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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