Groom.
Hail, royal Prince.* ^note

K. Rich.
What art? how com'st thou hither?
Where no man ever comes, but that sad dog
That brings me food, to make misfortune live?

Groom.
I was a poor groom of thy stable, King,
When thou wert King; who travelling tow'rds York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my, † ^notesometime, master's face.
O how it yearn'd my heart, when I beheld
In London streets, that coronation day;
When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary,
That horse, that thou so often hast bestrid;
That horse, that I so carefully have dress'd.

K. Rich.
Rode he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend,
How went he under him?

Groom.
So proudly, as he had disdain'd the ground.

K. Rich.
So proudly that Bolingbroke was on his back!
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand.
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Would he not stumble? would he not fall down,
(Since pride must have a fall) and break the neck
Of that proud man, that did usurp his back?
Forgiveness, horse; why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be aw'd by man,
Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse,
And yet I bear a burthen like an ass,
Spur-gall'd, and tir'd by jaunting Bolingbroke.

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