Dutch.
My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest,
When weeping made you break the story off,
Of our two cousins coming into London.

York.
Where did I leave?

Dutch.
At that sad stop, my lord,
Where rude mis-govern'd hands, from window tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head.

York.
Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,
&plquo;Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
&plquo;Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,

&plquo;With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course:
&plquo;While all tongues cry'd, God save thee, Bolingbroke.
&plquo;You would have thought the very windows spake,
&plquo;So many greedy looks of young and old
&plquo;Through casements darted their desiring eyes
&plquo;Upon his visage; and that all the walls
&plquo;With painted imag'ry had said at once,
&plquo;Jesu preserve thee, welcome Bolingbroke.
&plquo;Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
&plquo;Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
&plquo;Bespoke them thus; I thank you, country-men;
&plquo;And thus still doing, thus he past along.

Dutch.
Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while?

&plquo;York.
&plquo;As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
&plquo;After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
&plquo;Are idely bent on him that enters next,
&plquo;Thinking his prattle to be tedious:
&plquo;Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
&plquo;Did scowle on Richard; no man cry'd, God save him;
&plquo;No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;
&plquo;But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
&plquo;Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
&plquo;His face still combating with tears and smiles,
&plquo;The badges of his grief and patience;
&plquo;That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
&plquo;The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
&plquo;And barbarism it self have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour, I for aye allow.

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