Introductory matter

Dramatis Personæ. KING Richard the Second. Duke of York [Edward of Langley], Uncle to the King. John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, Uncle to the King. Bolingbroke [Henry Bolingbroke], Son to John of Gaunt, afterwards King Henry the Fourth. Aumerle [Duke of Aumerle], Son to the Duke of York. Mowbray [Thomas Mowbray], Duke of Norfolk. Earl of Salisbury. Lord Berkley [Earl Berkeley]. Bushy, Servant to King Richard. Bagot, Servant to King Richard. Green, Servant to King Richard. Earl of Northumberland, Friend to Bolingbroke. Percy [Henry Percy], Son to Northumberland, Friend to Bolingbroke. Ross [Lord Ross], Friend to Bolingbroke. Willoughby [Lord Willoughby], Friend to Bolingbroke. Bishop of Carlisle, Friend to King Richard. Sir Stephen Scroop, Friend to King Richard. Fitzwater [Lord Fitzwater], Lord in the Parliament. Surry [Duke of Surrey], Lord in the Parliament. Abbot of Westminster, Lord in the Parliament. Sir Pierce of Exton, Lord in the Parliament. Queen to King Richard. Dutchess of Gloucester [Duchess of Gloucester]. Dutchess of York [Duchess of York]. Ladies [Lady], attending on the Queen. Heralds, two Gardiners, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants. [Lord Marshal], [Herald 1], [Herald 2], [Servant 1], [Captain], [Gardener] SCENE, dispersedly, in several Parts of England.

The LIFE and DEATH of KING RICHARD II. ACT I. SCENE I. The COURT. Enter King Richard, John of Gaunt, with other Nobles and Attendants.

King Richard.
Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd Lancaster,
Hast thou, according to thy oath and bond,
Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son,
Here to make good the boist'rous late Appeal,
Which then our leisure would not let us hear,
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Gaunt.
I have, my liege.

K. Rich.
Tell me moreover, hast thou sounded him,
^{1 note}If he appeal the Duke on ancient malice,

Or worthily, as a good Subject should,
On some known ground of treachery in him?

Gaunt.
As near as I could sift him on that argument,
On some apparent Danger seen in him
Aim'd at your Highness; no invet'rate malice.

K. Rich.
Then call them to our presence; face to face,
And frowning brow to brow, Our selves will hear
Th' accuser, and th' accused freely speak:
High-stomach'd are they Both, and full of ire;
In rage, deaf as the sea; hasty as fire. SCENE II. Enter Bolingbroke and Mowbray.

Boling.
May many years of happy days befal
My gracious Sovereign, my most loving Liege!

Mowb.
Each day still better other's happiness;
Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap,
Add an immortal title to your Crown!

K. Rich.
We thank you both, yet one but flatters us,
As well appeareth by the cause you come;
Namely, t'appeal each other of high Treason.
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Boling.
First (Heaven be the record to my speech!)
In the devotion of a Subject's love,
Tend'ring the precious safety of my Prince,
And free from other mis-begotten hate,
Come I Appellant to this princely presence.
Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,
And mark my Greeting well; for what I speak,
My body shall make good upon this earth,
Or my divine soul answer it in heav'n.
Thou art a traitor and a miscreant;
Too good to be so, and too bad to live;
Since, the more fair and crystal is the Sky,

The uglier seem the Clouds, that in it fly.
Once more, the more to aggravate the Note,
With a foul Traytor's Name stuff I thy throat;
And wish, so please my Sov'reign, ere I move,
What my Tongue speaks, my Right-drawn Sword may prove.

Mowb.
Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal;
'Tis not the tryal of a woman's war,
The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,
Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;
The blood is hot, that must be cool'd for this.
Yet can I not of such tame patience boast,
As to be husht, and nought at all to say.
First, the fair Rev'rence of your Highness curbs me,
From giving reins and spurs to my free speech;
Which else would post, until it had return'd
These terms of Treason doubled down his throat.
Setting aside his high blood's Royalty,
And let him be no kinsman to my Liege,
I do defie him, and I spit at him;
Call him a sland'rous coward, and a villain;
Which to maintain, I would allow him odds,
And meet him, were I ty'd to run a-foot
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground inhabitable,
Where never Englishman durst set his foot.
Mean time, let this defend my Loyalty;
By all my hopes, most falsly doth he lie.

Boling.
Pale trembling Coward, there I throw my Gage,
Disclaiming here the kindred of a King,
And lay aside my high blood's Royalty:
(Which fear, not rev'rence, makes thee to except:)
If guilty Dread hath left thee so much strength,
As to take up mine Honour's pawn, then stoop.
By that, and all the rights of Knighthood else,
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,

What I have spoken, or thou canst devise.

Mowb.
I take it up, and by that Sword I swear,
Which gently laid my Knighthood on my shoulder,
I'll answer thee in any fair degree,
Or chivalrous design of knightly tryal;
And when I mount, alive may I not light,
If I be traitor, or unjustly fight!

K. Rich.
What doth our Cousin lay to Mowbray's charge?
It must be great, ^{2 note}that can inhabit us
So much as of a thought of Ill in him.

Boling.
Look, what I said, my life shall prove it true;
That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles,
In name of lendings for your Highness' soldiers,
The which he hath detain'd for lewd imployments;
Like a false traitor and injurious villain.
Besides, I say, and will in battel prove,
Or here, or elsewhere, to the furthest verge,
That ever was survey'd by English eye;
That all the treasons for these eighteen years,
Complotted and contrived in this Land,
Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.
Further, I say, and further will maintain
Upon his bad Life to make all This good,
That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death;
Suggest his soon-believing adversaries;
And consequently, like a traitor-coward,
Sluic'd out his inn'cent soul through streams of blood;
Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries
Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,
To me, for justice, and rough chastisement.
And by the glorious Worth of my Descent,
This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

K. Rich.
How high a pitch his resolution soars!
Thomas of Norfolk, what say'st thou to this?

Mowb.
O, let my Sovereign turn away his face,
And bid his ears a little while be deaf,
Till I have told this Slander of his blood,
How God and good men hate so foul a liar.

K. Rich.
Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears.
Were he our brother, nay, our Kingdom's heir,
As he is but our father's brother's son;
Now by my Scepter's awe, I make a vow,
Such neighbour-nearness to our sacred blood
Should nothing priv'lege him, nor partialize
Th' unstooping firmness of my upright soul.
He is our Subject, Mowbray, so art thou;
Free speech, and fearless, I to thee allow.

Mowb.
Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,
Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest!
Three parts of that Receipt I had for Calais,
Disburst I to his Highness' soldiers;
The other part reserv'd I by consent,
For that my sovereign Liege was in my debt;
Upon remainder of a dear account,
Since last I went to France to fetch his Queen.
Now, swallow down that Lie.—For Gloucester's death,
I slew him not; but, to mine own disgrace,
Neglected my sworn duty in that case.
For you, my noble lord of Lancaster,
The honourable father to my foe,
Once did I lay an ambush for your life,
A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul;
But ere I last receiv'd the Sacrament,
I did confess it, and exactly begg'd
Your Grace's pardon; and, I hope, I had it.
This is my fault; as for the rest appeal'd,
It issues from the rancor of a villain,
A recreant and most degen'rate traitor:
Which in my self I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurle down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot;

To prove my self a loyal gentleman,
Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom.
In haste whereof, most heartily I pray
Your Highness to assign our tryal-day.

K. Rich.
Wrath-kindled Gentlemen, be rul'd by me;
Let's purge this Choler without letting blood:
^{3 note}This we prescribe, though no physician;
Deep malice makes too deep incision:
Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed;
Our Doctors say, this is no time to bleed.
Good Uncle, let this end where it begun;
We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your Son.

Gaunt.
To be a make-peace shall become my age;
Throw down, my Son, the Duke of Norfolk's gage.

K. Rich.
And, Norfolk, throw down his.

Gaunt.
When, Harry, when?
Obedience bids, I should not bid again.

K. Rich.
Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot.

Mowb.
My self I throw, dread Sovereign, at thy foot.
My life thou shalt command, but not my Shame;
The one my duty owes; but my fair Name,
(Despight of death, That lives upon my Grave,)
To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have.
I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here,
Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear:
The which no balme can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath'd this poison.

K. Rich.
Rage must be withstood:
Give me his gage: Lions make Leopards tame.

Mowb.
Yea, but not change their spots: take but my shame,
And I resign my gage. My dear, dear lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford,
Is spotless Reputation; That away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times-barr'd-up chest,
Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.
Mine Honour is my life, both grow in one;
Take honour from me, and my life is done.
Then, dear my Liege, mine honour let me try;
In That I live, and for That will I die.

K. Rich.
Cousin, throw down your gage; do you begin.

Boling.
Oh, heav'n defend my soul from such foul sin!
Shall I seem crest-fall'n in my father's sight,
^{4 note}Or with pale beggar face impeach my height,
Before this out-dar'd Dastard? Ere my tongue
Shall wound my Honour with such feeble wrong,
Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear
^{5 note}The slavish motive of recanting fear,
And spit it bleeding, in his high disgrace,
Where shame doth harbour, ev'n in Mowbray's face. [Exit Gaunt.

K. Rich.
We were not born to sue, but to command,
Which since we cannot do to make you friends,
Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,
At Coventry upon Saint Lambert's day.
There shall your Swords and Lances arbitrate
The swelling diff'rence of your settled hate:

Since we cannot atone you, you shall see
Justice decide the Victor's Chivalry.
Lord Marshal, bid our officers at Arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Changes to the Duke of Lancaster's Palace. Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucester.

Gaunt.
Alas! the part I had in Glo'ster's blood
Doth more sollicit me, than your Exclaims,
To stir against the butchers of his life.
But since correction lyeth in those hands,
Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our Quarrel to the Will of heav'n;
Who when it sees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.

Dutch.
Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's sev'n sons, whereof thy self art one,
Were as sev'n vials of his sacred blood;
Or sev'n fair branches, springing from one root:
Some of those sev'n are dry'd by Nature's Course;
Some of those branches by the Dest'nies cut:
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Glo'ster,
(One vial, full of Edward's sacred blood;
One flourishing branch of his most royal root;)
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;
Is hackt down, and his summer leaves all faded,
By Envy's hand and Murder's bloody axe!
Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine; that bed, that womb,
That metal, that self-mould that fashion'd thee;
Made him a man; and though thou liv'st and breath'st,
Yet art thou slain in him; thou dost consent
In some large measure to thy father's death;
In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,

Who was the model of thy father's life;
Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair.
In suff'ring thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,
Thou shew'st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murther how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we entitle Patience,
Is pale cold Cowardise in noble breasts,
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Glo'ster's death.

Gaunt.
God's is the Quarrel; for God's Substitute,
His Deputy anointed in his sight,
Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully,
Let God revenge, for I may never lift
An angry arm against his Minister.

Dutch.
Where then, alas, may I complain my self?

Gaunt.
To heav'n, the widow's Champion and Defence.

Dutch.
Why then, I will: farewel, old Gaunt, farewel.
Thou go'st to Coventry, there to behold
Our Cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear,
That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast!
Or, if misfortune miss the first career,
Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom,
That they may break his foaming Courser's back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!
Farewel, old Gaunt; thy sometime brother's wife
With her companion Grief must end her life.

Gaunt.
Sister, farewel; I must to Coventry.
As much Good stay with thee, as go with me!

Dutch.
Yet one word more; grief boundeth where it falls,
Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:
I take my leave, before I have begun;
For Sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
Commend me to my brother, Edmund York:

Lo, this is all—nay, yet depart not so;
Though this be all, do not so quickly go:
I shall remember more. Bid him—oh, what?
With all good speed at Plashie visit me.
Alack, and what shall good old York see there
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Un-peopled offices, untrodden stones?
And what hear there for welcome, but my groans?
Therefore commend me,—let him not come there
To seek out sorrow that dwells every where;
All desolate, will I from hence, and die;
The last Leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. The Lists, at Coventry. Enter the Lord Marshal, and the Duke of Aumerle.

Mar.
My lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd?

Aum.
Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.

Mar.
The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,
Stays but the Summons of th' Appellant's trumpet.

Aum.
Why, then the Champions are prepar'd, and stay
For nothing but his Majesty's approach. [Flourish. The trumpets sound, and the King enters with his Nobles: when they are set, Enter the Duke of Norfolk in arms, Defendant.

K. Rich.
Marshal, demand of yonder Champion
The cause of his arrival here in arms;
Ask him his name, and orderly proceed
To swear him in the justice of his Cause.

Mar.
In God's name and the King's, say who thou art? [To Mowb.
And why thou com'st, thus knightly clad in arms?

Against what man thou com'st, and what thy quarrel?
Speak truly on thy Knighthood, and thine Oath,
And so defend thee heaven, and thy valour!

Mowb.
My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
Who hither come engaged by my oath,
(Which, heav'n defend, a Knight should violate!)
Both to defend my Loyalty and Truth,
To God, my King, and my succeeding Issue,
Against the Duke of Hereford, that apeals me;
And by the grace of God, and this mine arm,
To prove him, in defending of my self,
A traitor to my God, my King, and me;
And, as I truly fight, defend me heav'n! The trumpets sound. Enter Bolingbroke, Appellant, in armour.

K. Rich.
Marshal, ask yonder Knight in arms,
Both who he is, and why he cometh hither,
Thus plated in habiliments of war:
And formally, according to our Law,
Depose him in the justice of his Cause.

Mar.
What is thy name, and wherefore com'st thou hither,
Before King Richard, in his royal Lists? [To Boling.
Against whom comest thou? and what's thy Quarrel?
Speak like a true Knight, so defend thee heav'n!

Boling.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby
Am I, who ready here do stand in arms,
To prove, by heav'n's grace and my body's valour,
In Lists, on Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolk,
That he's a traitor foul and dangerous,
To God of heav'n, King Richard, and to me;
And, as I truly fight, defend me heav'n!

Mar.
On pain of death, no person be so bold,
Or daring-hardy, as to touch the Lists,
Except the Marshal, and such Officers
Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Boling.
Lord Marshal, let me kiss my Sovereign's hand,

And bow my knee before his Majesty:
For Mowbray and my self are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;
Then let us take a ceremonious Leave,
And loving Farewel, of our several friends.

Mar.
Th' Appellant in all duty greets your Highness, [To K. Rich.
And craves to kiss your hand, and take his leave.

K. Rich.
We will descend and fold him in our arms.
Cousin of Hereford, as thy Cause is right,
So be thy Fortune in this royal fight!
Farewel, my Blood; which if to day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

Boling.
Oh, let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear:
As confident, as is the Faulcon's flight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.
My loving lord, I take my leave of you,
Of you, my noble Cousin, lord Aumerle.
Not sick, although I have to do with Death;
But lusty, young, and chearly drawing Breath.—
Lo, as at English Feasts, so I regreet
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet:
Oh thou! the earthly author of my blood, [To Gaunt.
Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up
To reach at Victory above my head,
Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers;
And with thy Blessings steel my Lance's point,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen Coat,
And furbish new the Name of John o' Gaunt
Ev'n in the lusty 'haviour of his son.

Gaunt.
Heav'n in thy good Cause make thee prosperous!
Be swift like Lightning in the execution,
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing thunder on the Casque
Of thy adverse pernicious enemy.

Rouze up thy youthful blood, be brave and live.

Boling.
Mine innocence, God and St. George to thrive!

Mowb.
However heav'n or fortune cast my lot,
There lives, or dies, true to King Richard's Throne,
A loyal, just and upright Gentleman:
Never did Captive with a freer heart
Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace
His golden uncontroul'd enfranchisement,
More than my dancing soul doth celebrate
This Feast of battle, with mine adversary.
Most mighty Liege, and my companion Peers,
Take from my mouth the wish of happy years;
^{6 note}As gentle and as jocund, as to just,
Go I to fight: Truth hath a quiet breast.

K. Rich.
Farewel, my lord; securely I espy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.
Order the tryal, Marshal, and begin.

Mar.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Receive thy Lance; and heav'n defend thy Right!

Boling.
Strong as a tower in hope, I cry Amen.

Mar.
Go bear this Lance to Thomas Duke of Norfolk.

1 Her.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Stands here for God, his Sovereign and Himself,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A traitor to his God, his King, and him;
And dares him to set forward to the fight.

2 Her.
Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
Both to defend himself, and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
To God, his Sovereign, and to him, disloyal:

Courageously, and with a free desire,
Attending but the Signal to begin. [A Charge sounded.

Mar.
Sound, Trumpets; and set forward, Combatants.
—But stay, the King hath thrown his warder down.

K. Rich.
Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,
And Both return back to their chairs again:
Withdraw with us, and let the trumpets sound,
While we return these Dukes what we decree. [A long Flourish; after which, the King speaks to the Combatants.
Draw near;—
And list, what with our Council we have done.
For that our Kingdom's earth should not be soil'd
With that dear blood, which it hath fostered;
And, for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbour swords;
[^{7 note}And for we think, the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts
With rival-hating Envy set you on,
^{8 note}

Therefore, we banish you our Territories.
You cousin Hereford, on pain of death,
Till twice five Summers have enrich'd our fields,
Shall not regreet our fair Dominions,
But tread the stranger paths of Banishment.

Boling.
Your will be done: this must my comfort be,
That Sun, that warms you here, shall shine on me:
And those his golden beams, to you here lent,
Shall point on me, and gild my Banishment.

K. Rich.
Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier Doom,
Which I with some unwillingness pronounce.
The fly-slow hours shall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear exile:
The hopeless word, of never to return,
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

Mowb.
A heavy Sentence, my most sovereign Liege,
And all unlook'd for from your Highness' mouth:

A dearer merit, not so deep a maim,
As to be cast forth in the common air,
Have I deserved at your Highness' hands.
The language I have learn'd these forty years,
My native English, now I must forego;
&wlquo;And now my tongue's use is to me no more,
&wlquo;Than an unstringed viol, or a harp;
&wlquo;Or, like a cunning Instrument cas'd up,
&wlquo;Or being open, put into his hands
&wlquo;That knows no touch to tune the harmony.&wrquo;
Within my mouth you have engoal'd my tongue,
Doubly port-cullis'd with my Teeth and Lips:
And dull, unfeeling, barren Ignorance
Is made my Goaler to attend on me.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a Pupil now:
What is thy Sentence then, but speechless death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

K. Rich.
^{9 note}It boots thee not to be compassionate;
After our Sentence, Plaining comes too late.

Mowb.
Then thus I turn me from my Country's light,
To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.

K. Rich.
Return again, and take an oath with ye.
Lay on our royal Sword your banish'd hands;
Swear by the duty that you owe to heav'n,
^{1 note}(Our part therein we banish with your selves,)
To keep the oath that we administer:
You never shall, (so help you truth, and heav'n!)
Embrace each other's love in Banishment;

Nor ever look upon each other's face,
Nor ever write, regreet, or reconcile
This low'ring tempest of your home-bred hate;
Nor ever by advised purpose meet,
To plot, contrive, or complot any Ill,
'Gainst us, our State, our Subjects, or our Land.

Boling.
I swear.

Mowb.
And I, to keep all this.

Boling.
Norfolk, so far, as to mine enemy:—
By this time, had the King permitted us,
One of our souls had wandred in the air,
Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our flesh,
As now our flesh is banish'd from this Land,
Confess thy treasons, ere thou fly this Realm;
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty soul.

Mowb.
No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,
My Name be blotted from the Book of life,
And I from heav'n banish'd as from hence!
But what thou art, heav'n, thou, and I do know,
And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue.
Farewel, my Liege; now no way can I stray,
Save back to England; all the world's my way. [Exit. SCENE V.

K. Rich.
Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
I see thy grieved heart, thy sad aspect
Hath from the number of his banish'd years
Pluck'd four away; six frozen winters spent,
Return with Welcome home from Banishment.

Boling.
How long a time lies in one little word!
Four lagging Winters, and four wanton Springs,
End in a word; such is the Breath of Kings.

Gaunt.
I thank my Liege, that in regard of me
He shortens four years of my son's exile:
But little vantage shall I reap thereby;

For ere the six years, that he hath to spend,
Can change their moons and bring their times about,
My oyl-dry'd lamp, and time-bewasted light,
Shall be extinct with age, and endless night:
My inch of taper will be burnt and done:
And blindfold death not let me see my son.

K. Rich.
Why, uncle? thou hast many years to live.

Gaunt.
But not a minute, King, that thou canst give;
Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow,
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;
Thou canst help time to furrow me with age,
But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;
Thy word is currant with him, for my death;
But dead, thy Kingdom cannot buy my breath.

K. Rich.
Thy son is banish'd upon good advice,
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave;
Why at our justice seem'st thou then to low'r?

Gaunt.
Things, sweet to taste, prove in digestion sow'r:
You urg'd me as a judge; but I had rather,
You would have bid me argue like a father.
O, had it been a stranger, not my child,
To smooth his Fault, I would have been more mild:
Alas, I look'd, when some of you should say,
I was too strict to make mine own away:
But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue,
Against my will, to do my self this wrong.
^{2 note}A partial slander sought I to avoid,
And in the Sentence my own life destroy'd.

K. Rich.
Cousin, farewel; and, uncle, bid him so:
Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [Flourish. [Exit. SCENE VI.

Aum.
Cousin, farewel; what presence must not know,
From where you do remain, let paper show.

Mar.
My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride
As far as land will let me, by your side.

Gaunt.
Oh, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou return'st no Greeting to thy friends?

Boling.
I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the tongue's office should be prodigal,
To breathe th' abundant dolour of the heart.

Gaunt.
Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

Boling.
Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

Gaunt.
What is six winters? they are quickly gone.

Boling.
To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.

Gaunt.
Call it a Travel, that thou tak'st for pleasure.

Boling.
My heart will sigh, when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.

Gaunt.
The sullen passage of thy weary steps
Esteem a foil, wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home-return.

Boling.
Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious stride I make
Will but remember me, what a deal of World
I wander from the Jewels that I love.
Must I not serve a long Apprentice-hood,
To foreign passages, and in the End
Having my Freedom, boast of Nothing else
But that I was a Journeyman to Grief?

Gaunt.
^{3 note}All Places that the Eye of Heaven visits,
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus:
There is no virtue like necessity.
Think not, the King did banish Thee;
But Thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit,
Where it perceives It is but faintly borne.
Go say, I sent thee forth to purchase honour,
And not, the King exil'd thee. Or suppose,
Devouring Pestilence hangs in our air,

And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagin it
To lye that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'st.
Suppose the singing birds, musicians;
The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence-floor;
The flow'rs, fair ladies; and thy steps, no more
Than a delightful measure, or a dance.
For gnarling Sorrow hath less Pow'r to bite
The Man, that mocks at it, and sets it light.

Boling.
Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastick Summer's heat?
Oh, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse;
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.

Gaunt.
Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way;
Had I thy Youth, and Cause, I would not stay.

Boling.
Then, England's Ground, farewel; sweet soil, adieu,
My mother and my nurse, which bears me yet.
Where-e'er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banish'd; yet a true-born Englishman. [Exeunt. SCENE VII. Changes to the Court. Enter King Richard, and Bagot, &c. at one door; and the Lord Aumerle, at the other.

K. Rich.
We did, indeed, observe—Cousin Aumerle,
How far brought you high Hereford on his way?

Aum.
I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,
But to the next High-way, and there I left him.

K. Rich.
And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

Aum.
'Faith, none by me; except the north-east wind,
(Which then blew bitterly against our faces)
Awak'd the sleepy rheume; and so by chance
Did grace our hollow Parting with a tear.

K. Rich.
What said your cousin, when you parted with him?

Aum.
Farewel.
And, for my heart disdained that my tongue
Should so prophane the word, That taught me craft
To counterfeit oppression of such grief,
That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's Grave.
Marry, would the word farewel have lengthen'd hours,
And added years to his short Banishment,
He should have had a volume of farewels;
But, since it would not, he had none of me.

K. Rich.
He is our kinsman, Cousin; but 'tis doubt,
When time shall call him home from Banishment,
Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.
Our self, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green,
Observ'd his Courtship to the common people:
How he did seem to dive into their hearts,
With humble and familiar courtesie?
What reverence he did throw away on slaves;
Wooing poor crafts-men with the craft of smiles,
And patient under-bearing of his fortune:
As 'twere to banish their Affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
A brace of dray-men bid, God speed him well!
And had the tribute of his supple knee;
With,—Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends;
As were our England in reversion his,
And he our Subjects' next degree in hope.

Green.
Well, he is gone, and with him go these thoughts.—
Now for the Rebels, which stand out in Ireland,
Expedient Manage must be made, my Liege;
Ere further leisure yield them further means
For their advantage, and your Highness' loss.

K Rich.
We will our self in person to this war;
And, for our coffers with too great a Court,
And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,
We are inforc'd to farm our royal Realm,
The Revenue whereof shall furnish us
For our affairs in hand; if they come short,
Our Substitutes at home shall have blank charters:
Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,
They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold,
And send them after to supply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland presently. Enter Bushy.

K. Rich.
Bushy, what news?

Bushy.
Old John of Gaunt is sick, my lord,
Suddenly taken, and hath sent post-haste
T'intreat your Majesty to visit him.

K. Rich.
Where lyes he?

Bushy.
At Ely-house.

K. Rich.
Now put it, heav'n, in his physician's mind,
To help him to his Grave immediately:
The lining of his coffers shall make coats
To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.
Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him:
Pray heav'n, we may make haste, and come too late! [Exeunt.

ACT II. SCENE I. ELY-HOUSE. Gaunt brought in, sick; with the Duke of York.

Gaunt.
Will the King come, that I may breathe my last
In wholesome counsel to his unstay'd youth?

York.
Vex not your self, nor strive not with your breath;
For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.

Gaunt.
Oh, but, they say, the tongues of dying men
Inforce attention, like deep harmony:
Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent in vain;
For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain.
He, that no more must say, is listen'd more
Than they, whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
More are men's ends mark'd, than their lives before:
The setting Sun,—and musick in the close.—
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last;
Writ in remembrance, more than things long past;
Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,
My death's sad Tale may yet undeaf his ear.

York.
His ear is stopt with other flatt'ring charms,
As praises of his State; there are, beside,
Lascivious meeters, to whose venom'd sound
The open ear of youth doth always listen:
Report of Fashions in proud Italy,
Whose manners still our tardy, apish, Nation
Limps after, in base aukward imitation.
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
(So it be new, there's no respect how vile,)
That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?

Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,
Where Will doth mutiny with wit's regard.
Direct not him, whose way himself will chuse;
'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

Gaunt.
Methinks, I am a prophet new-inspir'd,
And, thus expiring, do foretel of him,
His rash, fierce blaze of riot cannot last;
For violent fires soon burn out themselves.
Small show'rs last long, but sudden storms are short;
He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding, food doth choak the feeder;
Light vanity, insatiate Cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon it self.
The royal Throne of Kings, this scepter'd Isle,
This Earth of Majesty, this Seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demy Paradise,
This fortress, built by Nature for her self,
Against infection, and the hand of war;
This happy Breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier Lands;
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal Kings,
Fear'd for their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds, as far from home
For christian service and true chivalry,
As is the Sepulchre in stubborn Jury
Of the world's Ransom, blessed Mary's Son;
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear Land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leas'd out, (I dye, pronouncing it)
Like to a Tenement, or pelting Farm.
England, bound in with the triumphant Sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watry Neptune, is bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment-bonds.

That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful Conquest of it self.
Ah! would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death! SCENE II. Enter King Richard, Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Ross, and Willoughby.

York.
The King is come, deal mildly with his youth,
For young hot colts, being rag'd, do rage the more.

Queen.
How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?

K. Rich.
What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt?

Gaunt.
Oh, how that Name befits my composition!
Old Gaunt, indeed, and gaunt in being old:
Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;
And who abstains from meat, that is not gaunt?
For sleeping England long time have I watch'd,
Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt:
The pleasure, that some fathers feed upon,
Is my strict fast; I mean, my children's looks;
And, therein fasting, thou hast made me gaunt;
Gaunt am I for the Grave, gaunt as a Grave,
Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.

K. Rich.
Can sick-men play so nicely with their names?

Gaunt.
No, misery makes sport to mock it self:
Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,
I mock my name, great King, to flatter thee.

K. Rich.
Should dying men flatter those that live?

Gaunt.
No, no, men living flatter those that die.

K. Rich.
Thou, now a dying, say'st, thou flatter'st me.

Gaunt.
Oh! no, thou dyest, though I sicker be.

K. Rich.
I am in health, I breathe, I see thee ill.

Gaunt.
Now he, that made me, knows, I see thee ill.

Ill in my self, but seeing thee too, ill.
Thy death-bed is no lesser than the Land,
Wherein thou liest in Reputation sick;
And thou, too careless Patient as thou art,
Giv'st thy anointed body to the cure
Of those physicians, that first wounded thee:
A thousand flatt'rers sit within thy Crown,
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head,
^{1 note}And yet incaged in so small a verge,
Thy waste is no whit lesser than thy Land.
Oh, had thy Grandsire, with a prophet's eye,
Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons;
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,
Deposing thee before thou wert possest;
Who art possess'd now, to depose thy self.
Why, Cousin, wert thou Regent of the world,
It were a shame to let this Land by lease:
But for thy world enjoying but this Land,
Is it not more than shame, to shame it so?
Landlord of England art thou now, not King:
^{2 note}Thy state of law is bondslave to the law;
And Thou—

K. Rich.
And thou, a lunatick lean-witted fool,
Presuming on an ague's privilege,
Dar'st with thy frozen admonition
Make pale our cheek; chasing the royal blood
With fury from his native residence.
Now by my Seat's right-royal Majesty,
Wert thou not Brother to Great Edward's son,

This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head,
Should run thy head from thy unreverend shoulders.

Gaunt.
Oh, spare me not, my brother Edward's son,
For that I was his father Edward's son.
That blood already, like the Pelican,
Hast thou tapt out, and drunkenly carows'd.
My brother Glo'ster, plain well-meaning soul,
(Whom fair befal in heav'n 'mong'st happy souls!)
May be a precedent and witness good,
That thou respects not spilling Edward's blood.
Join with the present Sickness that I have,
And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too-long-wither'd flower.
Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!
These words hereafter thy tormentors be!
Convey me to my Bed, then to my Grave:
Love they to live, that love and honour have. [Exit, borne out.

K. Rich.
And let them die, that Age and Sullens have;
For both hast thou, and both become the Grave.

York.
I do beseech your Majesty, impute
His words to wayward sickliness, and age:
He loves you, on my life; and holds you dear
As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.

K. Rich.
Right, you say true; as Hereford's love, so his;
As theirs, so mine; and all be, as it is. SCENE III. Enter Northumberland.

North.
My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty.

K. Rich.
What says old Gaunt?

North.
Nay, nothing; all is said:
His tongue is now a stringless instrument,
Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

York.
Be York the next, that must be bankrupt so!
Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich.
The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he;
His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be:
So much for that.—Now for our Irish wars;
We must supplant those rough rug-headed Kerns,
Which live like venom, where no venom else,
But only they, have privilege to live.
And, for these great affairs do ask some charge,
Towards our assistance we do seize to us.
The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possest.

York.
How long shall I be patient? Oh, how long
Shall tender Duty make me suffer wrong?
Not Glo'ster's death, not Hereford's Banishment,
Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,
Have ever made me sow'r my patient cheek;
Or bend one wrinkle on my Sovereign's face.
I am the last of noble Edward's sons,
Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first:
In war, was never Lion rag'd more fierce;
In peace, was never gentle Lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely Gentleman;
His face thou hast, for even so look'd he,
Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours.
But when he frown'd, it was against the French,
And not against his friends: His noble hand
Did win what he did spend; and spent not That,
Which his triumphant father's hand had won.
His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.

Oh, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,
Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich.
Why, uncle, what's the matter?

York.
O my Liege,
Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas'd
Not to be pardon'd, am content withal.
Seek you to seize, and gripe into your hands,
The Royalties and Rights of banish'd Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir?
Is not his heir a well-deserving son?
Take Hereford's Rights away, and take from time
His Charters, and his customary Rights.
Let not to-morow then ensue to day;
Be not thy self.—For how art thou a King,
But by fair sequence and succession?
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's Right,
Call in his letters patents that he hath,
By his attorneys-general to sue
His livery, and deny his offer'd homage;
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head;
You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts;
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts,
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich.
Think what you will; we seize into our hands
His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.

York.
I'll not be by, the while; my Liege, farewel:
What will ensue hereof, there's none can tell.
But by bad courses may be understood,
That their events can never fall out good. [Exit.

K. Rich.
Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight,
Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,
To see this business done: To morrow next
We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow.
And we create, in absence of our self,

Our uncle York Lord-governor of England:
For he is just, and always lov'd us well.
Come on, our Queen; to morrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of Stay is short. [Flourish. [Exeunt, King, Queen, &c. SCENE IV. Manent Northumberland, Willoughby, and Ross.

North.
Well, Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.

Ross.
And living too, for now his son is Duke.

Willo.
Barely in title, not in revenue.

North.
Richly in both, if justice had her right.

Ross.
My heart is great; but it must break with silence,
Ere't be disburthen'd with a lib'ral tongue.

North.
Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more,
That speaks thy words again to do thee harm.

Willo.
Tends, what you'd speak, to the Duke of Hereford?
If it be so, out with it boldly, man:
Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.

Ross.
No good at all that I can do for him,
Unless you call it good to pity him,
Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

North.
Now, afore heav'n, it's shame, such wrongs are borne
In him a royal Prince, and many more
Of noble blood in this declining Land;
The King is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers; and what they will inform
Merely in hate 'gainst any of us all,
That will the King severely prosecute
'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.

Ross.
The Commons hath he pill'd with grievous Taxes,

And lost their hearts; the Nobles he hath fin'd
For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.

Willo.
And daily new exactions are devis'd;
As Blanks, Benevolences, I wot not what?
But what o' God's name doth become of this?

North.
Wars have not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not,
But basely yielded upon compromise
That, which his Ancestors atchiev'd with blows:
More hath he spent in peace, than they in wars.

Ross.
The Earl of Wiltshire hath the Realm in farm.

Willo.
The King's grown bankrupt, like a broken man.

North.
Reproach, and dissolution, hangeth over him.

Ross.
He hath not mony for these Irish wars,
(His burthenous taxations notwithstanding)
But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.

North.
His noble Kinsman—most degenerate King!
But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm:
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

Ross.
We see the very wreck, that we must suffer;
And unavoided is the danger now,
For suff'ring so the causes of our wreck.

North.
Not so: ev'n through the hollow eyes of Death
I spy life peering; but I dare not say,
How near the tidings of our comfort is.

Willo.
Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours.

Ross.
Be confident to speak, Northumberland;
We three are but thy self, and speaking so,
Thy words are but as thoughts, therefore be bold.

North.
Then thus, my friends. I have from Port le Blanc,
A bay in Bretagne, had intelligence,
That Harry Hereford, Rainald lord Cobham,
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,

His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Rainston,
Sir John Norberie, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Coines,
All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Bretagne,
With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And shortly mean to touch our northern shore;
Perhaps, they had ere this; but that they stay
The first departing of the King for Ireland.
If then we shall shake off our slavish yoak,
Imp out our drooping Country's broken wing,
Redeem from broking Pawn the blemish'd Crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our Scepter's gilt,
And make high Majesty look like it self:
Away with me in post to Ravenspurg.
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay, and be secret, and my self will go.

Ross.
To horse, to horse; urge Doubts to them that fear.

Willo.
Hold out my horse, and I will first be there. [Exeunt. SCENE V. The COURT. Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot.

Bushy.
Madam, your Majesty is much too sad:
You promis'd, when you parted with the King,
To lay aside self-harming heaviness,
And entertain a chearful disposition.

Queen.
To please the King, I did; to please my self,
I cannot do it; yet I know no cause,
Why I should welcome such a guest as grief;
Save bidding farewel to so sweet a Guest
As my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks,
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb,

Is coming tow'rd me; and my inward soul
^{3 note}
With something trembles, yet at nothing grieves,
More than with parting from my lord the King.

Bushy.
Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,
Which shew like grief it self, but are not so:
For sorrow's eye, glaz'd with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire, to many objects;
^{4 note}

Like Perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon,
Shew nothing but confusion; ey'd awry,
Distinguish form.—So your sweet Majesty,
Looking awry upon your lord's departure,
Finds shapes of grief, more than himself, to wail;
Which look'd on, as it is, is nought but shadows
Of what it is not; gracious Queen, then weep not
More than your lord's departure; more's not seen:
Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye,
Which, for things true, weeps things imaginary.

Queen.
It may be so; but yet my inward soul
Persuades me otherwise: howe'er it be,
I cannot but be sad; so heavy-sad,
As, though, on thinking, on no thought I think,
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

Bushy.
'Tis nothing but Conceit, my gracious lady.

Queen.
'Tis nothing less; Conceit is still deriv'd
From some fore-father grief; mine is not so;

For nothing hath begot my something grief;
Or something hath, the nothing that I grieve;
'Tis in reversion That I do possess;
But what it is, that is not yet known, what
I cannot name, 'tis nameless woe, I wot. SCENE VI. Enter Green.

Green.
Heav'n save your Majesty! and well met, gentlemen:
I hope, the King is not yet shipt for Ireland.

Queen.
Why hop'st thou so? 'tis better hope, he is:
For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope:
Then wherefore dost thou hope, he is not shipt?

Green.
That he, our hope, might have retir'd his Power;
And driv'n into despair an enemy's Hope,
Who strongly hath set footing in this Land.
The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself;
And with uplifted arms is safe arriv'd
At Ravenspurg.

Queen.
Now God in heav'n forbid!

Green.
O, Madam, 'tis too true; and what is worse,
The lord Northumberland, his young son Percy,
The lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,
With all their pow'rful friends, are fled to him.

Bushy.
Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland,
And all of that revolted faction, traitors?

Green.
We have: whereon the Earl of Worcester
Hath broke his staff, resign'd his Stewardship;
And all the houshold servants fled with him
To Bolingbroke.

Queen.
So, Green, thou art the midwife of my woe,
And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir:
Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy,
And I, a gasping new-deliver'd mother,

Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow, join'd.

Bushy.
Despair not, Madam.

Queen.
Who shall hinder me?
I will despair, and be at enmity
With cozening hope; he is a flatterer,
A parasite, a keeper back of death;
Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,
Which false hopes linger, in extremity. SCENE VII. Enter York.

Green.
Here comes the Duke of York.

Queen.
With signs of war about his aged neck;
Oh, full of careful business are his looks!
Uncle, for heav'n's sake, comfortable words.

York.
^{5 note}Should I do so, I should bely my thoughts;
Comfort's in heav'n, and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but Crosses, Care, and Grief.
Your husband he is gone to save far off,
Whilst others come to make him lose at home.
Here am I left to underprop this Land;
Who, weak with age, cannot support my self.
Now comes the sick hour, that his surfeit made;
Now shall he try his friends, that flatter'd him. Enter a Servant.

Serv.
My lord, your son was gone before I came.

York.
He was; why, so, go all, which way it will:
The Nobles they are fled, the Commons cold,
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.
Get thee to Plashie, to my sister Glo'ster;
Bid her send presently a thousand pound:
Hold, take my ring.

Serv.
My lord, I had forgot
To tell, to day I came by, and call'd there;
But I shall grieve you to report the rest.

York.
What is't?

Serv.
An hour before I came, the Dutchess dy'd.

York.
Heav'n for his mercy, what a tide of woes
Come rushing on this woful land at once!
I know not what to do: I would to heav'n,
(So my untruth had not provok'd him to it)
The King had cut off my head with my brother's.
What, are there posts dispatch'd for Ireland?
How shall we do for mony for these wars?
Come, sister; (cousin, I would say;) pray, pardon me.
Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts, [To the Servant.
And bring away the armour that is there.
Gentlemen, will you go and muster men?
If I know how to order these affairs,
Disorderly thus thrust into my hands,
Never believe me. They are both my kinsmen;
The one my Sovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bids defend; th' other again
My kinsman is, One whom the King hath wrong'd;
Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right,
Well, somewhat we must do: come, cousin, I'll
Dispose of you. Go muster up your men,
And meet me presently at Berkley castle:
I should to Plashie too;—
But time will not permit. All is uneven,
And every thing is left at six and seven. [Exeunt York and Queen. SCENE VIII.

Bushy.
The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,
But none returns; for us to levy Power,
Proportionable to the enemy,
Is all impossible.

Green.
Besides, our Nearness to the King in Love
Is near the Hate of those, love not the King.

Bagot.
And that's the wav'ring Commons, for their love
Lies in their purses; and who empties them,
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

Bushy.
Wherein the King stands generally condemn'd.

Bagot.
If judgment lye in them, then so do we;
Because we have been ever near the King.

Green.
Well; I'll for Refuge straight to Bristol Castle;
The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy.
Thither will I with you; for little office
The hateful Commons will perform for us;
Except, like curs, to tear us all in pieces:
Will you go with us?

Bagot.
No: I'll to Ireland to his Majesty.
Farewel: If heart's Presages be not vain,
We three here part, that ne'er shall meet again.

Bushy.
That's as York thrives, to beat back Bolingbroke.

Green.
Alas, poor Duke! the task he undertakes
Is numb'ring sands, and drinking oceans dry;
Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.

Bushy.
Farewel at once, for once, for all and ever.

Green.
Well, we may meet again.

Bagot.
I fear me, never. [Exeunt. SCENE IX. Changes to a wild Prospect in Glocestershire. Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland.

Boling.
How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now?

North.
I am a stranger here in Glo'stershire:
These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome:
And yet your fair discourse has been as sugar,

Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
But, I bethink me, what a weary way,
From Ravenspurg to Cotshold, will be found
In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your Company;
Which, I protest, hath very much beguil'd
The tediousness and process of my travel:
But theirs is sweetned with the hope to have
The present benefit that I possess:
And hope to joy, is little less in joy,
Than hope enjoy'd. By this, the weary lords
Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done,
By sight of what I have, your noble company.

Boling.
Of much less value is my company,
Than your good words: but who comes here? Enter Percy.

North.
It is my son, young Harry Percy,
Sent from my brother Worcester: whencesoever,
Harry, how fares your uncle?

Percy.
I thought, my lord, t'have learn'd his health of you,

North.
Why, is he not with the Queen?

Percy.
No, my good lord, he hath forsook the Court,
Broken his staff of office, and dispers'd
The Houshold of the King.

North.
What was his reason?
He was not so resolv'd, when last we spake together.

Percy.
Because your lordship was proclaimed Traitor.
But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurg,
To offer service to the Duke of Hereford;
And sent me o'er by Berkley, to discover
What Pow'r the Duke of York had levy'd there;
Then with directions to repair to Ravenspurg.

North.
Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy?

Percy.
No, my good lord; for that is not forgot,
Which ne'er I did remember; to my knowledge,
I never in my life did look on him.

North.
Then learn to know him now; this is the Duke.

Percy.
My gracious lord, I tender you my service,
Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young,
Which elder days shall ripen and confirm
To more approved service and desert.

Boling.
I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure,
I count my self in nothing else so happy,
As in a soul remembring my good friends;
And as my Fortune ripens with thy love,
It shall be still thy true love's recompence.
My heart this cov'nant makes, my hand thus seals it.

North.
How far is it to Berkley? and what stir
Keeps good old York there with his men of war?

Percy.
There stands the Castle by yond tuft of trees,
Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard;
And in it are the lords, York, Berkley, Seymour;
None else of name, and noble estimate. Enter Ross and Willoughby.

North.
Here come the lords of Ross and Willoughby,
Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.

Boling.
Welcome, my lords; I wot, your love pursues
A banish'd traitor; all my Treasury
Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich'd,
Shall be your love and labour's recompence.

Ross.
Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.

Willo.
And far surmounts our labour to attain it.

Boling.
Evermore, thanks;—(th' exchequer of the poor)
Which, 'till my infant-fortune comes to years,
Stands for my bounty. But who now comes here? Enter Berkley.

North.
It is my lord of Berkley, as I guess.

Berk.
My lord of Hereford, my message is to you.

Boling.
My lord, my answer is to Lancaster;
And I am come to seek that Name in England,

And I must find that Title in your tongue,
Before I make reply to aught you say.

Berk.
Mistake me not, my lord; 'tis not my meaning
To raze one Title of your honour out.
To you, my lord, I come, (what lord you will,)
From the most glorious of this Land,
The Duke of York, to know, what pricks you on
To take advantage of ^{6 note}the absent time,
And fright our native peace with self-born arms. SCENE X. Enter York.

Boling.
I shall not need transport my words by you.
Here comes his Grace in person. Noble Uncle! [Kneels.

York.
Shew me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,
Whose duty is deceivable and false.

Boling.
My gracious uncle!

York.
Tut, tut! Grace me no Grace, nor Uncle me no Uncle:—
I am no traitor's uncle; and that word Grace,
In an ungracious mouth, is but prophane.
Why have those banish'd, and forbidden legs
Dar'd once to touch a dust of England's ground?
But more than,—why, why, have they dar'd to march
So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,
Frighting her pale-fac'd villages with war,
^{7 note}

Were I but now the lord of such hot youth,
As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and my self
Rescu'd the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,
From forth the ranks of many thousand French;
Oh! then, how quickly should this arm of mine,
Now prisoner to the palsie, chastise thee,
And minister correction to thy fault.

Boling.
My gracious uncle, let me know my fault;
On what condition stands it, and wherein?

York.
Ev'n in condition of the worst degree;
In gross Rebellion, and detested Treason:
Thou art a banish'd man, and here art come,
Before the expiration of thy time,
In braving arms against thy Sovereign.

Boling.
As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford;
But as I come, I come for Lancaster.
And, noble uncle, I beseech your Grace,
Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye:
You are my father; for, methinks, in you
I see old Gaunt alive. O then, my father!
Will you permit, that I shall stand condemn'd
A wand'ring vagabond; my Rights and Royalties
Pluckt from my arms perforce, and giv'n away
To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?
If that my cousin King be King of England,
It must be granted, I am Duke of Lancaster.
You have a son, Aumerle, my noble Kinsman:
Had you first dy'd, and he been thus trod down,
He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father,
To rowze his wrongs, and chase them to the bay.
I am deny'd to sue my livery here,
And yet my letters patents give me leave:
My father's Goods are all distrain'd and sold,
And these, and all, are all amiss imploy'd.
What would you have me do? I am a Subject,
And challenge law: attorneys are deny'd me;
And therefore personally I lay my Claim

To mine Inheritance of free Descent.

North.
The noble Duke hath been too much abus'd.

Ross.
It stands your Grace upon, to do him Right.

Willo.
Base men by his endowments are made great.

York.
My lords of England, let me tell you this,
I have had Feeling of my Cousin's wrongs,
And labour'd all I could to do him Right:
But, in this kind, to come in braving arms,
Be his own carver, and cut out his way,
To find out Right with wrongs, it may not be;
And you that do abet him in this kind,
Cherish Rebellion, and are Rebels all.

North.
The noble Duke hath sworn, his Coming is
But for his own; and, for the Right of That,
We all have strongly sworn to give him aid;
And let him ne'er see joy, that breaks that oath.

York.
Well, well, I see the issue of these arms;
I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,
Because my Pow'r is weak, and all ill left:
But if I could, by him that gave me life,
I would attach you all, and make you stoop
Unto the sovereign mercy of the King.
But since I cannot, be it known to you,
I do remain as neuter. So, farewel.
Unless you please to enter in the Castle,
And there repose you for this night.

Boling.
An offer, Uncle, that we will accept;
But we must win your Grace to go with us
To Bristol-Castle, which, they say, is held
By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices;
The caterpillars of the Common-wealth,
Which I have sworn to weed, and pluck away.

York.
It may be, I will go: but yet I'll pause;
For I am loath to break our Country's Laws:
Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are;
Things past Redress are now with me past Care. [Exeunt.

SCENE XI. In WALES. Enter Salisbury, and a Captain.

Cap.
My lord of Salisbury, we have staid ten days,
And hardly kept our Countrymen together,
And yet we hear no tidings from the King:
Therefore we will disperse our selves: farewel.

Salis.
Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman:
The King reposeth all his trust in thee.

Cap.
'Tis thought, the King is dead: we will not stay.
&wlquo;The Bay-trees in our Country all are wither'd,
&wlquo;And meteors fright the fixed stars of heav'n;
&wlquo;The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth;
&wlquo;And lean-look'd Prophets whisper fearful Change.
&wlquo;Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap;&wrquo;
The one, in fear to lose what they enjoy;
Th' other, in hope t'enjoy by rage and war.
These signs forererun the death of Kings—
Farewel; our countrymen are gone and fled,
As well assur'd, Richard their King is dead. [Exit.

Salis.
Ah, Richard, ah! with eyes of heavy mind,
I see thy Glory, like a shooting Star,
Fall to the base earth from the firmament:
Thy Sun sets weeping in the lowly West,
Witnessing Storms to come, woe, and unrest:
Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes;
And crossly to thy Good all fortune goes. [Exit.

ACT III. SCENE I. Bolingbroke's Camp at Bristol. Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Ross, Percy, Willoughby, with Bushy and Green Prisoners.

Bolingbroke.
Bring forth these men.—
Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls
(Since presently your souls must part your bodies)
With too much urging your pernicious lives;
For 'twere no charity: yet to wash your blood
From off my hands, here, in the view of men,
I will unfold some causes of your deaths.
You have mis-led a Prince, a royal King,
A happy Gentleman in blood and lineaments,
By you unhappy'd, and disfigur'd clean.
You have, in manner, with your sinful hours
Made a divorce betwixt his Queen and him;
Broke the Possession of a royal Bed,
And stain'd the Beauty of a fair Queen's cheeks
With tears drawn from her eyes, with your foul wrongs.
My self, a Prince, by fortune of my birth,
Near to the King in blood, (and near in love,
Till you did make him mis-interpret me,)
Have stoopt my neck under your injuries;
And sigh'd my English breath in foreign clouds,
Eating the bitter bread of Banishment:
While you have fed upon my Signiories;
Dis-park'd my Parks, and fell'd my forest-woods;
From mine own windows torn my houshold Coat;
Raz'd out my Impress; leaving me no sign,
Save mens' opinions, and my living blood,
To shew the world I am a gentleman.
This, and much more, much more than twice all this,

Condemns you to the death. See them deliver'd
T'execution, and the hand of death.

Bushy.
More welcome is the stroak of death to me,
Than Bolingbroke to England.—Lords, farewel.

Green.
My comfort is, that heav'n will take our souls,
And plague injustice with the pains of hell.

Boling.
My lord Northumberland, see them dispatch'd.
Uncle, you say the Queen is at your house;
For heav'n's sake, fairly let her be intreated;
Tell her, I send to her my kind Commends;
Take special care, my Greetings be deliver'd.

York.
A gentleman of mine I have dispatch'd
With letters of your love to her at large.

Boling.
Thanks, gentle Uncle: come, my lords, away,
To fight with Glendower and his Complices;
A while to Work; and, after, Holy-day. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Changes to the Coast of Wales. Flourish: Drums and Trumpets. Enter King Richard, Aumerle, Bishop of Carlisle, and Soldiers.

K. Rich.
Barkloughly-castle call you this at hand?

Aum.
Yea, my good lord; how brooks your Grace the air,
After your tossing on the breaking Seas?

K. Rich.
Needs must I like it well: I weep for joy
To stand upon my Kingdom once again.
Dear Earth, I do salute thee with my hand,
Though Rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs:
As a long-parted mother with her child
Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting;
So weeping, smiling, greet I thee my Earth,
And do thee favour with my royal hands.
Feed not thy Sovereign's foe, my gentle Earth,

Nor with thy sweets comfort his rav'nous sense:
But let thy spiders that suck up thy venom,
And heavy-gaited toads, lye in their way;
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet,
Which with usurping steps do trample thee.
Yield stinking nettles to mine enemies;
And, when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,
Guard it, I pr'ythee, with a lurking adder;
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy Sovereign's enemies.
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords;
This Earth shall have a Feeling: and these stones
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native King
Shall faulter under foul rebellious arms.

Bishop.
Fear not, my lord; that Pow'r, that made you King,
Hath pow'r to keep you King, in spight of all.
^{8 note}The means, that heaven yields, must be embrac'd,
And not neglected: else if heaven would,
And we would not heav'n's offer, we refuse
The profer'd means of succour and redress.

Aum.
He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;
Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,
Grows strong and great, in substance and in power.

K. Rich.
Discomfortable Cousin, know'st thou not,
&wlquo;That when the searching eye of heav'n is hid
&wlquo;Behind the globe, (a) ^note and lights the lower world;
&wlquo;Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
&wlquo;In murders, and in outrage bloody here.
&wlquo;But when from under this terrestrial ball
&wlquo;He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
&wlquo;And darts his light through ev'ry guilty hole;
&wlquo;Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
&wlquo;The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,

&wlquo;Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves.&wrquo;
So when this thief, this traitor Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
^{2 note}Whilst we were wand'ring with th' Antipodes,
Shall see us rising in our Throne, the east;
His treasons will sit blushing in his face,
Not able to endure the sight of day;
But, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm from an anointed King;
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The Deputy elected by the Lord.
For every man that Bolingbroke hath prest,
To lift sharp steel against our golden Crown,
Heav'n for his Richard hath in heav'nly Pay
A glorious Angel; then if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heav'n still guards the Right. SCENE III. Enter Salisbury.

Welcome, my lord, how far off lies your Power?

Salis.
Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious lord,
Than this weak arm: Discomfort guides my tongue,
And bids me speak of nothing but Despair:
One day (too late, I fear, my noble lord)
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.
Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men.
To day, to day,—unhappy day too late
O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state.
For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, disperst and fled.

Aum.
Comfort, my Liege, why looks your Grace so pale?

K. Rich.
But now the blood of twenty thousand men

Did triumph in my face, and they are fled.
And till so much blood thither come again,
Have I not reason to look pale, and dead?
All souls, that will be safe, fly from my side;
For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

Aum.
Comfort, my Liege; remember, who you are.

K. Rich.
I had forgot my self: am I not King?
Awake, thou coward Majesty, thou sleepest:
Is not the King's name forty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my Name; a puny Subject strikes
At thy great glory. Look not to the ground,
Ye fav'rites of a King! are we not high?
High be our thoughts. I know, my uncle York
Hath pow'r to serve our turn. But who comes here? SCENE IV. Enter Scroop.

Scroop.
More health and happiness betide my Liege,
Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him!

K. Rich.
Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar'd:
The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold.
Say, is my Kingdom lost? why, 'twas my care:
And what loss is it, to be rid of care?
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?
Greater he shall not be; if he serve God,
We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so.
Revolt our Subjects? that we cannot mend;
They break their faith to God, as well as us.
Cry, Woe, Destruction, Ruin, Loss, Decay;
The worst is death, and death will have his day.

Scroop.
Glad am I, that your Highness is so arm'd
To bear the tidings of calamity.
Like an unseasonable stormy day,
Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,
As if the world were all dissolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits swells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring your fearful Land

With hard bright steel, and hearts more hard than steel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy Majesty; boys with women's voices
Strive to speak big, and clasp their female joints
In stiff unwieldy arms, against thy Crown:
Thy very Beadsmen learn to bend their bows
^{3 note}Of double-fatal Ewe, against thy State:
Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills.
Against thy Seat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have pow'r to tell.

K. Rich.
Too well, too well, thou tell'st a Tale so ill.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is he got?
What is become of Bushy? where is Green?
That they have let the dang'rous enemy
Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?
If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.
I warrant, they've made peace with Bolingbroke.

Scroop.
Peace they have made with him, indeed, my lord.

K. Rich.
O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption!
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!
Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart!
Three Judasses, each one thrice worse than Judas!
Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted souls for this offence!

Scroop.
Sweet love, I see, changing his property,
Turns to the sow'rest and most deadly hate:
Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made
With heads, and not with hands: those, whom you curse,
Have felt the worst of death's destroying hand,
And lie full low, ^{4 note}grav'd in the hallow'd ground.

Aum.
Is Bushy, Green, and th' Earl of Wiltshire dead?

Scroop.
Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.

Aum.
Where is the Duke my Father, with his Power?

K. Rich.
No matter where; of comfort no man speak:
&plquo;Let's talk of Graves, of Worms, and Epitaphs,
&plquo;Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
&plquo;Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth!
&plquo;Let's chuse executors, and talk of wills;
&plquo;And yet not so—for what can we bequeath,
&plquo;Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
&plquo;Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,
&plquo;And nothing can we call our own, but death;
&plquo;^{5 note}And that small model of the barren earth,
&plquo;Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
&plquo;For heav'n's sake, let us sit upon the ground,
&plquo;And tell sad stories of the death of Kings:
&plquo;How some have been depos'd, some slain in war:
&plquo;Some haunted by the Ghosts they dispossess'd:
&plquo;Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd:
&plquo;All murther'd.—For within the hollow Crown,
&plquo;That rounds the mortal temples of a King,
&plquo;Keeps Death his Court; and there the Antick sits,
&plquo;Scoffing his State, and grinning at his Pomp;
&plquo;Allowing him a breath, a little scene
&plquo;To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
&plquo;Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
&plquo;As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
&plquo;Were brass impregnable: and, humour'd thus,
&plquo;Comes at the last, and with a little pin
&plquo;Bores through his castle-walls, and farewel King!
&plquo;Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
&plquo;With solemn Rev'rence: throw away respect,
&plquo;Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
&plquo;For you have but mistook me all this while:
&plquo;I live on bread like you, feel want like you.

&plquo;Taste grief, need friends, like you: subjected thus,
&plquo;How can you say to me, I am a King?&prquo;

Carl.
My lord, wise men ne'er wail their present woes,
But presently prevent the ways to wail:
To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength,
Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe;
^{6 note}And so your follies fight against your self.
Fear, and be slain; no worse can come from fight;
And fight and die, is death destroying death:
Where fearing, dying, pays death servile breath.

Aum.
My father hath a power, enquire of him,
And learn to make a body of a limb.

K. Rich.
Thou chid'st me well: proud Bolingbroke, I come
To change blows with thee, for our day of doom;
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown;
An easie task it is to win our own.
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his Power?
Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sower.

Scroop.
Men judge by the complexion of the sky
The state and inclination of the day;
So may you, by my dull and heavy eye,
My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.
I play the torturer, by small and small
To lengthen out the worst, that must be spoken.
Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke,
And all your northern castles yielded up,
And all your southern gentlemen in arms
Upon his faction.

K. Rich.
Thou hast said enough.
Beshrew thee, Cousin, which didst lead me forth [To Aumerle.
Of that sweet way I was in to Despair.
What say you now? what comfort have we now?
By heav'n, I'll hate him everlastingly,
That bids me be of comfort any more.

Go to Flint-castle, there I'll pine away:
A King, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey:
That Pow'r I have, discharge; and let 'em go
^{7 note}To ear the land, that hath some hope to grow:
For I have none. Let no man speak again
To alter this, for counsel is but vain.

Aum.
My Liege, one word.

K. Rich.
He does me double wrong,
That wounds me with the flatt'ries of his tongue.
Discharge my Foll'wers: let them hence, away,
From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day. [Exeunt. SCENE V. Bolingbroke's Camp near Flint. Enter with drum and colours, Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, and Attendants.

Boling.
So that by this intelligence we learn,
The Welshmen are dispers'd; and Salisbury
Is gone to meet the King, who lately landed
With some few private friends upon this Coast.

North.
The news is very fair and good, my lord,
Richard, not far from hence, hath hid his head.

York.
It would beseem the lord Northumberland,
To say, King Richard. Ah, the heavy day,
When such a sacred King should hide his head!

North.
Your Grace mistakes me; only to be brief,
Left I his Title out.

York.
The time hath been,
Would you have been so brief with him, he would
Have been so brief with You, to shorten you,
For taking so the Head, the whole Head's Length.

Boling.
Mistake not, uncle, farther than you should.

York.
Take not, good cousin, farther than you should,

Lest you mistake, the heav'ns are o'er your head.

Boling.
I know it, uncle, nor oppose my self
Against their will. But who comes here? Enter Percy.
Welcome, Harry; what, will not this castle yield?

Percy.
The castle royally is mann'd, my lord,
Against your entrance.

Boling.
Royally? why, it contains no King?

Percy.
Yes, my good lord,
It doth contain a King: King Richard lies
Within the limits of yond lime and stone;
And with him lord Aumerle, lord Salisbury,
Sir Stephen Scroop, besides a clergy-man
Of holy reverence: who, I cannot learn.

North.
Belike, it is the bishop of Carlisle.

Boling.
Noble lord, [To North.
Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle,
Through brazen trumpet send the breath of Parle
Into his ruin'd ears, and thus deliver:
Henry of Bolingbroke upon his knees
Doth kiss King Richard's hand, and sends allegiance
And faith of heart unto his royal person:
Ev'n at his feet I lay my arms and pow'r,
Provided, that my banishment repeal'd,
And lands restor'd again, be freely granted:
If not, I'll use th' advantage of my pow'r,
And lay the summer's dust with show'rs of blood,
Rain'd from the wounds of slaughter'd Englishmen.
The which, how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke
It is, such crimson tempest should bedrench
The fresh green lap of fair King Richard's Land,
My stooping duty tenderly shall shew.
Go signifie as much, while here we march
Upon the grassie carpet of this Plain;
Let's march without the noise of threat'ning drum,
That from this Castle's tatter'd battlements

Our fair appointments may be well perus'd.
Methinks, King Richard and my self should meet
With no less terror than the elements
Of fire and water, when their thund'ring Shock,
At meeting, tears the cloudy cheeks of heav'n:
Be he the fire, I'll be the yielding water;
The rage be his, while on the earth I rain
My waters; on the earth, and not on him.
March on, and mark King Richard how he looks. SCENE VI. Parle without, and answer within; then a flourish. Enter, on the walls, King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, Scroop and Salisbury.

York.
^{8 note}See! see! King Richard doth himself appear,
&wlquo;As doth the blushing discontented Sun,
&wlquo;From out the fiery portal of the East,
&wlquo;When he perceives, the envious clouds are bent
&wlquo;To dim his Glory; and to stain the tract
&wlquo;Of his bright Passage to the Occident.&wrquo;
Yet looks he like a King: behold his eye,
As bright as is the Eagle's, lightens forth
Controlling Majesty! alack, for woe,
That any harm should stain so fair a show!

K. Rich.
We are amaz'd, and thus long have we stood
To watch the fearful bending of thy knee, [To North.
Because we thought our self thy lawful King;
And, if we be, how dare thy joints forget
To pay their awful duty to our presence?
If we be not, shew us the hand of God,
That hath dismiss'd us from our Stewardship.
For well we know, no hand of blood and bone

Can gripe the sacred handle of our Scepter,
Unless he do prophane, steal, or usurp.
And though you think, that all, as you have done,
Have torn their souls, by turning them from us,
And we are barren, and bereft of friends:
Yet know,—My Master, God omnipotent,
Is must'ring in his clouds on our behalf
Armies of Pestilence; and they shall strike
Your children yet unborn, and unbegot,
That lift your vassal hands against my head,
And threat the Glory of my precious Crown.
Tell Bolingbroke, (for yond, methinks, he is)
That every stride he makes upon my Land
Is dangerous treason. He is come to ope
The purple Testament of bleeding War;
But ere the Crown, he looks for, ^{9 note}