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.

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