K. Rich.
Alack, why am I sent for to a King,
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts
Wherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd
T'insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee:
Give sorrow leave a-while, to ^{c note}tutor me
To this submission. Yet I well remember
The favours of these men: were they not mine?
Did they not sometime cry, all hail to me?
So Judas did to Christ: but he in twelve,
Found truth in all, but one; I, in twelve thousand, none.* ^note






To do what service, am I sent for hither?

York.
To do that office of thine own good will,
Which tired Majesty did make thee offer:
The resignation of thy state and crown.

K. Rich.
Give me the crown. Here cousin, seize the crown.

Here, on this side my hand, on that side thine.* ^note





















Now, mark me how I will undo my self;
I give this heavy weight from off my head,
And this unwieldy scepter from my hand,
The pride of kingly sway from out my heart,
With mine own tears I wash away my ^{e note}balm,
With mine own hands I give away my crown,
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,
With mine own breath release all dutious oaths:
All pomp and Majesty I do forswear:
My manors, rents, revenues, I forgo;
My acts, decrees, and statutes I deny:
God pardon all oaths that are broke to me,
God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee.
Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd,
And thou with all pleas'd, that hast all atchiev'd.* ^note

What more remains?

North.
No more; but that you read
These accusations, and these grievous crimes
Committed by your person, and your followers,
Against the state and profit of this land:
That by confessing them, the souls of men
May deem that you are worthily depos'd.

K. Rich.
Must I do so? and must I ravel out
My weav'd-up follies? Oh Northumberland,
If thy offences were upon record,
Would it not shame thee, in so fair a troop,
To read a lecture of them? if thou would'st,
There should'st thou find one heinous article,
Containing the deposing of a King,
And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,
Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heav'n.
Nay, all of you, that stand and look upon me,
Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait my self,
Though some of you with Pilate wash your hands,
Shewing an outward pity; yet you Pilates
Have here deliver'd me to my sow'r cross,
And water cannot wash away your sin.

North.
My lord, dispatch; read o'er these articles.

K. Rich.
Mine eyes are full of tears: I cannot see:
And yet salt-water blinds them not so much,
But they can see a sort of traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon my self,
I find my self a traitor with the rest:
For I have given here my soul's consent,
T'undeck the pompous body of a King;
Made glory base; a soveraign, a slave;
Proud Majesty, a subject; state, a peasant.

North.
My lord.

K. Rich.
No lord of thine, insulting man;
Nor no man's lord: I have no name, no title;
No, not that name was giv'n me at the font,
But 'tis usurp'd. Alack the heavy day,
That I have worn so many winters out,
And know not now, what name to call my self.
Oh, that I were a mockery King of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt my self away in water-drops.* ^note



Ah if my word be sterling yet in England, [To Boling.
Let it command a mirror hither streight,
That it may shew me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his Majesty.

Boling.
Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass.

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

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

Boling.
Urge it no more, my lord Northumberland.

North.
The commons will not then be satisfy'd.

K. Rich.
They shall be satisfy'd: I'll read enough,
When I do see the very book indeed,
Where all my sins are writ, and that's my self. Enter one with a glass.
Give me that glass, and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds? oh flatt'ring glass,
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me. Was this face, the face
That every day under his houshold-roof
Did keep ten thousand men? was this the face,

That like the sun did make beholders wink?* ^note








How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face?

Boling.
The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd
The shadow of your face.

K. Rich.
Say that again.
The shadow of my sorrow! ha, let's see,
'Tis very true, my grief lies all within,
And these external manners of laments
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,
That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul.
There lies the substance: and I thank thee, King,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st
Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,
And then be gone, and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?

Boling.
Name it, fair cousin.

K. Rich.
Fair cousin! I am greater than a King:
For when I was a King, my flatterers
Were then but subjects; being now a subject,
I have a King here to my flatterer:
Being so great, I have no need to beg.

Boling.
Yet ask.

K. Rich.
And shall I have?

Boling.
You shall.

K. Rich.
Then give me leave to go.

Boling.
Whither.

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

Boling.
Go some of you, convey him to the Tower.* ^note




On Wednesday next we solemnly set down
Our coronation: lords, prepare your selves. [Ex. all but Abbot, Bishop of Carlisle and Aumerle.

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