Queen.
What sport shall we devise here in this garden,
To drive away the heavy thought of care?

1 Lady.
Madame, we'll play at bowls.

Queen.
'Twill make me think
The world is full of rubs, and that my fortune
Runs 'gainst the bias.^{3 note}

2 Lady.
Madam, we will 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.

1 Lady.
Madam, we'll tell tales.

Queen.
Of sorrow, or of joy?

1 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^{4 note} to complain.

1 Lady.
Madam, I'll sing.

Queen.
'Tis well, that thou hast cause;
But thou should'st please me better should'st thou weep.

1 Lady.
I could weep, madam, would it do you good.

Queen.
And I could weep, would weeping do me good,
And never borrow any tear of thee.
But stay, here come the gardeners:
Let's step into the shadow of these trees.— Enter a Gardener, and Two Servants.
My wretchedness unto a row of pins,
They'll talk of state; for every one doth so
Against a change: Woe is forerun with woe.^{5 note} [Queen and Ladies retire.

Gar.
Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricots,^{6 note}
Which, like unruly children, make their sire
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight;
You thus employed, I will go root away
The noisome weeds, that without profit suck
The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers.

1 Ser.
Why should we, in the compass of a pale,^{7 note}
Keep law, and form, and due proportion,
When the whole land is full of weeds?

Gar.
Hold thy peace:—
He 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 pluck'd up, root and all, by Bolingbroke;
I mean, the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

1 Ser.
What, are they dead?

Gar.
They are; and Bolingbroke
Hath seiz'd the wasteful king.—Oh! what pity is it,
That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land,
As we this garden! Superfluous branches
We lop away, that bearing boughs may live:
Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,
Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.

1 Ser.
What, think you then, the king shall be depos'd?

Gar.
Depress'd he is already; and depos'd,
'Tis doubt^{8 note} he will be. Letters came last night
To a dear friend of the good Duke of York's,
That tell black tidings.

Queen.
O, I am press'd to death,
Through want of speaking!—Thou, old Adam's likeness, [Coming from her concealment.
Set to dress this garden, how dares
Thy harsh-rude 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 deposed?
Dar'st thou, thou little better thing than earth,
Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how,
Cam'st thou by these ill tidings? speak, thou wretch.

Gar.
Pardon me, madam: little joy have I
To breathe this news; yet, what I say is true.
King Richard, he is in the mighty hold
Of Bolingbroke; their fortunes both are weigh'd:
In your lord's scale is nothing but himself,
But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,
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, thou art so light of foot.
Doth not thy embassage belong to me,

And am I last that knows it? O, 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 woe.—
What, was I born to this! that my sad look
Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?—
Gardener, for telling me this news of woe,
I would, the plants thou graft'st may never grow. [Exeunt Queen and Ladies.

Gar.
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 rue, sour herb of grace:
Rue, even for ruth,^{9 note} here shortly shall be seen,
In the remembrance of a weeping queen. [Exeunt. Scene II. —LONDON. WESTMINSTER HALL. Galleries erected for the Spectators. The Throne at one end. The Lords spiritual and temporal, with the Commons assembled. Sir Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester, bearing a white rod in his hand. Flourish of Trumpets. Enter York, attended.

York.
Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee
From plume-pluck'd Richard; who with willing soul
Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields
To the possession of thy royal hand:
Ascend his throne, descending now from him,—
And long live Henry, of that name the fourth!

Bol.
In Heaven's name, I'll ascend the regal throne. [Bolingbroke is led to the Throne by the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, amidst the applause of the Spectators.^{10 note}

Fetch hither Richard, that in common view
He may surrender; so we shall proceed
Without suspicion.

York.
I will be his conduct.^{11 note} [Exit. Re-enter York, with King Richard,^{12 note} guarded, and Officers bearing the Crown, &c.

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 awhile to tutor me
To this submission. Yet I well remember
The favours of these men:^{13 note} Were they not mine?
Did they not sometime cry “all hail” to me?
To do what service am I sent for thither?

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 Bolingbroke.

K. Rich.
Give me the crown:—Here, cousin, seize the crown;(A)8Q0152
Here, on this side, my hand; on that side, thine.
Now is this golden crown like a deep well,
That owns 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.

Bol.
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.

Bol.
Part of your cares you give me with your crown.

K. Rich.
Your cares set up, do not pluck my cares down.

The cares I give, I have, though given away;
They tend^{14 note} the crown, yet still with me they stay.

Bol.
Are you contented to resign the crown?

K. Rich.
Ay, no;—no, ay;—for I must nothing be;
Therefore, no, no; for I resign to thee.
Now, mark me how I will undo myself:—
I give this heavy weight from off my head,
And this unwieldly sceptre from my hand,
The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;
With mine own tears I wash away my balm,^{15 note}
With mine own hands I give away my crown,
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state;
With mine own breath release all duteous oaths:
All pomp and majesty I do forswear:
My manors, rents, revenues, I forego:
My acts, decrees, and statutes I deny;
Heav'n pardon all oaths, that are broke to me!
Heav'n keep all vows unbroke, are made to thee!
God save King Henry, unking'd Richard says,
And send him many years of sunshine days!
What more remains?

North.
No more, but that you read [Offering a paper.
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.^{16 note}

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 wouldst,^{17 note}
There shouldst 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 heaven.

North.
My lord, despatch; 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^{18 note} of traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,
I find myself a traitor with the rest;
For I have given here my soul's consent,
To undeck the pompous body of a king;
Make glory base; and sovereignty a slave;
Proud majesty, a subject; state, a peasant.

North.
My lord,—

K. Rich.
No lord of thine, thou haught,^{19 note} insulting man,
Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no title,—
No, not that name was given me at the font,—
But 'tis usurped;—Alack the heavy day,
That I have worn so many winters out,
And know not now what name to call myself.
O, that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt myself away in water-drops!—
Good king,—great king,—(and yet not greatly good),
An if my word be sterling yet in England,
Let it command a mirror hither straight;
That it may show me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.

Bol.
Go some of you, and fetch a looking-glass. [Exit an Attendant.

North.
Read o'er this paper, while the glass doth come.

K. Rich.
Fiend! thou torment'st me ere I come to hell.

Bol.
Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

North.
The commons will not then be satisfied.

K. Rich.
They shall be satisfied: I'll read enough,
When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ, and that's—myself.

Re-enter Attendant, 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?—O, flattering glass,
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face,
That, like the sun, did make beholders wink?
Was this the face, that fac'd so many follies,
And was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face:
As brittle as the glory is the face; [Dashes the Glass against the ground.
For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.—
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,—
How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.

Bol.
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 lies all within;
And these external manners of lament
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,
That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul;
There lies 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?

Bol.
Name it, fair cousin.

K. Rich.
Fair cousin? Why, 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.

Bol.
Yet ask.

K. Rich.
And shall I have?

Bol.
You shall.

K. Rich.
Then give me leave to go.

Bol.
Whither?

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

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

K. Rich.
O, good! Convey?—Conveyers are you all,^{20 note}
That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall. [Exeunt King Richard, some Lords, and a Guard.

Bol.
On Wednesday next, we solemnly set down
Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves. [Flourish of Trumpets. END OF ACT FOURTH.

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