Introductory matter ^note

INTRODUCTION.

On the opposite page we have given the titles of four quarto editions of “King Richard II.,” which preceded the publication of the folio of 1623, and which were all published during the life-time of Shakespeare: they bear date respectively in 1597, 1598, 1608, and 1615. It will be observed that the title of the edition of 1608 states that it contains “new additions of the Parliament Scene, and the deposing of King Richard.” The Duke of Devonshire is in possession of an unique copy, dated 1608, the title of which merely follows the wording of the preceding impression of 1598, omitting any notice of “new additions,” though containing the whole of them^{1 note}. The name of our great dramatist first appears in connection with this historical play in 1598, as if Simmes the printer, and Wise the stationer, when they printed and published their edition of 1597, did not know, or were not authorised to state, that Shakespeare was the writer of it. Precisely the same was the case with “King Richard III.,” printed and published by the same parties in the same year, and of which also a second edition appeared in 1598, with the name of the author.

We will first speak regarding the date of the original production of “Richard II.,” and then of the period when it is likely that the “new additions” were inserted.

It was entered on the Stationers' Register in 1597, in the following manner:—

“29 Aug. 1597.
Andrew Wise.] The Tragedye of Richard the Seconde.”

This memorandum was made anterior, but perhaps only shortly anterior, to the actual publication of “Richard II.,” and it forms

the earliest notice of its existence. Malone supposes that it was written in 1593, but he does not produce a single fact or argument to establish his position; nor perhaps could any be adduced beyond the circumstance, that having assigned “The Comedy of Errors” to 1592, and “Love's Labour's Lost” to 1594, he had left an interval between those years in which he could place not only “Richard II.” but “Richard III.” In fact, we can arrive at no nearer approximation; although Chalmers, in his “Supplemental Apology,” contended that a note of time was to be found in the allusions in the first and second Acts to the disturbances in Ireland. It is quite certain that the rebellion in that country was renewed in 1594, and proclaimed in 1595; but it is far from clear that any reference to it was intended by Shakespeare. Where the matter is so extremely doubtful, we shall not attempt to fix on any particular year. If any argument, one way or the other, could be founded upon the publication of Daniel's “Civil Wars,” in 1595, it would show that that poet had made alterations in subsequent editions of his poem, in order, perhaps, to fall in more with the popular notions regarding the history of the time, as produced by the success of the play of our great dramatist. Meres mentions “Richard the 2” in 1598.

Respecting the “new additions” of “the deposing of King Richard” we have some evidence, the existence of which was not known in the time of Malone, who conjectured that this scene had originally formed part of Shakespeare's play, and was “suppressed in the printed copy of 1597, from the fear of offending Elizabeth,” and not published, with the rest, until 1608^{2 note}. Such may have been the case, but we now know that there were two separate plays upon the events of the reign of Richard II., and the deposition seems to have formed a portion of both. On the 30th April, 1611, Dr. Simon Forman saw “Richard 2,” as he expressly calls it, at the Globe Theatre, for which Shakespeare was a writer, at which he had been an actor, and in the receipts of which he was interested. In his original Diary, (MS. Ashm. 208,) preserved in the Bodleian Library, Forman inserts the following account of, and observations upon, the

plot of the “Richard II.,” he having been present at the representation:—

“Remember therein how Jack Straw, by his overmuch boldness, not being politic, nor suspecting any thing, was suddenly, at Smithfield Bars, stabbed by Walworth, the Mayor of London; and so he and his whole army was overthrown. Therefore, in such case, or the like, never admit any party without a bar between, for a man cannot be too wise, nor keep himself too safe. Also, remember how the Duke of Glouster, the Earl of Arundel, Oxford, and others, crossing the King in his humour about the Duke of Erland (Ireland) and Bushy, were glad to fly, and raise a host of men: and being in his castle, how the Duke of Erland came by night to betray him, with 300 men; but, having privy warning thereof, kept his gates fast, and would not suffer the enemy to enter, which went back again with a fly in his ear, and after was slain by the Earl of Arundel in the battle. Remember, also, when the Duke (i. e. of Gloucester) and Arundel came to London with their army, King Richard came forth to them, and met them, and gave them fair words, and promised them pardon, and that all should be well, if they would discharge their army; upon whose promises and fair speeches they did it: and after, the King bid them all to a banquet, and so betrayed them, and cut off their heads, &c., because they had not his pardon under his hand and seal before, but his word. Remember therein, also, how the Duke of Lancaster privily contrived all villainy to set them all together by the ears, and to make the nobility to envy the King, and mislike him and his government; by which means he made his own son king, which was Henry Bolingbroke. Remember, also, how the Duke of Lancaster asked a wise man whether himself should ever be king; and he told him no, but his son should be a king: and when he had told him, he hanged him up for his labour, because he should not bruit abroad, or speak thereof to others. This was a policy in the Commonwealth's opinion, but I say it was a villain's part, and a Judas' kiss, to hang the man for telling him the truth. Beware by this example of noblemen and their fair words, and say little to them, lest they do the like to thee for thy good will.”

The quotation was first published in “New Particulars regarding Shakespeare and his Works,” 8vo, 1836, where it was suggested that this “Richard II.” might be the play which Sir Gilly Merrick and others are known to have procured to be acted the afternoon before the insurrection headed by the Earls of Essex and Southampton, in 1601; (Bacon's Works by Mallet, iv. 320) but in a letter, published in a note to the same tract, Mr. Amyot argued, that “the deposing of King Richard” probably formed no part of the play Forman saw, and that it might actually be another, and a lost play by Shakespeare, intended as a “first part” to his extant drama on the

later portion of the reign of that monarch. It is true that Forman says nothing of the formal deposition of Richard II.; but he tells us that in the course of the drama the Duke of Lancaster “made his own son King,” and he could not do so without something like a deposition exhibited or narrated. It is also to be observed, that if Forman's account be at all correct, Shakespeare could never have exhibited the characters of the King and of Gaunt so inconsistently in two parts of the same play. The Richard and the Gaunt of Forman, with their treachery and cruelty, are totally unlike the Richard and Gaunt of Shakespeare. For these reasons we may, perhaps, arrive at the conclusion, that it was a distinct drama, and not by Shakespeare. We may presume, also, that it was the very piece which Sir Gilly Merrick procured to be represented, and for the performance of which, according to a passage in the arraignment of Cuffe and Merrick, the latter paid forty shillings additional, because it was an old play, and not likely to attract an audience.

The very description of the plot given by Forman reads as if it were an old play, with the usual quantity of blood and treachery. How it came to be popular enough, in 1611, to be performed at the Globe must be matter of mere speculation: perhaps the revival of it by the party of the Earls of Essex and Southampton had recalled public attention to it, and improvements might have been made which would render it a favourite in 1611, though it had been neglected in 1601.

Out of these improvements, and out of this renewed popularity, may, possibly, have grown the “new additions,” which were first printed with the impression of Shakespeare's “Richard II.” in 1608^{3 note}

play, nor that described by Forman, were the pieces selected by Sir Gilly Merrick, there must have been three distinct plays, in the possession of the company acting at the Globe, upon the events of the reign of Richard II.

For the incidents of this “most admirable of all Shakespeare's purely historical plays,” as Coleridge calls it, (Lit. Rem. ii. 164,) our great poet appears to have gone no farther than Holinshed, who was himself indebted to Hall and Fabian. However, Shakespeare has no where felt himself bound to adhere to chronology when it better answered his purpose to desert it. Thus, the Prince of Wales, afterwards Henry V., is spoken of in Act v. sc. 3, as frequenting taverns and stews, when he was in fact only twelve years old. Marston, in a short address before his “Wonder of Women,” 1606, aiming a blow at Ben Jonson, puts the duty of a dramatic author in this respect upon its true footing, when he says, “I have not laboured to tie myself to relate anything as a historian, but to enlarge everything as a poet;” and what we have just referred to in this play is exactly one of those anachronisms which, in the words of Schlegel, Shakespeare committed “purposely and most deliberately^{4 note}.” His design, of course, was in this instance to link together “Richard II.” and the first part of “Henry IV.”

Of the four quarto editions of “Richard II.” the most valuable, for its readings and general accuracy, beyond all dispute, is the impression of 1597. The other three quartos were, more or less, printed from it, and the folio of 1623 seems to have taken the latest, that of 1615, as the foundation of its text; but, from a few words found only in the folio, it may seem that the player-editors referred also to some extrinsic authority. It is quite certain, however, that the folio copied obvious and indisputable blunders from the quarto of 1615. There are no fewer than eight places where the folio omits passages inserted in the quartos, in one instance to the destruction of the continuity of the sense, and in most to the detriment of the play. Hence not only the expediency, but the absolute necessity of referring to the quarto copies, from which we have restored all the missing lines, and have distinguished them by placing them between brackets.

1 ^note.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ KING RICHARD THE SECOND. EDMUND OF LANGLEY, Duke of York. JOHN OF GAUNT, Duke of Lancaster. HENRY BOLINGBROKE, Duke of Hereford. DUKE OF AUMERLE, Son to the Duke of York. THOMAS MOWBRAY, Duke of Norfolk. DUKE OF SURREY. EARL OF SALISBURY. EARL BERKLEY [Earl Berkeley]. BUSHY, Creature to King Richard. BAGOT, Creature to King Richard. GREEN, Creature to King Richard. EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND. HENRY PERCY, his Son. LORD ROSS. LORD WILLOUGHBY. LORD FITZWATER. BISHOP OF CARLISLE. Abbot of Westminster. LORD MARSHAL; and another Lord. SIR PIERCE OF EXTON. SIR STEPHEN SCROOP. Captain of a Band of Welchmen [Captain]. QUEEN TO KING RICHARD [Queen]. DUCHESS OF GLOSTER [Duchess of Gloucester] DUCHESS OF YORK. Lady attending the Queen [Lady]. Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Gardeners, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants. [Lord], [Herald 1], [Herald 2], [Servant], [Servant 1], [Gardener], [Keeper], [Groom] SCENE, dispersedly in England and Wales.

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING RICHARD II. ACT I. SCENE I. London. A Room in the Palace. Enter King Richard, attended; John of Gaunt, and other Nobles, with him.

K. Rich.
Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd Lancaster,
Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,
Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son^{1 note};
Here to make good the boisterous late appeal,
Which then our leisure would not let us hear,
Against the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Gaunt.
I have, my liege.

K. Rich.
Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him,

If he appeal the duke on ancient malice,
Or worthily, as a good subject should,
On some known ground of treachery in him?

Gaunt.
As near as I could sift him on that argument,
On some apparent danger seen in him,
Aim'd at your highness; no inveterate malice.

K. Rich.
Then call them to our presence: face to face,
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear
Th' accuser, and th' accused, freely speak.— [Exeunt some Attendants.
High-stomach'd are they both, and full of ire,
In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire^{2 note}
. Re-enter Attendants with Bolingbroke and Norfolk.

Boling.
Many years of happy days befal
My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege! 11Q0545

Nor.
Each day still better other's happiness;
Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap,
Add an immortal title to your crown^{3 note}!

K. Rich.
We thank you both: yet one but flatters us,
As well appeareth by the cause you come;
Namely, to appeal each other of high treason.—
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
Against the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Boling.
First, heaven be the record to my speech!
In the devotion of a subject's love,
Tendering the precious safety of my prince,

And free from other misbegotten hate,
Come I appellant to this princely presence. 11Q0546—
Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,
And mark my greeting well; for what I speak,
My body shall make good upon this earth,
Or my divine soul answer it in heaven.
Thou art a traitor, and a miscreant;
Too good to be so, and too bad to live,
Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,
The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.
Once more, the more to aggravate the note,
With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat;
And wish, (so please my sovereign) ere I move,
What my tongue speaks, my right-drawn sword may prove.

Nor.
Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal.
'Tis not the trial of a woman's war,
The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,
Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain:
The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this;
Yet can I not of such tame patience boast,
As to be hush'd, and nought at all to say.
First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me
From giving reins and spurs to my free speech,
Which else would post, until it had return'd
These terms of treason doubled^{4 note} down his throat.
Setting aside his high blood's royalty,
And let him be no kinsman to my liege,
I do defy him, and I spit at him;
Call him a slanderous coward, and a villain:
Which to maintain I would allow him odds,
And meet him, were I tied to run a-foot
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground inhabitable^{5 note}

Where ever Englishman durst set his foot.
Mean time, let this defend my loyalty:—
By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie.

Boling.
Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage,
Disclaiming here the kindred of the king^{6 note};
And lay aside my high blood's royalty,
Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except:
If guilty dread have left thee so much strength,
As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop.
By that and all the rites of knighthood else,
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise^{7 note}.

Nor.
I take it up; and, by that sword I swear,
Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder,
I'll answer thee in any fair degree,
Or chivalrous design of knightly trial:
And, when I mount, alive may I not light^{8 note},
If I be traitor, or unjustly fight!

K. Rich.
What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge?
It must be great, that can inherit us
So much as of a thought of ill in him.

Boling.
Look, what I speak^{9 note}, my life shall prove it true:—
That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles,

In name of lendings for your highness' soldiers,
The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments^{10 note},
Like a false traitor, and injurious villain.
Besides, I say, and will in battle prove,
Or here, or elsewhere, to the furthest verge
That ever was survey'd by English eye,
That all the treasons, for these eighteen years
Complotted and contrived in this land,
Fetch from false Mowbray^{11 note} their first head and spring.
Farther, I say, and farther will maintain
Upon his bad life to make all this good,
That he did plot the duke of Gloster's death;
Suggest his soon-believing adversaries^{1 note},
And, consequently, like a traitor coward,
Sluic'd out his innocent soul through streams of blood:
Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries,
Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,
To me for justice, and rough chastisement;
And, by the glorious worth of my descent,
This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

K. Rich.
How high a pitch his resolution soars!—
Thomas of Norfolk, what say'st thou to this?

Nor.
O! let my sovereign turn away his face,
And bid his ears a little while be deaf,
Till I have told this slander of his blood,
How God, and good men, hate so foul a liar.

K. Rich.
Mowbray, impartial are our eyes, and ears:
Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom's heir,
As he is but my father's brother's son,
Now by my sceptre's awe I make a vow,
Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood
Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize

The unstooping firmness of my upright soul.
He is our subject, Mowbray, so art thou:
Free speech and fearless, I to thee allow.

Nor.
Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,
Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest.
Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais,
Disburs'd I duly^{2 note} to his highness' soldiers:
The other part reserv'd I by consent;
For that my sovereign liege was in my debt,
Upon remainder of a dear account,
Since last I went to France 11Q0547 to fetch his queen.
Now, swallow down that lie.—For Gloster's death,
I slew him not; but to mine own disgrace,
Neglected my sworn duty in that case.—
For you, my noble lord of Lancaster,
The honourable father to my foe,
Once did I lay an ambush for your life,
A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul;
But, ere I last receiv'd the sacrament,
I did confess it, and exactly begg'd
Your grace's pardon, and, I hope, I had it.
This is my fault: as for the rest appeal'd,
It issues from the rancour of a villain,
A recreant and most degenerate traitor;
Which in myself I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot,
To prove myself a loyal gentleman
Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom.
In haste whereof, most heartily I pray
Your highness to assign our trial day.

K. Rich.
Wrath-kindled gentleman, be rul'd by me^{3 note}.

Let's purge this choler without letting blood:
This we prescribe, though no physician;
Deep malice makes too deep incision.
Forget, forgive; conclude, and be agreed;
Our doctors say this is no month to bleed^{3 note}
.—
Good uncle, let this end where it begun;
We'll calm the duke of Norfolk, you your son.

Gaunt.
To be a make-peace shall become my age.—
Throw down, my son, the duke of Norfolk's gage.

K. Rich.
And, Norfolk, throw down his.

Gaunt.
When, Harry? when^{4 note}?
Obedience bids, I should not bid again.

K. Rich.
Norfolk, throw down; we bid; there is no boot.

Nor.
Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot.
My life thou shalt command, but not my shame:
The one my duty owes; but my fair name,
Despite of death that lives upon my grave,
To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have.
I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here;
Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear;
The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath'd this poison.

K. Rich.
Rage must be withstood.
Give me his gage:—lions make leopards tame.

Nor.
Yea, but not change his spots: take but my shame,

And I resign my gage. My dear, dear lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation; that away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten times barr'd-up chest
Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.
Mine honour is my life; both grow in one:
Take honour from me, and my life is done.
Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try;
In that I live, and for that will I die.

K. Rich.
Cousin, throw down your gage: do you begin.

Boling.
O! God defend my soul from such deep sin^{5 note}.
Shall I seem crest-fall'n in my father's sight?
Or with pale beggar-fear^{6 note} impeach my height
Before this outdar'd dastard? Ere my tongue
Shall wound mine honour with such feeble wrong,
Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear
The slavish motive of recanting fear,
And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,
Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face. [Exit Gaunt.

K. Rich.
We were not born to sue, but to command:
Which since we cannot do to make you friends,
Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,
At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day.
There shall your swords and lances arbitrate
The swelling difference of your settled hate:
Since we cannot atone you^{7 note}, we shall see

Justice design the victor's chivalry^{8 note}.—
Lord Marshal, command our officers at arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Same. A Room in the Duke of Lancaster's Palace. Enter Gaunt, and Duchess of Gloster.

Gaunt.
Alas! the part I had in Gloster's blood^{9 note}
Doth more solicit me, than your exclaims,
To stir against the butchers of his life:
But since correction lieth in those hands,
Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;
Who when they see the hours ripe on earth^{1 note},
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.

Duch.
Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
Were as seven phials of his sacred blood,
Or seven fair branches springing from one root:
Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,
Some of those branches by the destinies cut;
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloster,
One phial full of Edward's sacred blood,

One flourishing branch of his most royal root,
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;
Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all faded^{2 note},
By envy's hand, and murder's bloody axe.
Ah! Gaunt, his blood was thine: that bed, that womb,
That metal, that self-mould, that fashion'd thee,
Made him a man; and though thou liv'st, and breath'st,
Yet art thou slain in him. Thou dost consent
In some large measure to thy father's death,
In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father's life.
Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair:
In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,
Thou show'st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we entitle patience,
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
The best way is to venge my Gloster's death.

Gaunt.
God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute^{3 note},
His deputy anointed in his sight,
Hath caus'd his death; the which, if wrongfully,
Let heaven revenge, for I may never lift
An angry arm against his minister.

Duch.
Where then, alas! may I complain myself?

Gaunt.
To God, the widow's champion and defence.

Duch.
Why then, I will.—Farewell, old Gaunt 11Q0548^{4 note}.
Thou go'st to Coventry, there to behold
Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
O! sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear,
That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast;
Or if misfortune miss the first career,
Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom,
That they may break his foaming courser's back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford.
Farewell, old Gaunt: thy sometimes brother's wife
With her companion grief must end her life.

Gaunt.
Sister, farewell: I must to Coventry.
As much good stay with thee, as go with me!

Duch.
Yet one word more.—Grief boundeth where it falls,
Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:
I take my leave before I have begun,
For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.
Commend me to my brother, Edmund York.
Lo! this is all:—nay, yet depart not so;
Though this be all, do not so quickly go;
I shall remember more. Bid him—O! what?—
With all good speed at Plashy visit me.
Alack! and what shall good old York there see,
But empty lodgings and unfurnish'd walls,
Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?
And what hear there for welcome, but my groans^{5 note}?

Therefore commend me; let him not come there,
To seek out sorrow that dwells every where.
Desolate, desolate, will I hence, and die:
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. 11Q0549 [Exeunt. SCENE III. Gosford Green, near Coventry. Lists set out, and a Throne. Heralds, &c., attending. Enter the Lord Marshal, and Aumerle.

Mar.
My lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd?

Aum.
Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.

Mar.
The duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,
Stays but the summons of the appellant's trumpet,

Aum.
Why then, the champions are prepar'd, and stay
For nothing but his majesty's approach. Flourish. Enter King Richard, who takes his seat on his Throne; Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Green, and others, who take their places. A Trumpet is sounded, and answered by another Trumpet within. Then enter Norfolk in armour, preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich.
Marshal, demand of yonder champion
The cause of his arrival here in arms:
Ask him his name; and orderly proceed
To swear him in the justice of his cause.

Mar.
In God's name, and the king's, say who thou art,
And why thou com'st thus knightly clad in arms:

Against what man thou com'st, and what thy quarrel.
Speak truly, on thy knighthood, and thine oath,
As so defend thee heaven, and thy valour!

Nor.
My name is Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk;
Who hither come engaged by my oath,
(Which, God defend^{6 note}, a knight should violate!)
Both to defend my loyalty and truth,
To God, my king, and my succeeding issue^{7 note},
Against the duke of Hereford that appeals me;
And, by the grace of God and this mine arm,
To prove him, in defending of myself,
A traitor to my God, my king, and me:
And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven! Trumpets sound. Enter Bolingbroke, in armour, preceded by a Herald^{8 note}.

K. Rich.
Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms^{9 note},
Both who he is, and why he cometh hither
Thus plated in habiliments of war;
And formally, according to our law,
Depose him in the justice of his cause.

Mar.
What is thy name, and wherefore com'st thou hither,
Before King Richard in his royal lists?
Against whom com'st thou? and what is thy quarrel?

Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!

Boling.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Am I; who ready here do stand in arms,
To prove by God's grace, and my body's valour,
In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk,
That he's a traitor, foul and dangerous,
To God of heaven, king Richard, and to me;
And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

Mar.
On pain of death no person be so bold,
Or daring hardy, as to touch the lists;
Except the marshal, and such officers
Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Boling.
Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's hand,
And bow my knee before his majesty:
For Mowbray and myself are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;
Then let us take a ceremonious leave,
And loving farewell of our several friends.

Mar.
The appellant in all duty greets your highness,
And craves to kiss your hand, and take his leave.

K. Rich.
We will descend, and fold him in our arms.
Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right^{10 note},
So be thy fortune in this royal fight.
Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead^{1 note}.

Boling.
O! let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear.
As confident as is the falcon's flight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.—
My loving lord, I take my leave of you;—
Of you, my noble cousin, lord Aumerle;—
Not sick, although I have to do with death,

But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.
Lo! as at English feasts, so I regreet
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet:
O! thou, [To Gaunt.] the earthly author^{2 note} of my blood,—
Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up
To reach at victory above my head,
Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers;
And with thy blessings steel my lance's point,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat,
And furbish new the name of John of Gaunt, 11Q0550
Even in the lusty 'haviour of his son.

Gaunt.
God in thy good cause^{3 note} make thee prosperous!
Be swift like lightning in the execution;
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing thunder on the casque
Of thy adverse pernicious enemy:
Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live.

Boling.
Mine innocence, and Saint George to thrive^{4 note}!

Nor.
However God, or fortune, cast my lot,
There lives or dies, true to king Richard's throne,
A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.
Never did captive with a freer heart
Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace
His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement,
More than my dancing soul doth celebrate
This feast of battle with mine adversary.—
Most mighty liege, and my companion peers,
Take from my mouth the wish of happy years:

As gentle and as jocund, as to jest,
Go I to fight. Truth hath a quiet breast.

K. Rich.
Farewell, my lord: securely I espy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.—
Order the trial, marshal, and begin.

Mar.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Receive thy lance; and God defend the right^{5 note}!

Boling.
Strong as a tower in hope, I cry, amen.

Mar.
Go bear this lance [To an Officer.] to Thomas, duke of Norfolk.

1 Her.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
To prove the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A traitor to his God, his king, and him;
And dares him to set forward to the fight.

2 Her.
Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
Both to defend himself, and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
To God, his sovereign, and to him, disloyal;
Courageously, and with a free desire,
Attending but the signal to begin.

Mar.
Sound, trumpets; and set forward, combatants. [A Charge sounded.
Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down^{6 note}

.

K. Rich.
Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,
And both return back to their chairs again.—
Withdraw with us; and let the trumpets sound,

While we return these dukes what we decree.— [A long flourish.
Draw near, [To the Combatants.] and list, what with our council we have done.
For that our kingdom's earth should not be soil'd
With that dear blood which it hath fostered;
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours' swords;
[And for we think the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,
With rival-hating envy, set on you
To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle
Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep^{7 note};]
Which so rous'd up with boisterous untun'd drums,
With harsh resounding trumpets' dreadful bray,
And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,
Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace,
And make us wade even in our kindred's blood:
Therefore, we banish you our territories:—
You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life^{8 note},
Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields,
Shall not regreet our fair dominions,
But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

Boling.
Your will be done. This must my comfort be,
That sun that warms you here shall shine on me;
And those his golden beams, to you here lent,
Shall point on me, and gild my banishment.

K. Rich.
Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,

Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:
The sly slow hours^{9 note} shall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear exile.
The hopeless word of—never to return
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

Nor.
A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
And all unlook'd for from your highness' mouth:
A dearer merit, not so deep a maim
As to be cast forth in the common air,
Have I deserved at your highness' hands.
The language I have learn'd these forty years,
My native English, now I must forego;
And now my tongue's use is to me no more,
Than an unstringed viol, or a harp;
Or like a cunning instrument cas'd up,
Or, being open, put into his hands
That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
Within my mouth you have enjail'd my tongue,
Doubly portcullis'd, with my teeth and lips;
And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance
Is made my jailor to attend on me.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a pupil now;
What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death^{10 note},
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

K. Rich.
It boots thee not to be compassionate:
After our sentence plaining comes too late.

Nor.
Then, thus I turn me from my country's light,
To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. [Retiring.

K. Rich.
Return again, and take an oath with thee.
Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands;
Swear by the duty that ye owe to God,
(Our part therein we banish with yourselves)

To keep the oath that we administer:—
You never shall (so help you truth and God!)
Embrace each other's love in banishment;
Nor never look upon each other's face^{9 note};
Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile
This lowering tempest of your home-bred hate;
Nor never by advised purpose meet,
To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,
'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.

Boling.
I swear.

Nor.
And I, to keep all this.

Boling.
Norfolk, so fare, as to mine enemy^{1 note}.—
By this time, had the king permitted us,
One of our souls had wander'd in the air,
Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our flesh,
As now our flesh is banish'd from this land:
Confess thy treasons, ere thou fly the realm;
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
The clogging burden of a guilty soul.

Nor.
No, Bolingbroke: if ever I were traitor,
My name be blotted from the book of life,
And I from heaven banish'd, as from hence.
But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know;
And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue.—
Farewell, my liege.—Now no way can I stray:
Save back to England, all the world's my way. [Exit.

K. Rich.
Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect
Hath from the number of his banish'd years
Pluck'd four away.—[To Boling.] Six frozen winters spent,

Return with welcome home from banishment.

Boling.
How long a time lies in one little word!
Four lagging winters and four wanton springs,
End in a word: such is the breath of kings.

Gaunt.
I thank my liege, that in regard of me
He shortens four years of my son's exile;
But little vantage shall I reap thereby,
For, ere the six years, that he hath to spend,
Can change their moons, and bring their times about,
My oil-dried lamp, and time-bewasted light,
Shall be extinct with age and endless night:
My inch of taper will be burnt and done,
And blindfold death not let me see my son.

K. Rich.
Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.

Gaunt.
But not a minute, king, that thou canst give:
Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow^{2 note},
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow.
Thou canst help time to furrow me with age,
But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage:
Thy word is current with him for my death,
But, dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.

K. Rich.
Thy son is banish'd upon good advice,
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave:
Why at our justice seem'st thou, then, to lower?

Gaunt.
Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.
You urg'd me as a judge; but I had rather,
You would have bid me argue like a father.
[O! had it been a stranger, not my child,
To smooth his fault I should have been more mild:
A partial slander sought I to avoid,
And in the sentence my own life destroy'd^{3 note}.]
Alas! I look'd when some of you should say,
I was too strict, to make mine own away;
But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue,

Against my will, to do myself this wrong.

K. Rich.
Cousin, farewell;—and, uncle, bid him so:
Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [Flourish. Exeunt King Richard and Train.

Aum.
Cousin, farewell: what presence must not know,
From where do you remain, let paper show.

Mar.
My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride,
As far as land will let me, by your side.

Gaunt.
O! to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends?

Boling.
I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the tongue's office should be prodigal
To breathe th' abundant dolour of the heart.

Gaunt.
Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

Boling.
Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

Gaunt.
What is six winters? they are quickly gone.

Boling.
To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.

Gaunt.
Call it a travel, that thou tak'st for pleasure.

Boling.
My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.

Gaunt.
The sullen passage of thy weary steps
Esteem a foil, wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home-return.

[Boling.
Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make^{4 note}
Will but remember me, what a deal of world
I wander from the jewels that I love.
Must I not serve a long apprenticehood
To foreign passages, and in the end,
Having my freedom, boast of nothing else
But that I was a journeyman to grief?

Gaunt.
All places that the eye of heaven visits,
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus;

There is no virtue like necessity:
Think not the king did banish thee,
But thou the king: woe doth the heavier sit,
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.
Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour,
And not the king exil'd thee; or suppose,
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air,
And thou art flying to a fresher clime:
Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'st:
Suppose the singing birds musicians,
The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew'd,
The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more
Than a delightful measure, or a dance;
For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite
The man that mocks at it, and sets it light.]

Boling.
O! who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
O! no: the apprehension of the good,
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse:
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more,
Than when it bites^{5 note}, but lanceth not the sore.

Gaunt.
Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way:
Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay.

Boling.
Then, England's ground, farewell: sweet soil, adieu;
My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet!
Where-e'er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banish'd, yet a trueborn Englishman. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV. The Same. A Room in the King's Castle. Enter King Richard, Bagot, and Green, at one door; Aumerle at another.

K. Rich.
We did observe^{6 note}.—Cousin Aumerle,
How far brought you high Hereford on his way?

Aum.
I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,
But to the next highway, and there I left him.

K. Rich.
And, say, what store of parting tears were shed?

Aum.
'Faith, none for me; except the north-east wind,
Which then blew bitterly against our faces^{7 note},
Awak'd the sleeping rheum, and so by chance
Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

K. Rich.
What said our cousin, when you parted with him?

Aum.
Farewell: and, for my heart disdained that my tongue
Should so profane the word, that taught me craft
To counterfeit oppression of such grief,
That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave.
Marry, would the word “farewell” have lengthen'd hours,
And added years to his short banishment,
He should have had a volume of farewells;
But, since it would not, he had none of me.

K. Rich.
He is our cousin, cousin; but 'tis doubt,

When time shall call him home from banishment,
Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.
Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green^{8 note},
Observ'd his courtship to the common people:
How he did seem to dive into their hearts,
With humble and familiar courtesy;
What reverence he did throw away on slaves;
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles,
And patient underbearing of his fortune,
As 'twere to banish their affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
A brace of draymen bid God speed him well,
And had the tribute of his supple knee,
With—“Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends;”—
As were our England in reversion his,
And he our subjects' next degree in hope.

Green.
Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts.
Now for the rebels, which stand out in Ireland,
Expedient manage^{9 note} must be made, my liege,
Ere farther leisure yield them farther means,
For their advantage, and your highness' loss.

K. Rich.
We will ourself in person to this war:
And, for our coffers with too great a court,
And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,
We are enforc'd to farm our royal realm;
The revenue whereof shall furnish us
For our affairs in hand. If that come short,
Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters;
Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,
They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold,
And send them after to supply our wants,
For we will make for Ireland presently.

11Q0551 Enter Bushy^{1 note}.
Bushy, what news?

Bushy.
Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord^{2 note},
Suddenly taken, and hath sent post-haste,
To entreat your majesty to visit him.

K. Rich.
Where lies he?

Bushy.
At Ely-house.

K. Rich.
Now put it, God, in his physician's mind,
To help him to his grave immediately!
The lining of his coffers shall make coats
To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.—
Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him:
Pray God, we may make haste, and come too late! [Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE I. London. An Apartment in Ely-house. Gaunt on a Couch; the Duke of York, and Others, standing by him.

Gaunt.
Will the king come, that I may breathe my last
In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?

York.
Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;
For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.

Gaunt.
O! but they say, the tongues of dying men
Enforce attention like deep harmony:

Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain;
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
He that no more must say is listen'd more,
  Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
More are men's ends mark'd, than their lives before.
  The setting sun, and music at the close^{3 note},
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance more than things long past.
Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,
My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.

York.
No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds,
As praises of his state: then, there are found^{4 note}
Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound
The open ear of youth doth always listen:
Report of fashions in proud Italy;
Whose manners still our tardy apish nation
Limps after, in base imitation.
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
So it be new there's no respect how vile,
That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?
Then, all too late^{5 note} comes counsel to be heard,
Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard.
Direct not him, whose way himself will choose:
'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

Gaunt.
Methinks, I am a prophet new inspir'd,
And thus, expiring, do foretell of him.

His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,
For violent fires soon burn out themselves;
Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;
He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder:
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise;
This fortress, built by nature for herself,
Against infection^{6 note}, and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth^{7 note},
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son:
This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leas'd out, I die pronouncing it,
Like to a tenement, or pelting farm.
England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege

Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment bonds:
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Ah! would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death. Enter King Richard, and Queen; Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Ross, and Willoughby.

York.
The king is come: deal mildly with his youth;
For young hot colts, being rag'd, do rage the more. 11Q0552

Queen.
How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?

K. Rich.
What, comfort, man! How is't with aged Gaunt?

Gaunt.
O, how that name befits my composition!
Old Gaunt, indeed; and gaunt in being old:
Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;
And who abstains from meat, that is not gaunt?
For sleeping England long time have I watch'd;
Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt:
The pleasure that some fathers feed upon
Is my strict fast, I mean my children's looks;
And therein fasting hast thou made me gaunt.
Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,
Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.

K. Rich.
Can sick men play so nicely with their names?

Gaunt.
No; misery makes sport to mock itself:
Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,
I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.

K. Rich.
Should dying men flatter with those that live^{8 note}?

Gaunt.
No, no; men living flatter those that die.

K. Rich.
Thou, now a-dying, say'st—thou flatter'st me.

Gaunt.
O! no; thou diest, though I the sicker be.

K. Rich.
I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill.

Gaunt.
Now, He that made me knows I see thee ill;
Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill.
Thy death-bed is no lesser than the land,
Wherein thou liest in reputation sick;
And thou, too careless patient as thou art,
Commit'st thy 'nointed body to the cure
Of those physicians that first wounded thee.
A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head,
And yet, incaged in so small a verge^{9 note},
The waste is no whit lesser than thy land.
O! had thy grandsire, with a prophet's eye,
Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons,
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,
Deposing thee before thou wert possess'd,
Which art possess'd now to depose thyself.
Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world,
It were a shame to let this land by lease;
But for thy world enjoying but this land,
Is it not more than shame to shame it so?
Landlord of England art thou now, not king^{1 note}

:
Thy state of law is bondslave to the law,
And thou—

K. Rich.
A lunatic lean-witted fool^{2 note}

,

Presuming on an ague's privilege,
Dar'st with thy frozen admonition
Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood^{3 note}
With fury from his native residence.
Now, by my seat's right royal majesty,
Wert thou not brother to great Edward's son,
This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head,
Should run thy head from thy unreverend shoulders.

Gaunt.
O! spare me not, my brother Edward's son,
For that I was his father Edward's son:
That blood already, like the pelican,
Hast thou tapp'd out, and drunkenly carous'd.
My brother Gloster, plain well-meaning soul,
Whom fair befal in heaven 'mongst happy souls!
May be a precedent and witness good,
That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood.
Join with the present sickness that I have,
And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too-long withered flower.
Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee:
These words hereafter thy tormentors be!—
Convey me to my bed, then to my grave:
Love they to live, that love and honour have. [Exit, borne out by his Attendants.

K. Rich.
And let them die, that age and sullens have^{4 note}

,
For both hast thou, and both become the grave.

York.
I do beseech your majesty, impute his words
To wayward sickliness and age in him:

He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear
As Harry, duke of Hereford, were he here.

K. Rich.
Right, you say true; as Hereford's love, so his:
As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is. Enter Northumberland.

North.
My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty.

K. Rich.
What says he?

North.
Nay, nothing; all is said.
His tongue is now a stringless instrument:
Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

York.
Be York the next that must be bankrupt so!
Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich.
The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he:
His time is spent; our pilgrimage must be.
So much for that.—Now for our Irish wars.
We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns,
Which live like venom, where no venom else,
But only they, hath privilege to live:
And for these great affairs do ask some charge,
Towards our assistance we do seize to us
The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess'd.

York.
How long shall I be patient? Ah! how long
Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?
Not Gloster's death, nor Hereford's banishment,
Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,
Have ever made me sour my patient cheek,
Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face.
I am the last of noble Edward's sons,
Of whom thy father, prince of Wales, was first:
In war was never lion rag'd more fierce,
In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,

Than was that young and princely gentleman.
His face thou hast, for even so look'd he,
Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours^{5 note};
But when he frown'd, it was against the French,
And not against his friends: his noble hand
Did win what he did spend, and spent not that
Which his triumphant father's hand had won:
His hands were guilty of no kindred blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
O, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,
Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich.
Why, uncle, what's the matter?

York.
O, my liege!
Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas'd
Not to be pardon'd, am content withal.
Seek you to seize, and gripe into your hands,
The royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir?
Is not his heir a well-deserving son?
Take Hereford's rights away, and take from time
His charters and his customary rights;
Let not to-morrow, then, ensue to-day;
Be not thyself; for how art thou a king,
But by fair sequence and succession?
Now, afore God (God forbid, I say true!)
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's rights,
Call in the letters patents that he hath
By his attornies-general to sue
His livery^{6 note}, and deny his offer'd homage,

You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,
You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts,
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich.
Think what you will: we seize into our hands
His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.

York.
I'll not be by the while. My liege, farewell:
What will ensue hereof, there's none can tell;
But by bad courses may be understood,
That their events can never fall out good. [Exit.

K. Rich.
Go, Bushy, to the earl of Wiltshire straight:
Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,
To see this business. To-morrow next
We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow:
And we create, in absence of ourself,
Our uncle York lord governor of England,
For he is just, and always lov'd us well.—
Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [Flourish. [Exeunt King, Queen, Bushy, Aumerle, Green, and Bagot.

North.
Well, lords, the duke of Lancaster is dead.

Ross.
And living too, for now his son is duke.

Willo.
Barely in title, not in revenues.

North.
Richly in both, if justice had her right.

Ross.
My heart is great; but it must break with silence,
Ere't be disburden'd with a liberal tongue^{7 note}







.

North.
Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more,
That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!

Willo.
Tends that thou'dst speak, to the duke of Hereford?
If it be so, out with it boldly, man;
Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.

Ross.
No good at all that I can do for him,
Unless you call it good to pity him,
Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

North.
Now, afore God, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne
In him, a royal prince, and many more
Of noble blood in this declining land.
The king is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers; and what they will inform,
Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us all,
That will the king severely prosecute,
'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs. 11Q0553

Ross.
The commons hath he pill'd with grievous taxes,
And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fin'd
For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.

Willo.
And daily new exactions are devis'd;
As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what:
But what, o' God's name, doth become of this?

North.
Wars have not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not,

But basely yielded upon compromise
That which his noble ancestors achiev'd with blows^{8 note}:
More hath he spent in peace, than they in wars.

Ross.
The earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.

Willo.
The king's grown bankrupt, like a broken man.

North.
Reproach, and dissolution, hangeth over him.

Ross.
He hath not money for these Irish wars,
His burdenous taxations notwithstanding,
But by the robbing of the banish'd duke.

North.
His noble kinsman: most degenerate king!
But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm:
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

Ross.
We see the very wreck that we must suffer;
And unavoided is the danger now,
For suffering so the causes of our wreck.

North.
Not so: even through the hollow eyes of death,
I spy life peering; but I dare not say
How near the tidings of our comfort is.

Willo.
Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours.

Ross.
Be confident to speak, Northumberland:
We three are but thyself; and, speaking so,
Thy words are but as thoughts: therefore, be bold. 11Q0554

North.
Then thus.—I have from Port le Blanc, a bay
In Britanny, receiv'd intelligence,
That Harry duke of Hereford, Reginald lord Cobham^{9 note}
,

That late broke from the duke of Exeter,
His brother, archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, sir John Ramston,
Sir John Norbery, sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Quoint^{1 note},
All these well furnish'd by the duke of Bretagne,
With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And shortly mean to touch our northern shore:
Perhaps, they had ere this, but that they stay
The first departing of the king for Ireland.
If, then, we shall shake off our slavish yoke,
Imp out^{2 note} our drooping country's broken wing,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our scepter's gilt,
And make high majesty look like itself,
Away with me in post to Ravenspurg;
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay and be secret, and myself will go.

Ross.
To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them that fear.

Willo.
Hold out my horse, and I will first be there. [Exeunt.

SCENE II. The Same. An Apartment in the Palace. Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot.

Bushy.
Madam, your majesty is too much sad:
You promis'd, when you parted with the king,
To lay aside life-harming heaviness^{3 note},
And entertain a cheerful disposition.

Queen.
To please the king, I did; to please myself,
I cannot do it; yet I know no cause
Why I should welcome such a guest as grief,
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest
As my sweet Richard. Yet, again, methinks,
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb,
Is coming towards me; and my inward soul
With nothing trembles: at some thing it grieves,
More than with parting from my lord, the king.

Bushy.
Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,
Which show like grief itself, but are not so:
For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects;
Like perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon,
Show nothing but confusion: ey'd awry,
Distinguish form: so your sweet majesty,
Looking awry upon your lord's departure,
Finds shapes of grief more than himself to wail;
Which, look'd on as it is, is nought but shadows
Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious queen,
More than your lord's departure weep not: more's not seen;

Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye,
Which for things true weeps things imaginary.

Queen.
It may be so; but yet my inward soul
Persuades me, it is otherwise: howe'er it be,
I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad,
As,—though in thinking on no thought I think^{4 note}

,—
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink. 11Q0555

Bushy.
'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.

Queen.
'Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv'd
From some forefather grief; mine is not so,
For nothing hath begot my something grief;
Or something hath the nothing that I grieve^{5 note}:
'Tis in reversion that I do possess,
But what it is, that is not yet known; what
I cannot name: 'tis nameless woe, I wot. Enter Green.

Green.
God save your majesty!—and well met, gentlemen.—
I hope, the king is not yet shipp'd for Ireland.

Queen.
Why hop'st thou so? 'tis better hope he is,
For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope;
Then, wherefore dost thou hope, he is not shipp'd?

Green.
That he, our hope, might have retir'd his power,
And driven into despair an enemy's hope,

Who strongly hath set footing in this land.
The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself,
And with uplifted arms is safe arriv'd
At Ravenspurg.

Queen.
Now, God in heaven forbid!

Green.
Ah! madam, 'tis too true: and that is worse,
The lord Northumberland, his son, young Henry Percy^{6 note},
The lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,
With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.

Bushy.
Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland,
And all the rest of the revolted faction, traitors^{7 note}?

Green.
We have: whereupon the earl of Worcester
Hath broken his staff, resign'd his stewardship,
And all the household servants fled with him
To Bolingbroke.

Queen.
So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,
And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir:
Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy,
And I, a gasping new-deliver'd mother,
Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join'd.

Bushy.
Despair not, madam.

Queen.
Who shall hinder me?
I will despair, and be at enmity
With cozening hope: he is a flatterer,
A parasite, a keeper-back of death,
Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,
Which false hope lingers in extremity.

Enter the Duke of York.

Green.
Here comes the duke of York.

Queen.
With signs of war about his aged neck.
O! full of careful business are his looks.—
Uncle, for God's sake, speak comfortable words.

York.
[Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts^{8 note}:]
Comfort's in heaven; and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but crosses, care, and grief.
Your husband, he is gone to save far off,
Whilst others come to make him lose at home:
Here am I left to underprop his land,
Who, weak with age, cannot support myself.
Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made;
Now shall he try his friends that flatter'd him. Enter a Servant.

Serv.
My lord, your son was gone before I came.

York.
He was?—Why, so:—go all which way it will!—
The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold,
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.—
Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloster;
Bid her send me presently a thousand pound.
Hold; take my ring.

Serv.
My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship:
To-day, as I came by, I called there^{9 note};
But I shall grieve you to report the rest.

York.
What is't, knave?

Serv.
An hour before I came the duchess died.

York.
God for his mercy! what a tide of woes
Comes rushing on this woeful land at once!
I know not what to do:—I would to God,
(So my untruth had not provok'd him to it)

The king had cut off my head with my brother's.—
What! are there no posts dispatch'd for Ireland^{1 note}?—
How shall we do for money for these wars?—
Come, sister,—cousin, I would say: pray, pardon me.—
Go, fellow, [To the Servant.] get thee home; provide some carts,
And bring away the armour that is there.— [Exit Servant.
Gentlemen, will you go muster men?
If I know how, or which way, to order these affairs^{2 note}
,
Thus disorderly thrust into my hands,
Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen:
Th' one is my sovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bids defend; th' other again,
Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong'd, 11Q0556
Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.
Well, somewhat we must do.—Come, cousin,
I'll dispose of you.—Gentlemen, go muster up your men,
And meet me presently at Berkley^{3 note}.
I should to Plashy too,
But time will not permit.—All is uneven,
And every thing is left at six and seven. [Exeunt York and Queen.

Bushy.
The wind sits fair for news to go for Ireland,

But none returns. For us to levy power,
Proportionable to the enemy,
Is all impossible.

Green.
Besides, our nearness to the king in love
Is near the hate of those love not the king.

Bagot.
And that's the wavering commons; for their love
Lies in their purses, and whoso empties them,
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

Bushy.
Wherein the king stands generally condemn'd.

Bagot.
If judgment lie in them, then so do we,
Because we ever have been near the king.

Green.
Well, I'll for refuge straight to Bristol castle:
The earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy.
Thither will I with you; for little office
Will the hateful commons perform for us,
Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.—
Will you go along with us?

Bagot.
No; I will to Ireland to his majesty.
Farewell: if heart's presages be not vain,
We three here part, that ne'er shall meet again.

Bushy.
That's as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.

Green.
Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes
Is numbering sands, and drinking oceans dry:
Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.
Farewell at once; for once, for all, and ever.

Bushy.
Well, we may meet again.

Bagot.
I fear me, never^{4 note}. [Exeunt.

SCENE III. The Wilds in Glostershire. Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland, with Forces.

Boling.
How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now?

North.
Believe me, noble lord,
I am a stranger here in Glostershire.
These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome;
And yet your fair discourse^{5 note} hath been as sugar,
Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
But, I bethink me, what a weary way
From Ravenspurg to Cotswold will be found
In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company,
Which, I protest, hath very much beguil'd
The tediousness and process of my travel:
But theirs is sweeten'd with the hope to have
The present benefit which I possess:
And hope to joy is little less in joy,
Than hope enjoy'd: by this the weary lords
Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done
By sight of what I have, your noble company.

Boling.
Of much less value is my company,
Than your good words. But who comes here? Enter Harry Percy.

North.
It is my son, young Harry Percy,
Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.—
Harry, how fares your uncle?

Percy.
I had thought, my lord, to have learn'd his health of you.

North.
Why, is he not with the queen?

Percy.
No, my good lord: he hath forsook the court,
Broken his staff of office, and dispers'd
The household of the king.

North.
What was his reason?
He was not so resolv'd, when last we spake
Together.

Percy.
Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.
But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurg,
To offer service to the duke of Hereford;
And sent me over by Berkley, to discover
What power the duke of York had levied there;
Then, with directions to repair to Ravenspurg.

North.
Have you forgot the duke of Hereford, boy?

Percy.
No, my good lord; for that is not forgot,
Which ne'er I did remember: to my knowledge,
I never in my life did look on him.

North.
Then learn to know him now: this is the duke.

Percy.
My gracious lord, I tender you my service,
Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young,
Which elder days shall ripen, and confirm
To more approved service and desert.

Boling.
I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure,
I count myself in nothing else so happy,
As in a soul remembering my good friends;
And as my fortune ripens with thy love,
It shall be still thy true love's recompense:
My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.

North.
How far is it to Berkley? And what stir
Keeps good old York there, with his men of war?

Percy.
There stands the castle, by yond' tuft of trees,
Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard;

And in it are the lords of York, Berkley, and Seymour;
None else of name, and noble estimate. Enter Ross and Willoughby.

North.
Here come the lords of Ross and Willoughby,
Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.

Boling.
Welcome, my lords. I wot, your love pursues
A banish'd traitor: all my treasury
Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich'd,
Shall be your love and labour's recompense.

Ross.
Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.

Willo.
And far surmounts our labour to attain it.

Boling.
Evermore thanks, th' exchequer of the poor;
Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,
Stands for my bounty. But who comes here? Enter Berkley^{6 note}.

North.
It is my lord of Berkley, as I guess.

Berk.
My lord of Hereford, my message is to you.

Boling.
My lord, my answer is—to Lancaster^{7 note},
And I am come to seek that name in England;
And I must find that title in your tongue,
Before I make reply to aught you say.

Berk.
Mistake me not, my lord: 'tis not my meaning,
To raze one title of your honour out.
To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will,

From the most gracious regent of this land^{8 note},
The duke of York, to know what pricks you on
To take advantage of the absent time,
And fright our native peace with self-borne arms. Enter York attended.

Boling.
I shall not need transport my words by you:
Here comes his grace in person.—My noble uncle. [Kneels.

York.
Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,
Whose duty is deceivable and false^{9 note}.

Boling.
My gracious uncle—

York.
Tut, tut! Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle^{1 note}:
I am no traitor's uncle; and that word “grace,”
In an ungracious mouth, is but profane.
Why have those banish'd and forbidden legs
Dar'd once to touch a dust of England's ground?
But then, more why^{2 note},—why have they dar'd to march
So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,
Frighting her pale-fac'd villages with war,
And ostentation of despised arms? 11Q0557
Com'st thou because th' anointed king is hence?
Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind,
And in my loyal bosom lies his power.
Were I but now the lord^{3 note} of such hot youth,

As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself,
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,
From forth the ranks of many thousand French,
O! then, how quickly should this arm of mine,
Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee,
And minister correction to thy fault!

Boling.
My gracious uncle, let me know my fault:
On what condition stands it, and wherein?

York.
Even in condition of the worst degree;
In gross rebellion, and detested treason:
Thou art a banish'd man, and here art come
Before the expiration of thy time,
In braving arms against thy sovereign.

Boling.
As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford;
But as I come, I come for Lancaster.
And, noble uncle, I beseech your grace,
Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye:
You are my father, for, methinks, in you
I see old Gaunt alive: O! then, my father,
Will you permit that I shall stand condemn'd
A wandering vagabond, my rights and royalties
Pluck'd from my arms perforce, and given away
To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?
If that my cousin king be king of England,
It must be granted I am duke of Lancaster.
You have a son, Aumerle, my noble kinsman;
Had you first died, and he been thus trod down,
He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father,
To rouse his wrongs, and chase them to the bay.
I am denied to sue my livery here,
And yet my letters patent give me leave:
My father's goods are all distrain'd, and sold;
And these, and all, are all amiss employ'd.
What would you have me do? I am a subject,
And challenge law: attornies are denied me,
And therefore personally I lay my claim
To my inheritance of free descent.

North.
The noble duke hath been too much abused.

Ross.
It stands your grace upon to do him right.

Willo.
Base men by his endowments are made great.

York.
My lords of England, let me tell you this:
I have had feeling of my cousin's wrongs,
And labour'd all I could to do him right;
But in this kind to come; in braving arms,
Be his own carver, and cut out his way,
To find out right with wrong,—it may not be:
And you, that do abet him in this kind,
Cherish rebellion, and are rebels all.

North.
The noble duke hath sworn, his coming is
But for his own; and for the right of that,
We all have strongly sworn to give him aid,
And let him ne'er see joy that breaks that oath.

York.
Well, well, I see the issue of these arms.
I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,
Because my power is weak, and all ill left;
But if I could, by him that gave me life,
I would attach you all, and make you stoop
Unto the sovereign mercy of the king:
But, since I cannot, be it known unto you,
I do remain as neuter. So, fare you well;
Unless you please to enter in the castle,
And there repose you for this night.

Boling.
An offer, uncle, that we will accept:
But we must win your grace, to go with us
To Bristol castle; which, they say, is held
By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices,
The caterpillars of the commonwealth,
Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.

York.
It may be, I will go with you;—but yet I'll pause,
For I am loath to break our country's laws.
Nor friends, nor foes, to me welcome you are:
Things past redress are now with me past care. [Exeunt.

11Q0558 4 ^note SCENE IV. A Camp in Wales. Enter Salisbury, and a Welsh Captain.

Cap.
My lord of Salisbury, we have stay'd ten days,
And hardly kept our countrymen together,
And yet we hear no tidings from the king;
Therefore, we will disperse ourselves. Farewell.

Sal.
Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman:
The king reposeth all his confidence in thee.

Cap.
'Tis thought, the king is dead: we will not stay.
The bay-trees in our country are all wither'd,
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;
The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth,
And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change:
Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap,
The one in fear to lose what they enjoy,
The other to enjoy by rage and war:
These signs forerun the death or fall of kings^{5 note}.
Farewell: our countrymen are gone and fled,
As well assur'd Richard, their king, is dead. [Exit.

Sal.
Ah, Richard! with the eyes of heavy mind,
I see thy glory, like a shooting star,
Fall to the base earth from the firmament.
Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,
Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest:
Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes,
And crossly to thy good all fortune goes. [Exit.

ACT III. SCENE I. Bolingbroke's Camp at Bristol. Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Percy, Willoughby, Ross: Bushy and Green, prisoners.

Boling.
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 misled a prince, a royal king,
A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,
By you unhappied 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 by your foul wrongs.
Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth,
Near to the king in blood, and near in love,
Till you did make him misinterpret me,
Have stoop'd my neck under your injuries,
And sigh'd my English breath in foreign clouds,
Eating the bitter bread of banishment,
Whilst you have fed upon my signories,
Dispark'd my parks, and fell'd my forest woods,
From mine own windows torn my household coat,
Raz'd out my impress, leaving me no sign,
Save men's opinions, and my living blood,
To show 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 over
To execution, and the hand of death.

Bushy.
More welcome is the stroke of death to me,
Than Bolingbroke to England.—Lords, farewell^{6 note}.

Green.
My comfort is, that heaven will take our souls,
And plague injustice with the pains of hell.

Boling.
My lord Northumberland, see them dispatch'd. [Exeunt Northumberland and Others, with Bushy and Green.
Uncle, you say the queen is at your house;
For God's sake, fairly let her be entreated^{7 note}

:
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, lords, away,
To fight with Glendower and his complices:
A while to work, and after holiday. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Coast of Wales. A Castle in view. Flourish: Drums and Trumpets. Enter King Richard, Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, and Soldiers.

K. Rich.
Barkloughly castle call they this at hand^{8 note}?

Aum.
Yea, my lord. How brooks your grace the air,
After your late tossing on the breaking seas? 11Q0559

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 sovereign's foe, my gentle earth,
Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense:
But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom,
And heavy-gaited toads, lie 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 pray thee, with a lurking adder,
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy sovereign'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 falter under foul rebellion's arms^{9 note}.

Bishop.
Fear not, my lord: that power that made you king,
Hath power to keep you king, in spite of all.
[The means that heavens yield must be embrac'd,
And not neglected; else, if heaven would,
And we will not, heaven's offer we refuse,
The proffer'd means of succour and redress^{10 note}.]

Aum.
He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;
Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,
Grows strong and great in substance, and in power^{1 note}.

K. Rich.
Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not,
That when the searching eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders and in outrage, bloody here^{2 note};
But when from under this terrestrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every 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,
[Whilst we were wandering with the antipodes^{3 note},]
Shall see us rising in our throne, the east,
His treasons will sit 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 press'd,
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,
God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay

A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right. Enter Salisbury.
Welcome, my lord. How far off lies your power?

Sal.
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 thy happy days on earth.
O! 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, dispers'd, 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;
And till so much blood thither come again,
  Have I not reason to look pale and dead?
All souls that will be safe, fly from my side;
For time hath set a blot upon my pride^{4 note}
.

Aum.
Comfort, my liege! remember who you are.

K. Rich.
I had forgot myself. Am I not king?
Awake, thou coward majesty^{5 note}! thou sleepest.
Is not the king's name twenty thousand names^{6 note}?
Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes
At thy great glory.—Look not to the ground,

Ye favourites of a king: are we not high?
High be our thoughts. I know, my uncle York
Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here! 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^{7 note}.
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, covering your fearful land
With hard bright steel, and hearts harder than steel.
White-beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy majesty; and boys, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints
In stiff unwieldly arms against thy crown: 11Q0560
Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows

Of double-fatal yew^{8 note} against thy state;
Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills
Against thy seat: both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have power to tell.

K. Rich.
Too 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 dangerous enemy
Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?
If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.
I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke.

Scroop.
Peace have they 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 Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!
Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted souls for this offence^{9 note}

!

Scroop.
Sweet love, I see, changing his property,
Turns to the sourest 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 wound^{10 note},
And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.

Aum.
Is Bushy, Green, and the 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:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let's choose executors, and talk of wills:
And yet not so,—for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own but death,
And that small model of the barren earth,
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings:—
How some have been depos'd, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd,
Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd,
All murder'd;—for within the hollow crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps death his court, and there the antick sits^{1 note},
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and—farewell king!

Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,
How can you say to me—I am a king^{2 note}?

Bishop.
My lord, wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes,
But presently prevent the ways to wail.
To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength,
Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe,
[And so your follies fight against yourself^{3 note}.]
Fear, and be slain; no worse can come to fight:
And fight and die is death destroying death;
Where fearing dying pays death servile breath.

Aum.
My father hath a power, enquire of him,
And learn to make a body of a limb.

K. Rich.
Thou chid'st me well.—Proud Bolingbroke, I come
To change blows with thee for our day of doom.
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown:
An easy task it is, to win our own.—
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power?
Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour.

Scroop.
Men judge by the complexion of the sky
  The state and inclination of the day;

So may you by my dull and heavy eye,
  My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.
I play the torturer, by small and small,
To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken.
Your uncle York is join'd^{4 note} with Bolingbroke;
And all your northern castles yielded up,
And all your southern gentlemen in arms
Upon his party.

K. Rich.
Thou hast said enough.—
Beshrew thee, cousin, [To Aumerle.] which didst lead me forth
Of that sweet way I was in to despair!
What say you now? What comfort have we now?
By heaven, 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 power I have, discharge; and let them go
To ear the land that hath some hope to grow^{5 note}

,
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 flatteries of his tongue.
Discharge my followers: let them hence away,
From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day. [Exeunt.

SCENE III. Wales. A Plain before Flint Castle. Enter, with Drum and Colours, Bolingbroke and Forces; York, Northumberland, and Others.

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:—Alack, the heavy day,
When such a sacred king should hide his head!

North.
Your grace mistakes; 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 with you^{6 note}, to shorten you,
For taking so the head, your whole head's length.

Boling.
Mistake not, uncle, farther than you should.

York.
Take not, good cousin, farther than you should,
Lest you mistake: the heavens are o'er our heads^{7 note}.

Boling.
I know it, uncle; and oppose not myself
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 thy entrance.

Boling.
Royally?
Why, it contains no king.

Percy.
Yes, my good lord,
It doth contain a king: king Richard lies
Within the limits of yond' lime and stone;
And with him are the lord Aumerle, lord Salisbury,
Sir Stephen Scroop; besides a clergyman
Of holy reverence, who, I cannot learn.

North.
O! 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 Bolingbroke
On both his knees doth kiss king Richard's hand,
And sends allegiance, and true faith of heart,
To his most royal person; hither come
Even at his feet to lay my arms and power,
Provided that, my banishment repeal'd,
And lands restor'd again, be freely granted.
If not, I'll use th' advantage of my power,
And lay the summer's dust with showers 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 show.
Go; signify as much while here we march
Upon the grassy carpet of this plain.
Let's march without the noise of threat'ning drum,
That from the castle's tatter'd battlements^{8 note}

Our fair appointments may be well perus'd.
Methinks, king Richard and myself should meet
With no less terror than the elements
Of fire and water, when their thundering shock^{9 note}
At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven.
Be he the fire, I'll be the yielding water:
The rage be his, while on the earth I rain
My waters; on the earth, and not on him.—
March on, and mark king Richard how he looks. A parley sounded, and answered by a Trumpet within. Flourish. Enter on the walls King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, Scroop, and Salisbury.

Boling.
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 track
Of his bright passage to the occident^{10 note}.

York.
Yet looks he like a king: behold, his eye,

As bright as is the eagle's, lightens forth
Controlling majesty. Alack, alack, for woe,
That any harm should stain so fair a show! 11Q0561

K. Rich.
We are amaz'd; and thus long have we stood [To Northumberland.
To watch the fearful bending of thy knee,
Because we thought ourself thy lawful king:
And if we be, how dare thy joints forget
To pay their awful duty to our presence?
If we be not, show 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 sceptre,
Unless he do profane, 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 mustering 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 stands,
That every stride he makes upon my 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 flower of England's face,
Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace
To scarlet indignation, and bedew
Her pastures' grass with faithful English blood.

North.
The King of heaven forbid, our lord the king
Should so with civil and uncivil arms
Be rush'd upon! Thy thrice-noble cousin,
Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly 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 buried 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
Enfranchisement immediate on his knees:
Which on thy royal party granted once,
His glittering 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^{1 note},
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.— [Northumberland retires to Bolingbroke.
We do debase ourself, cousin, [To Aumerle.] do we not,
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 helpful swords.

K. Rich.
O God! O 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. O! 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 sceptre 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 buried in the king's highway,
Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet
May hourly trample on their sovereign's head;
For on my heart they tread, now whilst I live,
And, buried once, why not upon my head?—
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

Within the earth; and, therein laid, there lies
Two kinsmen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes.
Would not this ill do well?—Well, well, I see
I talk but idly, and you mock at me.—
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^{2 note}.

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 glistering Phaeton,
Wanting the manage of unruly jades. [North. retires again to Boling.
In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base,
To come at traitors' calls, and do them grace.
In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down, king!
For night-owls shriek, where mounting larks should sing. [Exeunt, from above.

Boling.
What says his majesty?

North.
Sorrow and grief of heart
Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man:
Yet he is come. Enter King Richard, and his Attendants, below.

Boling.
Stand all apart,
And show fair duty to his majesty.—
My gracious lord,— [Kneeling.

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 unpleas'd eye see your courtesy.

Up, cousin, up: your heart is up, I know,
Thus high at least, although your knee be low.

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 deserve:—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 show 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 IV. Langley. The Duke of York's Garden. Enter the Queen, and two Ladies.

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

1 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.

1 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.

1 Lady.
Madam, we'll tell tales.

Queen.
Of sorrow, or of joy^{3 note}?

1 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 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.

1 Lady.
Madam, I'll sing.

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

1 Lady.
I could weep, madam, would it do you good.

Queen.
And I could sing, would weeping do me good,
And never borrow any tear of thee.
But stay, here come the gardeners:
Let's step into the shadow of these trees.—
My wretchedness unto a row of pins,
They'll talk of state; for every one doth so
Against a change. Woe is forerun with woe. [Queen and Ladies retire. Enter a Gardener and two Servants.

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 commonwealth:
All must be even in our government.—
You thus employ'd, I will go root away
The noisome weeds, that without profit suck
The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers.

1 Serv.
Why should we, in the compass of a pale,
Keep law, and form, and due proportion,
Showing, as in a model, our firm estate,
When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,
Is full of weeds; her fairest flowers chok'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 pluck'd up, root and all, by Bolingbroke;
I mean, the earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

1 Serv.
What! are they dead?

Gard.
They are; and Bolingbroke
Hath seiz'd the wasteful king.—O! what pity is it,
That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land,
As we this garden. We at time of year^{4 note}
Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees, 11Q0562
Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood^{5 note},
With too much riches it confound itself:
Had he done so to great and growing men,
They might have liv'd to bear, and he to taste
Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches^{6 note}

We lop away, that bearing boughs may live:
Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,
Which waste of idle hours^{7 note} hath quite thrown down.

1 Serv.
What! think you, then, the king shall be depos'd?

Gard.
Depress'd he is already; and depos'd,
'Tis doubt, he will be^{8 note}: letters came last night
To a dear friend of the good duke of York's,
That tell black tidings.

Queen.
O! I am press'd to death, through want of speaking. [Coming forward.
Thou, old Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden,
How dares thy harsh, rude 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 downfall? 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 balance 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 knows it? O! thou think'st
To serve me last, that I may longest keep
Thy 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?—
Gardener, for telling me these news of woe^{9 note},
Pray God, the plants thou graft'st may never grow. [Exeunt 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 fall a tear^{1 note}


; here, in this place,
I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace^{2 note}:
Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,
In the remembrance of a weeping queen. [Exeunt.

ACT IV. SCENE I. London. Westminster Hall^{3 note}. The Lords spiritual on the right side of the Throne; the Lords temporal on the left; the Commons below. Enter Bolingbroke, Aumerle, Surrey, Northumberland, Percy, Fitzwater, and another Lord, the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster, and Attendants. Officers behind, with Bagot.

Boling.
Call forth Bagot.—
Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind,
What thou dost know of noble Gloster's death;
Who wrought it with the king, and who perform'd
The bloody office of his timeless end.

Bagot.
Then set before my face the lord Aumerle.

Boling.
Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man.

Bagot.
My lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue
Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver'd.
In that dead time when Gloster's death was plotted,
I heard you say,—“Is not my arm of length,
That reacheth from the restful English court,
As far as Calais, to mine uncle's head?”
Amongst much other talk, that very time,
I heard you say, that you had rather refuse
The offer of an hundred thousand crowns,
Than Bolingbroke's return to England;
Adding withal, how blest this land would be
In this your cousin's death.

Aum.
Princes, and noble lords,

What answer shall I make to this base man?
Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars,
On equal terms to give him chastisement^{4 note}?
Either I must, or have mine honour soil'd
With the attainder of his slanderous lips.—
There is my gage, the manual seal of death,
That marks thee out for hell: I say, thou liest,
And will maintain what thou hast said is false
In thy heart-blood, though being all too base
To stain the temper of my knightly sword.

Boling.
Bagot, forbear: thou shalt not take it up.

Aum.
Excepting one, I would he were the best
In all this presence, that hath mov'd me so.

Fitz.
If that thy valour stand on sympathy,
There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine.
By that fair sun which shows me where thou stand'st,
I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak'st it,
That thou wert cause of noble Gloster's death.
If thou deny'st it twenty times, thou liest;
And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart,
Where it was forged, with my rapier's point.

Aum.
Thou dar'st not, coward, live to see that day.

Fitz.
Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour.

Aum.
Fitzwater, thou art damn'd to hell for this.

Percy.
Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true
In this appeal, as thou art all unjust;
And, that thou art so, there I throw my gage,
To prove it on thee to th' extremest point
Of mortal breathing. Seize it if thou dar'st.

Aum.
And if I do not, may my hands rot off,
And never brandish more revengeful steel
Over the glittering helmet of my foe!

[Lord.
I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle^{5 note}
;

And spur thee on with full as many lies
As may be holla'd in thy treacherous ear
From sun to sun. There is my honour's pawn:
Engage it to the trial, if thou dar'st.

Aum.
Who sets me else? by heaven, I'll throw at all^{6 note}.
I have a thousand spirits in one breast,
To answer twenty thousand such as you.]

Surrey.
My lord Fitzwater, I do remember well
The very time Aumerle and you did talk.

Fitz.
'Tis very true^{7 note}: you were in presence then;
And you can witness with me this is true.

Surrey.
As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true.

Fitz.
Surrey, thou liest.

Surrey.
Dishonourable boy!
That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword,
That it shall render vengeance and revenge,
Till thou, the lie-giver, and that lie, do lie
In earth as quiet as thy father's scull.
In proof whereof, there is my honour's pawn:
Engage it to the trial, if thou dar'st.

Fitz.
How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse!
If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live,
I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness,
And spit upon him, whilst I say he lies,
And lies, and lies. There is my bond of faith,
To tie thee to my strong correction.
As I intend to thrive in this new world,

Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal:
Besides, I heard the banish'd Norfolk say,
That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men
To execute the noble duke at Calais.

Aum.
Some honest Christian trust me with a gage. 11Q0563
That Norfolk lies, here do I throw down this^{8 note},
If he may be repeal'd to try his honour.

Boling.
These differences shall all rest under gage,
Till Norfolk be repeal'd: repeal'd he shall be,
And, though mine enemy, restor'd again
To all his lands and signories. When he's return'd,
Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial.

Bishop.
That honourable day shall ne'er be seen.
Many a time hath banish'd Norfolk fought
For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field,
Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross
Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens;
And toil'd with works of war, retir'd himself
To Italy, and there, at Venice, gave
His body to that pleasant country's earth,
And his pure soul unto his captain Christ,
Under whose colours he had fought so long.

Boling.
Why, bishop, is Norfolk dead?

Bishop.
As surely as I live, my lord^{9 note}.

Boling.
Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom
Of good old Abraham!—Lords appellants,
Your differences shall all rest under gage,
Till we assign you to your days of trial. Enter York, attended.

York.
Great duke of Lancaster, I come to thee

From plume-pluck'd Richard, who with willing soul
Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields
To the possession of thy royal hand.
Ascend his throne, descending now from him,—
And long live Henry, of that name the fourth^{10 note}!

Boling.
In God's name I'll ascend the regal throne.

Bishop.
Marry, God forbid!—
Worst in this royal presence may I speak,
Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth.
Would God, that any in this noble presence
Were enough noble to be upright judge
Of noble Richard: then, true nobless would 11Q0564^{1 note}
Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong.
What subject can give sentence on his king?
And who sits here that is not Richard's subject?
Thieves are not judg'd but they are by to hear,
Although apparent guilt be seen in them;
And shall the figure of God's majesty,
His captain, steward, deputy elect,
Anointed, crowned, planted many years,
Be judg'd by subject and inferior breath,
And he himself not present? O! forfend it, God^{2 note},
That, in a Christian climate, souls refin'd
Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed!
I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks,
Stirr'd up by God thus boldly for his king.
My lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,
Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king;
And if you crown him, let me prophesy
The blood of English shall manure the ground,
And future ages groan for this foul act:

Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,
And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars
Shall kin with kin, and kind with kind confound;
Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny,
Shall here inhabit, and this land be call'd
The field of Golgotha, and dead men's sculls.
O! if you raise^{3 note} this house against this house,
It will the woefullest division prove,
That ever fell upon this cursed earth.
Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so^{4 note},
Lest child, child's children, cry against you—woe!

North.
Well have you argu'd, sir; and, for your pains,
Of capital treason we arrest you here.—
My lord of Westminster, be it your charge
To keep him safely till his day of trial.
May it please you, lords, to grant the commons' suit^{5 note}.

Boling.
Fetch hither Richard, that in common view
He may surrender: so we shall proceed
Without suspicion^{6 note}.

York.
I will be his conduct. [Exit.

Boling.
Lords, you that here are under our arrest,
Procure your sureties for your days of answer.—
Little are we beholding to your love, [To the Bishop.
And little look for at your helping hands. Re-enter York, with King Richard, and Officers bearing the Crown, &c.

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
To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my limbs^{7 note}:
Give sorrow leave a while to tutor me 11Q0565
To this submission. Yet I well remember
The favours of these men^{8 note}: 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.
God save the king!—Will no man say, amen?
Am I both priest and clerk? well then, amen.
God save the king! although I be not he;
And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me.—
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
To Harry Bolingbroke.

K. Rich.
Give me the crown.—Here, cousin^{9 note}, seize the crown;
Here, cousin, on this side my hand, and on that side, yours.
Now is this golden crown like a deep well,
That owes two buckets^{10 note}, filling one another;
The emptier ever dancing in the air,
The other down, unseen, and full of water:
That bucket down, and full of tears, am I,
Drinking my grief, whilst you mount up on high.

Boling.
I thought you had been willing to resign.

K. Rich.
My crown, I am; but still my griefs are mine.

You may my glories and my state depose,
But not my griefs: still am I king of those.

Boling.
Part of your cares you give me with your crown.

K. Rich.
Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down.
My care is loss of care, by old care done;
Your care is gain of care, by new care won:
The cares I give, I have, though given away;
They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.

Boling.
Are you contented to resign the crown?

K. Rich.
Ay, no;—no, ay;—for I must nothing be;
Therefore no no, for I resign to thee.
Now mark me how I will undo myself.—
I give this heavy weight from off my head,
And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand,
The pride of kingly sway from out my heart:
With mine own tears I wash away my balm,
With mine own hands I give away my crown,
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,
With mine own breath release all duties, rites^{1 note}:
All pomp and majesty I do forswear;
My manors, rents, revenues, I forego;
My acts, decrees, and statutes, I deny:
God pardon all oaths that are broke to me!
God keep all vows unbroke that swear to thee^{2 note}!
Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd,
And thou with all pleas'd, that hast all achiev'd!
Long may'st thou live in Richard's seat to sit,
And soon lie Richard in an earthy pit!
God save king Henry, unking'd Richard says,
And send him many years of sunshine days!—
What more remains?

North.
No more, but that you read [Offering a paper.
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 folly? Gentle 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 heaven.—
Nay, all of you, that stand and look upon me^{3 note}
,
Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,
Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands,
Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates
Have here deliver'd me to my sour 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^{4 note}.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,
I find myself a traitor with the rest;
For I have given here my soul's consent,
To undeck the pompous body of a king;
Made glory base, and sovereignty a slave^{5 note},

Proud majesty a subject; state a peasant.

North.
My lord,—

K. Rich.
No lord of thine, thou haught, insulting man^{6 note},
Nor no man's lord: I have no name, no title,
No, not that name was given 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 myself.
O! that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt myself away in water drops!—
Good king,—great king,—and yet not greatly good,
An if my name be sterling yet in England^{7 note},
Let it command a mirror hither straight,
That it may show me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.

Boling.
Go some of you, and fetch a looking-glass. [Exit an Attendant.

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 satisfied.

K. Rich.
They shall be satisfied: I'll read enough,
When I do see the very book indeed,
Where all my sins are writ, and that's—myself. Re-enter Attendant with a Glass.
Give me the glass, and therein will I read^{8 note}.—

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds?—O, flattering glass!
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me^{9 note}. Was this face the face,
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face,
That like the sun did make beholders wink^{1 note}
?
Was this the face, that fac'd so many follies,
And was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face:
As brittle as the glory is the face; [Dashes the Glass against the ground 11Q0566.
For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.—
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport:
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 lament
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,
That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul;
There lies the substance^{2 note}: 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 begone and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it^{3 note}?

Boling.
Name it, fair cousin.

K. Rich.
Fair cousin! I am greater than a king^{4 note};
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 it?

Boling.
You shall.

K. Rich.
Why then give me leave to go.

Boling.
Whither?

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

Boling.
Go, some of you; convey him to the Tower.

K. Rich.
O, good! Convey?—Conveyers are you all^{5 note},
That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall^{6 note}. [Exeunt K. Richard, and Guard.

Boling.
On Wednesday next we solemnly set down
Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves^{7 note}



. [Exeunt all but the Abbot, Bishop of Carlisle, and Aumerle.

Abbot.
A woeful pageant have we here beheld.

Bishop.
The woe's to come: the children yet unborn
Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.

Aum.
You holy clergymen, is there no plot
To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?

Abbot.
My lord, before I freely speak my mind herein,
You shall not only take the sacrament
To bury mine intents, but also to effect
Whatever I shall happen to devise.
I see your brows are full of discontent,
Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears:
Come home with me to supper; I will lay
A plot, shall show us all a merry day. [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I. London. A Street leading to the Tower. Enter Queen, and Attendants.

Queen.
This way the king will come: this is the way
To Julius Cæsar's ill-erected tower,
To whose flint bosom my condemned lord
Is doom'd a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke.
Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth
Have any resting for her true king's queen. Enter King Richard, and Guard.
But soft, but see, or rather do not see,
My fair rose wither: yet look up, behold,
That you in pity may dissolve to dew,
And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.—
Ah! thou, the model where old Troy did stand;
Thou map of honour; thou king Richard's tomb,
And not king Richard; thou most beauteous inn,

Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee,
When triumph is become an alehouse guest?

K. Rich.
Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,
To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul,
To think our former state a happy dream;
From which awak'd, the truth of what we are
Shows us but this. I am sworn brother, sweet,
To grim necessity; and he and I
Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France,
And cloister thee in some religious house:
Our holy lives must win a new world's crown,
Which our profane hours here have stricken down^{8 note}.

Queen.
What! is my Richard both in shape and mind
Transform'd and weakened? Hath Bolingbroke
Depos'd thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart? 11Q0567
The lion, dying, thrusteth forth his paw,
And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o'erpower'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take thy correction mildly? kiss the rod,
And fawn on rage with base humility,
Which art a lion, and a king of beasts^{9 note}?

K. Rich.
A king of beasts, indeed; if aught but beasts,
I had been still a happy king of men.
Good sometimes queen, prepare thee hence for France:
Think I am dead; and that even here thou tak'st,
As from my death-bed, my last living leave.
In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire
With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales
Of woeful ages long ago betid;
And, ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable tale of me^{1 note},

And send the hearers weeping to their beds.
For why, the senseless brands will sympathize
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,
And in compassion weep the fire out;
And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,
For the deposing of a rightful king. Enter Northumberland, attended.

North.
My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd:
You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.—
And, madam, there is order ta'en for you:
With all swift speed you must away to France.

K. Rich.
Northumberland, thou ladder, wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,
The time shall not be many hours of age
More than it is, ere foul sin gathering head
Shall break into corruption. Thou shalt think,
Though he divide the realm, and give thee half,
It is too little, helping him to all:
He shall think, that thou, which knowest the way
To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,
Being ne'er so little urg'd, another way
To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.
The love of wicked friends converts to fear;
That fear to hate; and hate turns one, or both,
To worthy danger and deserved death.

North.
My guilt be on my head, and there an end.
Take leave, and part, for you must part forthwith.

K. Rich.
Doubly divorc'd!—Bad men, ye violate
A twofold marriage; 'twixt my crown and me,
And then, betwixt me and my married wife.—
Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me;
And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made.—
Part us, Northumberland: I towards the north,

Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime;
My wife to France^{2 note}: from whence, set forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither like sweet May,
Sent back like Hallowmas, or short'st of day.

Queen.
And must we be divided? must we part?

K. Rich.
Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.

Queen.
Banish us both, and send the king with me.

North.
That were some love, but little policy^{3 note}.

Queen.
Then whither he goes, thither let me go.

K. Rich.
So two, together weeping, make one woe.
Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here;
Better far off, than near, be ne'er the near.
Go; count thy way with sighs, I mine with groans.

Queen.
So longest way shall have the longest moans.

K. Rich.
Twice for one step I'll groan, the way being short,
And piece the way out with a heavy heart.
Come, come, in wooing sorrow let's be brief,
Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief.
One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part:
Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. [They kiss.

Queen.
Give me mine own again; 'twere no good part,
To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart. [They kiss again.
So, now I have mine own again, begone,
That I may strive to kill it with a groan.

K. Rich.
We make woe wanton with this fond delay:
Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say. [Exeunt.

SCENE II. London. A Room in the Duke of York's Palace. Enter York, and the Duchess.

Duch.
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?

Duch.
At that sad stop, my lord,
Where rude misgovern'd hands, from windows' tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head.

York.
Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,
With slow but stately pace kept on his course,
While all tongues cried—“God save thee, Bolingbroke!”
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls
With painted imagery had said at once,—
“Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!”
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus,—“I thank you, countrymen:”
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

Duch.
Alas, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst^{4 note}?

York.
As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,

Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious;
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on gentle Richard^{5 note}: no man cried, God save him;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself 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.

Duch.
Here comes my son Aumerle.

York.
Aumerle that was;
But that is lost for being Richard's friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.
I am in parliament pledge for his truth,
And lasting fealty to the new-made king. Enter Aumerle.

Duch.
Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now,
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?

Aum.
Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not:
God knows, I had as lief be none, as one.

York.
Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime.

What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs^{6 note}?

Aum.
For aught I know, my lord, they do.

York.
You will be there, I know.

Aum.
If God prevent not; I purpose so.

York.
What seal is that, that hangs without thy bosom^{7 note}?
Yea, look'st thou pale? let me see the writing.

Aum.
My lord, 'tis nothing.

York.
No matter then who sees it:
I will be satisfied, let me see the writing.

Aum.
I do beseech your grace to pardon me.
It is a matter of small consequence,
Which for some reasons I would not have seen.

York.
Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear,—

Duch.
What should you fear?
'Tis nothing but some bond that he is enter'd into
For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day 11Q0568^{8 note}.

York.
Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.—
Boy, let me see the writing.

Aum.
I do beseech you, pardon me: I may not show it.

York.
I will be satisfied: let me see it, I say. [Snatches it, and reads.
Treason! foul treason!—villain! traitor! slave!

Duch.
What is the matter, my lord?

York.
Ho! who is within there? Saddle my horse.
God for his mercy! what treachery is here!

Duch.
Why, what is it, my lord?

York.
Give me my boots, I say: saddle my horse.—
Now by mine honour, by my life, my troth,
I will appeach the villain.

Duch.
What's the matter?

York.
Peace, foolish woman.

Duch.
I will not peace.—What is the matter, Aumerle?

Aum.
Good mother, be content: it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.

Duch.
Thy life answer?

York.
Bring me my boots: I will unto the king. Enter Servant with boots.

Duch.
Strike him, Aumerle.—Poor boy, thou art amaz'd.—
Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.— [Exit Servant.

York.
Give me my boots, I say.

Duch.
Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons, or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time,
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?

York.
Thou fond, mad woman^{9 note},
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.

Duch.
He shall be none;
We'll keep him here: then, what is that to him?

York.
Away, fond woman! were he twenty times
My son, I would appeach him.

Duch.
Hadst thou groan'd for him,
As I have done, thou would'st be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect,
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son.
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me, nor any of my kin,
And yet I love him.

York.
Make way, unruly woman. [Exit.

Duch.
After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse:
Spur, post, and get before him to the king,
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
I'll not be long behind: though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:
And never will I rise up from the ground,
Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away! begone. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Windsor. A Room in the Castle. Enter Bolingbroke as King; Percy, and other Lords.

Boling.
Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son?
'Tis full three months, since I did see him last:
If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.
I would to God, my lords, he might be found.
Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there,
For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,
With unrestrained loose companions;
Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes,
And beat our watch, and rob our passengers^{1 note};

While he^{2 note}, young wanton, and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour to support
So dissolute a crew.

Percy.
My lord, some two days since I saw the prince,
And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford.

Boling.
And what said the gallant?

Percy.
His answer was,—he would unto the stews;
And from the common'st creature pluck a glove,
And wear it as a favour; and with that
He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.

Boling.
As dissolute, as desperate: yet, through both
I see some sparks of better hope^{3 note}, which elder days
May happily bring forth. But who comes here? Enter Aumerle, in great haste^{4 note} 11Q0569.

Aum.
Where is the king?

Boling.
What means our cousin, that he stares and looks
So wildly?

Aum.
God save your grace. I do beseech your majesty,
To have some conference with your grace alone.

Boling.
Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.— [Exeunt Percy and Lords.
What is the matter with our cousin now?

Aum.
For ever may my knees grow to the earth, [Kneels.
My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth,

Unless a pardon, ere I rise, or speak.

Boling.
Intended, or committed, was this fault?
If on the first, how heinous e'er it be,
To win thy after love I pardon thee.

Aum.
Then give me leave that I may turn the key^{5 note},
That no man enter till my tale be done.

Boling.
Have thy desire. [Aumerle locks the door.

York. [Within.^{6 note}]
My liege, beware! look to thyself:
Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.

Boling.
Villain, I'll make thee safe. [Drawing.

Aum.
Stay thy revengeful hand: thou hast no cause to fear.

York. [Within.]
Open the door, secure, fool-hardy king:
Shall I for love speak treason to thy face?
Open the door, or I will break it open. [Bolingbroke opens the door. Enter York.

Boling.
What is the matter, uncle? speak;
Recover breath: tell us how near is danger,
That we may arm us to encounter it.

York.
Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know
The treason that my haste forbids me show.

Aum.
Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise past.
I do repent me; read not my name there:
My heart is not confederate with my hand.

York.
It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.—
I tore it from the traitor's bosom, king:
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence.
Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove
A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.

Boling.
O, heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!—
O, loyal father of a treacherous son!
Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,
From whence this stream through muddy passages
Hath held his current^{7 note}, and defil'd himself!
Thy overflow of good converts to bad;
And thy abundant goodness shall excuse
This deadly blot in thy digressing son.

York.
So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd,
And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,
As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold.
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,
Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies:
Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath,
The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.

Duch. [Within.]
What ho! my liege! for God's sake let me in.

Boling.
What shrill-voic'd suppliant^{8 note} makes this eager cry?

Duch.
A woman, and thine aunt, great king; 'tis I.
Speak with me, pity me, open the door:
A beggar begs, that never begg'd before.

Boling.
Our scene is altered, from a serious thing,
And now chang'd to “The Beggar and the King^{9 note}.”—
My dangerous cousin, let your mother in:
I know, she's come to pray for your foul sin.

York.
If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
More sins for this forgiveness prosper may.
This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rest sound;
This, let alone, will all the rest confound.

Enter Duchess.

Duch.
O king! believe not this hard-hearted man:
Love, loving not itself, none other can.

York.
Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here?
Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?

Duch.
Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, gentle liege. [Kneels.

Boling.
Rise up, good aunt.

Duch.
Not yet, I thee beseech:
For ever will I walk upon my knees^{10 note},
And never see day that the happy sees,
Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,
By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.

Aum.
Unto my mother's prayers, I bend my knee. [Kneels.

York.
Against them both, my true joints bended be. [Kneels.
[Ill may'st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace^{1 note}!]

Duch.
Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face;
His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:
He prays but faintly, and would be denied;
We pray with heart, and soul, and all beside:
His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;
Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow:
His prayers are full of false hypocrisy;
Ours of true zeal and deep integrity.
Our prayers do out-pray his; then, let them have
That mercy which true prayers ought to have.

Boling.
Good aunt, stand up^{2 note}.

Duch.
Nay, do not say—stand up;
But, pardon first, and afterwards, stand up.
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon should be the first word of thy speech.
I never long'd to hear a word till now;
Say—pardon, king; let pity teach thee how:
The word is short, but not so short as sweet;
No word like pardon, for kings' mouths so meet.

York.
Speak it in French, king: say, pardonnez moi^{3 note}.

Duch.
Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?
Ah! my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,
That set'st the word itself against the word!
Speak, pardon, as 'tis current in our land;
The chopping French we do not understand.
Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there,
Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear,
That hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,
Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse.

Boling.
Good aunt, stand up.

Duch.
I do not sue to stand:
Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.

Boling.
I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.

Duch.
O, happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
Yet am I sick for fear: speak it again;
Twice saying pardon doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon strong.

Boling.
I pardon him with all my heart.

Duch.
A god on earth thou art.

Boling.
But for our trusty brother-in-law, and the abbot^{4 note},
With all the rest of that consorted crew,

Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.—
Good uncle, help to order several powers
To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are:
They shall not live within this world, I swear,
But I will have them, if I once know where.
Uncle, farewell,—and cousin too, adieu 11Q0570^{5 note}:
Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.

Duch.
Come, my old son: I pray God make thee new. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. Enter Sir Pierce of Exton, and a Servant.

Exton.
Didst thou not mark the king, what words he spake?
“Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?”
Was it not so?

Serv.
Those were his very words.

Exton.
“Have I no friend?” quoth he: he spake it twice,
And urg'd it twice together, did he not?

Serv.
He did.

Exton.
And, speaking it, he wishtly look'd on me^{6 note};
As who should say,—I would thou wert the man
That would divorce this terror from my heart;
Meaning the king at Pomfret. Come, let's go:
I am the king's friend, and will rid his foe. [Exeunt.

SCENE V. Pomfret. The Dungeon of the Castle. Enter King Richard.

K. Rich.
I have been studying how I may compare 11Q0571^{7 note}
This prison, where I live, unto the world:
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it: yet I'll hammer't out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul;
My soul, the father: and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,
And these same thoughts people this little world;
In humours like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented. The better sort,
As thoughts of things divine, are intermix'd
With scruples, and do set the word itself
Against the word^{8 note}
:
As thus,—“Come, little ones;” and then again,—
“It is as hard to come, as for a camel
To thread the postern of a small needle's eye^{9 note}.”
Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.

Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves,
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,
Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame
That many have, and others must sit there:
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of such as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play I, in one person^{1 note}, many people,
And none contented: sometimes am I king;
Then, treason makes me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am: then, crushing penury
Persuades me I was better when a king:
Then, am I king'd again; and, by and by,
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing.—But whate'er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
With being nothing.—Music do I hear? [Music.
Ha, ha! keep time.—How sour sweet music is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the music of men's lives:
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To check time broke^{2 note} in a disorder'd string,
But for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;
For now hath time made me his numbering clock:
My thoughts are minutes, and with sighs they jar,
Their watches on unto mine eyes the outward watch^{3 note}
,

Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, sir, the sound, that tells what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans^{4 note}


, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell: so sighs, and tears, and groans,
Show minutes, times, and hours; but my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o' the clock^{5 note}.
This music mads me: let it sound no more,
For though it hath holpe madmen to their wits,
In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.
Yet, blessing on his heart that gives it me!
For 'tis a sign of love, and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world^{6 note}. Enter Groom.

Groom.
Hail, royal prince!

K. Rich.
Thanks, noble peer;
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear^{7 note}.
What art thou? and how comest thou hither,
Where no man never 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 towards York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometimes royal master's face.
O! how it yern'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 if he disdain'd the ground.

K. Rich.
So proud 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 burden like an ass,
Spur-gall'd, and tir'd, by jauncing Bolingbroke. Enter Keeper, with a Dish^{8 note}.

Keep.
Fellow, give place: here is no longer stay. [To the Groom.

K. Rich.
If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away.

Groom.
What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say. [Exit.

Keep.
My lord, will't please you to fall to?

K. Rich.
Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do.

Keep.

My lord, I dare not: sir Pierce of Exton, who lately came from the king, commands the contrary.

K. Rich.
The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and thee!
Patience is stale, and I am weary of it. [Strikes the Keeper^{9 note}.

Keep.
Help, help, help! Enter Sir Pierce of Exton, and Servants, armed.

K. Rich.
How now! what means death in this rude assault?
Villain, thine own hand yields thy death's instrument. [Snatching a weapon, and killing one.
Go thou, and fill another room in hell. [He kills another: Exton strikes him down^{1 note}.
That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire,
That staggers thus my person.—Exton, thy fierce hand
Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land.
Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high,
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die^{2 note}

Exton.
As full of valour, as of royal blood:
Both have I spilt: O, would the deed were good!
For now the devil, that told me I did well,
Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.
This dead king to the living king I'll bear.—
Take hence the rest, and give them burial here. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle. Flourish. Enter Bolingbroke, and York, with Lords and Attendants.

Boling.
Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear 11Q0572
Is, that the rebels have consum'd with fire
Our town of Ciceter in Glostershire;
But whether they be ta'en, or slain, we hear not. Enter Northumberland.
Welcome, my lord. What is the news?

North.
First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness:

The next news is,—I have to London sent
The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent^{3 note}:
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursed in this paper here. [Presenting a paper.

Boling.
We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains,
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. Enter Fitzwater.

Fitz.
My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
The heads of Brocas, and Sir Bennet Seely,
Two of the dangerous consorted traitors,
That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

Boling.
Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. Enter Percy, with the Bishop of Carlisle.

Percy.
The grand conspirator, abbot of Westminster,
With clog of conscience, and sour melancholy,
Hath yielded up his body to the grave;
But here is Carlisle living, to abide
Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride.

Boling.
Carlisle, this is your doom:—
Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
So, as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife:
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen. Enter Exton, with Attendants bearing a Coffin.

Exton.
Great king, within this coffin I present
Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,

Richard of Bourdeaux, by me hither brought.

Boling.
Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought
A deed of slander with thy fatal hand^{4 note}
Upon my head, and all this famous land.

Exton.
From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.

Boling.
They love not poison that do poison need,
Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word, nor princely favour:
With Cain go wander through the shades of night,
And never show thy head by day nor light.—
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow:
Come, mourn with me for that I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent.
I'll make a voyage to the Holy land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.
March sadly after: grace my mournings here^{5 note},
In weeping after this untimely bier. [Exeunt.

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