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.

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