Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait my self,
Though some of you, with Pilate wash your Hands,
Shewing an outward Pity: Yet you Pilates
Have here delivered me to my sower Cross,
And Water cannot wash away your Sin.

North.
My Lord, dispatch, read o'er these Articles.

K. Rich.
Mine Eyes are full of Tears, I cannot see:
And yet Salt-water blinds them not so much,
But they can see a sort of Traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine Eyes upon my self,
I find my self a Traitor with the rest:
For I have given here my Soul's consent,
T'undeck the pompous Body of a King;
Made Glory base; a Soveraign, a Slave;
Proud Majesty, a Subject; State, a Peasant.

North.
My Lord.

K. Rich.
No Lord of thine, thou haught-insulting Man;
No, nor no Man's Lord: I have no Name, no Title;
No, not that Name was given me at the Font,
But 'tis usurpt. Alack the heavy Day,
That I have worn so many Winters out,
And know not now, what Name to call my self.
Oh, that I were a Mockery, King of Snow,
Standing before the Sun of Bullingbroke,
To melt my self away in Water-drops.
Good King, great King, and yet not greatly good, [To Bulling.
And if my word be Sterling yet in England
Let it command a Mirror hither streight,
That it may shew me what a Face I have,

Since it is Bankrupt of his Majesty.

Bulling.
Go some of you, and fetch a Looking-Glass.

North.
Read o'er this Paper, while the Glass doth come.

K. Rich.
Fiend, thou torment'st me, e'er I come to Hell.

Bulling.
Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

North.
The Commons will not then be satisfy'd.

K. Rich.
They shall be satisfy'd: I'll read enough,
When I do see the very Book indeed,
Where all my Sins are writ, and that's my self. Enter one with a Glass.
Give me that Glass, and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath Sorrow struck
So many blows upon this Face of mine,
And made no deeper Wounds? Oh flatt'ring Glass,
Like to my Followers in Prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me. Was this Face, the Face
That every Day under his Houshold-roof
Did keep ten thousand Men? Was this the Face,
That like the Sun did make Beholders wink?
Is this the Face, which fac'd so many Follies,
That was at last out-fac'd by Bullingbroke?
A brittle Glory shineth in this Face,
As brittle as the Glory, is the Face,
For there it is, crackt in an hundred Shivers.
Mark, silent King, the Moral of this sport,
How soon my Sorrow hath destroy'd my Face.

Bulling.
The Shadow of your Sorrow hath destroy'd
The Shadow of your Face.

K. Rich.
Say that again.
The Shadow of my Sorrow! ha, let's see,
'Tis very true, my Grief lyes all within,
And these external Manners of Laments
Are meerly Shadows to the unseen Grief,
That swells with silence in the tortur'd Soul.
There lyes the Substance: And I thank thee, King,
For thy great Bounty, that not only giv'st
Me Cause to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the Cause. I'll beg one boon,
And then be gone, and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?

Bulling.
Name it, fair Cousin.

K. Rich.
Fair Cousin! I am greater than a King:
For when I was a King, my Flatterers
Were then but Subjects; being now a Subject,
I have a King here to my Flatterer:
Being so great, I have no need to beg.

Bulling.
Yet ask.

K. Rich.
And shall I have?

Bulling.
You shall.

K. Rich.
Then give me leave to go.

Bulling.
Whither?

K. Rich.
Whither you will, so I were from your sight.

Bulling.
Go some of you, convey him to the Tower.

K. Rich.
Oh good; convey: Conveyers are you all,
That rise thus nimbly by a true King's fall.

Bulling.
On Wednesday next we solemnly set down
Our Coronation: Lords, prepare your selves. [Ex. all but Abbot, Bishop of Carlisle and Aumerle.

Abbot.
A woful Pageant have we here beheld.

Bishop.
The wo's to come, the Children yet unborn,
Shall feel this Day as sharp to them as Thorn.

Aum.
You holy Clergy-men, is there no Plot
To rid the Realm of this pernicious Blot?

Abbot.
Before I freely speak my Mind herein,
You shall not only take the Sacrament,
To bury mine Intents, but also to effect
Whatever I shall happen to devise.
I see your Brows are full of Discontent,
Your Hearts of Sorrow, and your Eyes of Tears.
Come home with me to Supper, I'll lay a Plot
Shall shew us all a merry Day. [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I. Enter Queen and Ladies.

Queen.
This way the King will come: This is the way
To Julius Cæsar's ill-erected Tower,
To whose flint Bosom, my condemned Lord

Is doom'd a Prisoner, by proud Bullingbroke.
Here let us rest, if this Rebellious Earth
Have any resting for her true King's Queen. Enter King Richard, and Guards.
But soft, but see, or rather do not see,
My fair Rose wither; yet look up; behold,
That you in pity may dissolve to Dew,
And wash him fresh again with true-love Tears.
Ah thou, the Model, where old Troy did stand, [To K. Rich.
Thou Map of Honour, thou King Richard's Tomb,
And not King Richard; thou most beauteous Inn,
Why should hard-favour'd Grief be lodg'd in thee,
When Triumph is become an Ale-house Guest?

K. Rich.
Join not with Grief, fair Woman, do not so,
To make my End too sudden: Learn, good Soul,
To think our former State a happy Dream,
From which awak'd, the truth of what we are
Shews us but this. I am sworn Brother, Sweet,
To grim Necessity; and he and I
Will keep a League 'till death. High thee to France,
And Cloister thee in some Religious House;
Our holy Lives must win a new World's Crown,
Which our prophane Hours here have stricken down.

Queen.
What, is my Richard both in Shape and Mind
Transform'd and weakened? Hath Bullingbroke
Depos'd thine Intellect? Hath he been in thy Heart?
The Lion dying thrusteth forth his Paw,
And wounds the Earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o'er-power'd: And wilt thou, Pupil-like,
Take thy Correction mildly, kiss the Rod,
And fawn on Rage with base Humility,
Which art a Lion and a King of Beasts?

K. Rich.
A King of Beasts indeed; if ought but Beasts,
I had been still a happy King of Men.
Good, sometime, Queen prepare thee hence for France;
Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak'st,
As from my Death-bed, my last-living leave.
In Winters tedious Nights sit by the Fire
With good old Folks, and let them tell thee Tales
Of woful Ages, long ago betide:
And e'er thou bid good-night, to quit their Grief,

Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And send the Hearers weeping to their Beds:
For why? The senseless Brands will sympathize
The heavy accent of thy moving Tongue,
And in compassion weep the Fire out:
And some will mourn in Ashes, some coal-black,
For the deposing of a rightful King. Enter Northumberland.

North.
My Lord, the mind of Bullingbroke is chang'd.
You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.
And, Madam, there is order ta'en for you:
With all swift speed, you must away to France.

K. Rich.
Northumberland, thou Ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bullingbroke ascends my Throne,
The time shall not be many Hours of Age,
More than it is, e'er foul Sin, gathering head,
Shall break into Corruption; thou shalt think,
Though he divide the Realm, and give the half,
It is too little, helping him to all:
And he shall think, that thou which know'st the way
To plant unrightful Kings, wilt know again,
Being ne'er so little urg'd, another way,
To pluck him headlong from th' usurped Throne.
The Love of wicked Friends converts to Fear;
That Fear to Hate; and Hate turns one, or both,
To worthy Danger, and deserved Death.

North.
My Guilt be on my Head, and there's an end.
Take leave, and part, for you must part forthwith.

K. Rich.
Doubly divorc'd? Bad Men, ye violate
A two-fold Marriage? 'twixt my Crown and me:
And then betwixt me and my married Wife.
Let me unkiss the Oath, 'twixt thee and me: [To the Queen.
And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made.
Part us, Northumberland: I, towards the North,
Where shivering Cold and Sickness pines the Clime:
My Queen to France; from whence, set forth in Pomp,
She came adorned hither like sweet May,
Sent back like Hollowmas, or shortest Day.

Queen.
And must we be divided? Must we part?

K. Rich.
Ay, Hand from Hand, my Love, and Heart from Heart.

Queen.
Banish us both, and send the King with me.

North.
That were some Love, but little Policy.

Queen.
Then whither he goes, thither let me go.

K. Rich.
So two together weeping, make one wo.
Weep thou for me in France; I for thee here:
Better far off than near, be ne'er the near.
Go, count thy way with Sighs, I mine with Groans.

Queen.
So longest way, shall have the longest Moans.

K. Rich.
Twice for one step I'll groan, the way being short,
And piece the way out with a heavy Heart.
Come, come in wooing Sorrow let's be brief,
Since wedding it, there is such length in Grief:
One Kiss shall stop our Mouths, and dumbly part;
Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy Heart. [They kiss.

Queen.
Give me mine own again; 'twere no good Part,
To take on me to keep, and kill thy Heart.
So, now I have mine own again, be gone, [Kiss again.
That I may strive to kill it with a Groan.

K. Rich.
We make Wo wanton with this fond delay:
Once more adieu; the rest let Sorrow say. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Enter York and his Dutchess.

Dutch.
My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest,
When weeping made you break the Story off,
Of our two Cousins coming into London.

York.
Where did I leave?

Dutch.
At that sad stop, my Lord,
Where rude miss-govern'd Hands, from Windows tops,
Threw Dust and Rubbish on King Richard's Head.

York.
Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bullingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery Steed,
Which his aspiring Rider seem'd to know,
With slow, but stately Pace, kept on his Course:
While all Tongues cry'd, God save thee, Bullingbroke.
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, welcome Bullingbroke.
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed lower than his proud Steed's Neck,
Bespoke them thus; I thank you, Country-men;
And thus still doing, thus he past along.

Dutch.
Alas! Poor Richard, where rides he the whilst?

York.
As in a Theater, the Eyes of Men,
After a well-grac'd Actor leaves the Stage,
Are idlely bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:
Even so, or with much more contempt, Mens Eyes,
Did scowle on Richard; no Man cry'd, 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 it self have pittied him.
But Heav'n hath a Hand in these Events,
To whose high Will we bound our calm Contents.
To Bullinbroke, are we sworn Subjects now,
Whose State, and Honour, I for aye allow. Enter Aumerle.

Dutch.
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 in the new-made King.

Dutch.
Welcome my Son; who are the Violets now,
That strew the green Lap of the new-come Spring?

Aum.
Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care,
God knows I had as lief be none, as one.

York.
Well, bear you well in this new-spring of time,
Least you be cropt before you come to prime.
What News from Oxford? Hold those Justs and Triumphs?

Aum.
For ought I know, my Lord, they do.

York.
You will be there I know.

Aum.
If God prevent me not, I purpose so.

York.
What Seal is that that hangs without thy Bosom?
Yea, look'st thou pale? Let me see the Writing.

Aum.
My Lord, 'tis nothing.

York.
No matter then who sees 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.

Dutch.
What should you fear?
'Tis nothing but some Bond, that he is enter'd into
For gay Apparel, against the Triumph.

York.
Bound to himself? What doth he with a Bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a Fool.
Boy, let me see the Writing.

Aum.
I do beseech you pardon me, I may not shew it.

York.
I will be satisfied, let me see it, I say. [Snatches it, and reads.
Treason! foul Treason! Villain, Traitor, Slave.

Dutch.
What's the matter, my Lord?

York.
Hoa, who's within there? Saddle my Horse.
Heav'n for his Mercy; what Treachery is here?

Dutch.
Why, what is't, my Lord?

York.
Give me my Boots I say; saddle my Horse.
Now by my Honour, my Life, my Troth,
I will appeach the Villain.

Dutch.
What is the matter?

York.
Peace, foolish Woman.

Dutch.
I will not peace: What is the matter, Son?

Aum.
Good Mother be content, it is no more
Than my poor Life must answer.

Dutch.
Thy Life answer! Enter Servant with Boots.

York.
Bring my Boots, I will unto the King.

Dutch.
Strike him, Aumerle. Poor Boy, thou art amaz'd.
Hence Villain, never more come in my Sight.

York.
Give me my Boots, I say.

Dutch.
Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not 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 Woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark Conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the Sacrament,
And interchangeably have set their Hands
To kill the King at Oxford.

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

York.
Away fond Woman; were he twenty times my
Son, I would appeach him.

Dutch.
Hadst thou groan'd for him as I have done,
Thou wouldst 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 like to me, nor any of my Kin,
And yet I love him.

York.
Make way, unruly Woman. [Exit.

Dutch.
After, Aumerle. Mount thee upon his Horse,
Spur post, and get before him to the King,
And beg thy Pardon, e'er 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 Bullingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away, be gone. [Exe. SCENE III. Enter Bullingbroke, Percy, and other Lords.

Bulling.
Can no Man tell of my unthrifty Son?
'Tis full three Months since I did see him last.
If any Plague hang over us, 'tis he:
I would to Heav'n, my Lords, he might be found.
Enquire at London, 'mongst the Taverns there:

For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,
With unrestrained loose Companions
Even such, they say, as stand in narrow Lanes,
And rob our Watch, and beat our Passengers,
Which he, young, wanton, and effeminate Boy,
Takes on the point of Honour, to support
So dissolute a Crew.

Percy.
My Lord, some two Days since I saw the Prince,
And told him of these Triumphs held at Oxford.

Bulling.
And what said the Gallant?

Percy.
His answer was; he would unto the Stews,
And from the common'st Creature pluck a Glove
And wear it as a Favour, and with that
He would unhorse the lustiest Challenger.

Bulling.
As dissolute as desp'rate, yet through both
I see some sparks of better hope; which elder Days
May happily bring forth. But who comes here? Enter Aumerle.

Aum.
Where is the King?

Bulling.
What means our Cousin, that he stares
And looks so wildly?

Aum.
God save your Grace. I do beseech your Majesty
To have some conference with your Grace alone.

Bulling.
Withdraw your selves, and leave us here alone:
What is the matter with our Cousin now?

Aum.
For ever may my Knees grow to the Earth, [Kneels.
My Tongue cleave to my Roof within my Mouth,
Unless a Pardon, e'er I rise or speak.

Bulling.
Intended or committed was this Fault?
If on the first, how heinous e'er it be,
To win thy after-love I pardon thee,

Aum.
Then give me leave that I may turn the Key,
That no Man enter 'till the Tale be done.

Bulling.
Have thy desire. [York within.

York.
My Liege beware, look to thy self,
Thou hast a Traitor in thy Presence there.

Bulling.
Villain, I'll make thee safe.

Aum.
Stay thy revengeful Hand, thou hast no cause to fear.

York.
Open the Door, secure fool-hardy King:
Shall I for love speak Treason to thy Face?
Open the Door, or I will break it open.

Enter York.

Bulling.
What is the matter, Uncle, speak, recover breath,
Tell us how near is danger,
That we may arm us to encounter it.

York.
Peruse this Writing here, and thou shalt know
The reason that my haste forbids me show.

Aum.
Remember as thou read'st, thy Promise past:
I do repent me, read not my Name there,
My Heart is not confederate with my Hand.

York.
It was, Villain, e'er thy Hand did set it down.
I tore it from the Traitor's Bosom, King.
Fear, and not Love, begets his Penitence;
Forget to pity him, lest thy Pity prove
A Serpent, that will sting thee to the Heart.

Bulling.
Oh heinous, strong, and bold Conspiracy!
O loyal Father of a treacherous Son:
Thou sheer, immaculate, and Silver Fountain,
From whence this Stream, through muddy Passages
Hath had his Current, and defil'd himself.
Thy overflow of good, converts to bad,
And thine abundant goodness shall excuse
This deadly blot, in thy digressing Son.

York.
So shall my Virtue be his Vice's Bawd,
And he shall spend mine Honour with his Shame;
As thriftless Sons their scraping Father's Gold.
Mine Honour lives when his Dishonour dies,
Or my sham'd Life in his Dishonour lyes:
Thou kill'st me in his Life, giving him breath,
The Traitor lives, the true Man's put to Death. [Dutchess within.

Dutch.
What ho, my Liege! for Heav'ns sake let me in.

Bulling.
What shrill-voic'd Suppliant makes this eager cry?

Dutch.
A Woman, and thine Aunt, great King, 'tis I.
Speak with me, pity me, open the Door,
A Beggar begs, that never begg'd before.

Bulling.
Our Scene is alter'd from a serious thing,
And now chang'd to the Beggar, and the King:
My dangerous Cousin, let your Mother in,
I know she's come to pray for your foul Sin.

York.
If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
More Sins for this forgiveness, prosper may,

This fester'd Joint cut off the rest rests sound,
This let alone, will all the rest confound. Enter Dutchess.

Dutch.
O King, believe not this hard-hearted Man,
Love, loving not it self, none other can.

York.
Thou frantick Woman, what dost thou do here?
Shall thy old Dugs once more a Traitor rear?

Dutch.
Sweet York be patient; hear me gentle Liege. [Kneels.

Bulling.
Rise up, good Aunt.

Dutch.
Not yet, I thee beseech;
For ever will I kneel upon my Knees,
And never see Day that the happy sees,
'Till thou give Joy, until thou bid me Joy,
By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing Boy.

Aum.
Unto my Mother's Prayers, I bend my Knee. [Kneels.

York.
Against them both, my true Joints bended be. [Kneels.

Dutch.
Pleads he in earnest? Look upon his Face;
His Eyes do drop no Tears, his Prayers are in jest;
His Words come from his Mouth, ours from our Breasts:
He prays but faintly, and would be deny'd;
We pray with Heart and Soul, and all beside.
His weary Joints would gladly rise, I know;
Our Knees shall kneel, 'till to the Ground they grow.
His Prayers are full of false Hypocrisie,
Ours of true Zeal, and deep Integrity:
Our Prayers do out-pray his, then let them have
That Mercy, which true Prayers ought to have.

Bulling.
Good Aunt stand up.

Dutch.
Nay, do not say stand up,
But pardon first, and afterwards stand up.
And if I were thy Nurse, thy Tongue to teach,
Pardon should be the first Word of thy Speech.
I never long'd to hear a Word 'till now:
Say pardon, King, let pity teach thee how.
The Word is short, but not so short as sweet,
No Word like Pardon, for Kings Mouths so meet.

York.
Speak it in French, King, say Pardon'ne moy.

Dutch.
Dost thou teach Pardon, Pardon to destroy?
Ah my sowre Husband, my hard-hearted Lord,
That set'st the Word it self, against the Word.
Speak Pardon as 'tis currant in our Land,

The chopping French we do not understand.
Thine Eye begins to speak, set thy Tongue there;
Or in thy piteous Heart, plant thou thine Ear,
That hearing how our Plaints and Prayers do pierce,
Pity may move thee, Pardon to rehearse.

Bulling.
Good Aunt stand up.

Dutch.
I do not sue to stand,
Pardon is all the Suit I have in hand.

Bulling.
I pardon him, as Heav'n shall pardon me.

Dutch.
O happy Vantage of a kneeling Knee;
Yet am I sick for Fear; speak it again,
Twice saying Pardon, doth not pardon twain,
But makes one Pardon strong.

Bulling.
I pardon him with all my Heart.

Dutch.
A God on Earth thou art.

Bulling.
But for our trusty Brother-in-law, the Abbot,
With all the rest of that consorted Crew,
Destruction streight shall dog them at the Heels.
Good Uncle help to order several Powers
To Oxford, or where-e'er these Traitors are:
They shall not live within this World, I swear,
But I will have them once know where.
Uncle farewel, and Cousin adieu;
Your Mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.

Dutch.
Come my old Son, I pray Heav'n make thee new. [Exeunt. Enter Exton and a Servant.

Exton.
Didst thou not mark the King what Words he spake?
Have I no Friend will rid me of this living Fear.
Was it not so?

Serv.
Those were his very Words.

Exton.
Have I no Friend? quoth he; he spake it twice,
And urg'd it twice together; did he not?

Serv.
He did.

Exton.
And speaking it, he wistly look'd on me,
As who shall say, I would thou wert the Man
That would divorce this Terror from my Heart;
Meaning the King at Pomfret. Come, let's go,
I am the King's Friend, and will rid his Foe. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV. A Prison. Enter King Richard.

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 my self,
I cannot do it; yet I'll hammer't 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 intermixt
With Scruples, and do set the Faith it self
Against the Faith; 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 Prison, many People.
And none contented. Sometimes am I King,
Then Treason makes me wish my self 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 Bullingbroke,

And streight am nothing. But what-e'er I am, [Musick.
Nor I, nor any Man, that but Man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, 'till he be eas'd
With being nothing. Musick do I hear?
Ha, ha; keep time: How sower sweet Musick is,
When time is broke, and no Proportion kept?
So is it in the Musick of Mens Lives;
And here have I the Daintiness of Ear,
To hear 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 numbring Clock:
My Thoughts are Minutes; and with Sighs they jar,
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, Hours, and Times: O but my Time
Runs posting on, in Bullingbroke's proud Joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o'th' Clock.
This Musick mads me, let it sound no more;
For though it have holp mad Men to their Wits,
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, in this all-hating World. Enter Groom.

Groom.
Hail, royal Prince.

K. Rich.
Thanks, noble Peer.
The cheapest of us, is ten Groats too dear.
What art thou? and how com'st thou hither,
Where no Man ever comes, but that sad Dog
That brings me Food, to make Misfortune live?

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, sometimes Royal, Master's Face.

O how it yearn'd my Heart, when I beheld
In London Streets, that Coronation Day,
When Bullingbroke rode on roan Barbary;
That Horse, that thou so often hast bestride,
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 had disdain'd the Ground.

K. Rich.
So proud, that Bullingbroke 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 Burthen like an Ass,
Spur-gall'd, and tyr'd by jauncing Bullingbroke. 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 lately came from th' King, commads the contrary.

K. Rich.
The Devil take Henry of Lancaster, and thee;
Patience is stale, and I am veary 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 Deaths Instrument;
Go thou and fill another Room in Hell. [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. SCENE V. Flourish: Enter Bullingbroke, York, with other Lords and Attendants.

Bulling.
Uncle York, the latest News we hear,
Is that the Rebels have comsum'd with Fire
Our Town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;
But whether they be ta'en or slain, we hear not. Enter Northumberland.
Welcome my Lord: What is the News?

North.
First to thy sacred State wish I all Happiness;
The next News is, I have to London sent
The Heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt and Kent,
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursed in this Paper here. [Presenting a Paper.

Bulling.
We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy Pains,
And to thy Worth will add right worthy Gains. Enter Fitz-water.

Fitz.
My Lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
The Heads of Broccas, and Sir Bennet Seely;
Two of the dangerous consorted Traitors,
That sought at Oxford thy dire Overthrow.

Bulling.
Thy Pains, Fitz-water, shall not be forgot,
Right noble is thy Merit, well I wot. Enter Percy and the Bishop of Carlisle.

Percy.
The grand Conspirator Abbot of Westminster,
With clog of Conscience, and sour Melancholly,
Hath yielded up his Body to the Grave;
But here is Carlisle, living to abide
Thy kingly Doom, and Sentence of his Pride.

Bulling.
Carlisle, this is your Doom:
Chuse out some secret Place, some reverend Room

More than thou hast, and with it joy thy self:
So as thou liv'st in Peace, die free from Strife.
For though mine Enemy thou hast ever been,
High Sparks of Honour in thee I have seen. Enter Exton with a Coffin.

Exton.
Great King, within this Coffin I present
Thy bury'd Fear. Herein all breathless lyes
The mightiest of thy greatest Enemies,
Richard of Bourdeaux by me hither brought.

Bulling.
Exton I thank thee not, for thou hast wrought
A Deed of Slaughter with thy fatal Hand,
Upon my Head, and all this famous Land.

Exton.
From your own Mouth, my Lord, did I this Deed.

Bulling.
They love not Poison, that do Poison need;
Nor do I thee, though I did wish him dead;
I hate the Murtherer, love him murthered.
The Guilt of Conscience take thou for thy Labour,
But neither my good Word, nor princely Favour.
With Cain go wander through the Shades of Night,
And never shew thy Head by Day, nor Light.
Lords, I protest my Soul is full of Wo,
That Blood should sprinkle me, and make me grow.
Come mourn with me, for that I do lament,
And put on sullen Black incontinent:
I'll make a Voyage to the Holy-Land,
To wash this Blood off from my guilty Hand.
March sadly after, grace my Mourning here,
In weeping after this untimely Bier. [Exeunt omnes.

Previous section

Next section