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 seigniories;
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
To execution, and the hand of death.

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

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'ns 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 holiday. [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 soveraign'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 stinging 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 soveraign'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.
^{a 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 proffer'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,
That when the searching eye of heav'n is hid
Behind the globe, that lights the lower world;
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders, and in outrage bloody here.
But when from under this terrestrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his ^{b note}light through ev'ry guilty hole;
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves.
So when this thief, this traitor Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
^{c note}Whilst we were wand'ring with th'Antipodes,
Shall see us rising in our throne, the east;
His treasons will set 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 ^{d note}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.* ^note




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 womens voices
Strive to speak big, and clasp their female joints
In stiff unwieldy arms, against thy crown:
The very beadsmen learn to bend their bows
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.
To well, too well thou tell'st a tale so ill.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
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 lye full low, grav'd in the hollow 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 in 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;And that small model of the barren earth
&plquo;Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
&plquo;For heav'ns 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;Boars 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?

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;* ^note

^{e note}And so your follies fight against your self.

K. Rich.
Thou chid'st me well: proud Bolingbroke, I come—
Say, Scroop, where lyes our uncle with his power?

Scroop.
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
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
To † ^noteear 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 followers: let them away,
From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day. [Exeunt.

SCENE V. Bolingbroke's Camp. 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, to shorten you the head.

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 lyes
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 smoak

At meeting, tears the cloudy cheeks of heav'n:* ^note





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.

See, see, King Richard doth himself appear
As doth the blushing discontented sun,
From out the fiery portal of the East,
When he perceives the envious clouds are bent
To dim his glory, and to stain the tract
Of his bright passage to the Occident.

York.
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 the land
Is dangerous treason; he is come to ope
The purple testament of bleeding war.
But ere the crown he looks for, live in peace,
Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers sons
Shall ill become the flow'r of England's face,
Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace
To scarlet indignation, and bedew
Her pastor's grass with faithful English blood.

North.
The King of heav'n forbid, our lord the King
Should so with civil and uncivil arms
Be rush'd upon: no, thy thrice-noble cousin,
Harry of Bolingbroke, doth kiss thy hand,
And by the honourable tomb he swears
That stands upon your royal grandsire's bones,
And by the royalties of both your bloods,
(Currents that spring from one most gracious head)
And by the bury'd hand of warlike Gaunt,
And by the worth and honour of himself,
Comprising all that may be sworn, or said,
His coming hither hath no farther scope,
Than for his lineal royalties, and to beg
Infranchisement immediate on his knees:
Which on thy royal party granted once,
His glitt'ring arms he will commend to rust;

His barbed steeds to stables; and his heart
To faithful service of your Majesty.
This swears he, as he is a Prince, is just;
And as I am a gentleman, I credit him.

K. Rich.
Northumberland, say thus the King returns:
His noble cousin is right welcome hither,
And all the number of his fair demands
Shall be accomplish'd without contradiction.
With all the gracious utterance thou hast,
Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends.
We do debase our self, cousin, do we not, [To Aum.
To look so poorly, and to speak so fair?
Shall we call back Northumberland, and send
Defiance to the traitor, and so die?

Aum.
No, good my lord, let's fight with gentle words,
'Till time lend friends, and friends their ^{f note}helpful swords.

K. Rich.
Oh God, oh God! that e'er this tongue of mine,
That laid the sentence of dread banishment
On yond proud man, should take it off again,
With words of sooth; oh that I were as great
As is my grief, or lesser than my name!
Or that I could forget what I have been,
Or not remember what I must be now!
Swell'st thou, proud heart? I'll give thee scope to beat,
Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me.

Aum.
Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke.

K. Rich.
What must the King do now? must he submit?
The King shall do it: must he be depos'd?
The King shall be contented: must he lose
The name of King? o'God's name let it go.
I'll give my jewels for a set of beads;
My gorgeous palace, for a hermitage;
My gay apparel, for an alms-man's gown;

My figur'd goblets, for a dish of wood;
My scepter, for a palmer's walking staff;
My subjects, for a pair of carved saints,
And my large kingdom, for a little grave,
A little little grave, an obscure grave.
Or I'll be bury'd in the King's highway;
Some way of common trade, where subject's feet
May hourly trample on their soveraign's head.* ^note




Aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender-hearted cousin,
We'll make foul weather with despised tears:
Our sighs, and they, shall lodge the summer corn,
And make a dearth in this revolting land.
Or shall we play the wantons with our woes,
And make some pretty match with shedding tears?
As thus, to drop them still upon one place,
'Till they have fretted us a pair of graves.* ^note






Most mighty Prince, my lord Northumberland,
What says King Bolingbroke? will his Majesty
Give Richard leave to live, 'till Richard die?
You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay.

North.
My lord, in the base court he doth attend
To speak with you, may't please you to come down.

K. Rich.
Down, down I come, like a glist'ring Phaeton,
Wanting the manage of unruly jades.* ^note

Boling.
What says his Majesty?

North.
Sorrow of heart
Makes him speak fondly, like a frantick man;
Yet he is come.

Boling.
Stand all apart, and show
Fair duty to his Majesty.
My gracious lord— [Kneels.

K. Rich.
Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee,
To make the base earth proud with kissing it.
Me rather had, my heart might feel your love,
Than my un-pleas'd eye see your courtesie.* ^note

Boling.
My gracious lord, I come but for mine own.

K. Rich.
Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all.

Boling.
So far be mine, my most redoubted lord,
As my true service shall deserve your love.

K. Rich.
Well you deserv'd: they well deserve to have,
That know the strong'st and surest way to get.
Uncle, give me your hand; nay, dry your eyes,
Tears shew their love, but want their remedies.
Cousin, I am too young to be your father,
Though you are old enough to be my heir.
What you will have, I'll give, and willing too;
For do we must, what force will have us do.
Set on towards London. Cousin, is it so?

Boling.
Yea, my good lord.

K. Rich.
Then I must not say no. [Flourish. Exeunt.

SCENE VII. A Garden. Enter Queen and two Ladies.

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

Lady.
Madam, we'll play at bowls.

Queen.
'Twill make me think the world is full of rubs,
And that my fortune runs against the bias.

Lady.
Madam, we'll 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.

Lady.
Madam, we'll tell tales.

Queen.
Of sorrow, or of joy?

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 ^{g note}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 to complain.

Lady.
Madam, I'll sing.

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

Lady.
I could weep, Madam, would it do you good.

Queen.
And I could ^{h note}weep, would weeping do me good,
And never borrow any tear of thee.

(Let's step into the shadow of these trees.
My wretchedness ^{i note}suits with a row of pines.) Enter a Gardener, and two Servants.
But stay, here come the gardeners;
They'll talk of State, for every one doth so,
Against a change; woe is fore-run with woe. [Queen and Ladies retire.

Gard.
Go bind thou up yond dangling Apricocks,
Which like unruly children, make their Sire
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight:
Give some supportance to the bending twigs.
Go thou, and like an executioner
Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays,
That look too lofty in our common-wealth:
All must be even in our government.
You thus imploy'd, I will go root away
The noisom weeds, that without profit suck
The soil's fertility from wholsom flowers.

Serv.
Why should we, in the compass of a pale,
Keep law, and form, and due proportion,
Shewing, as in a model, our firm state?
When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,
Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers choak'd up,
Her fruit-trees all unprun'd, her hedges ruin'd,
Her knots disorder'd, and her wholesome herbs
Swarming with Caterpillars?

Gard.
Hold thy peace.
He that 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 pull'd up, root and all, by Bolingbroke;

I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

Serv.
What, are they dead?

Gard.
They are,
And Bolingbroke hath seiz'd the wasteful King.
What pity is it, that he had not trimm'd
And drest his land; as we this garden ^{i note}dress,
And wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees,
Lest being over proud with sap and blood,
With too much riches it confound it self;
Had he done so to great and growing men,
They might have liv'd to bear, and he to taste
Their fruits of duty. All superfluous branches
We lop away, that bearing boughs may live:
Had he done so, himself had born the crown,
Which waste and idle hours have quite thrown down.

Serv.
What, think you then, the King shall be depos'd?

Gard.
Deprest he is already, and depos'd
'Tis doubted he will be. Letters last night
Came to a dear friend of the Duke of York,
That tell black tidings.

Queen.
Oh I am prest to death through want of speaking:
Thou Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden,
How dares thy 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 depos'd?
Dar'st thou, thou little better thing than earth,
Divine his downfal? say, where, when, and how
Cam'st thou by these ill tidings? speak, thou wretch.

Gard.
Pardon me, Madam. Little joy have I
To breathe these 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,
And some few vanities that make him light:
But in the ballance 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, that art so light of foot,
Doth not thy embassage belong to me?
And am I last that know it? Oh thou think'st
To serve me last, that I may longest keep
The 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!
Gard'ner, for telling me these news of woe,
I would the plants thou graft'st may never grow. [Ex. Queen and Ladies.

Gard.
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, sow'r herb of grace:
Rue, ev'n for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,
In the remembrance of a weeping Queen. [Ex. Gard. and Serv.

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