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.

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