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.

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