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.

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