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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 you this at hand ?
Aum. Yea, my lord: How brooks your grace the

air,
After late tossing on the breaking seas ?

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 rav'nous 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 rebellious arms. Car. Fear not, my lord; that Power, that made

you king,

Hath power to keep you king, in spite of all.
The means that heaven yields 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.
Aum.

He means, my lord, that we are too remiss ;
Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,
Grows strong and great, in substance, and in friends.
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; 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 wand'ring with the antipodes, 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.

men

Enter SALISBURY. Welcome, my lord ; How far off lies your power ?

Sal. Nor near, nor further 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 : 0, 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

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
For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

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

K. Rich. I had forgot myself: am I not king ?
Awake, thou sluggard majesty! thou sleep’st.
Is not the king's name forty thousand names ?
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 pre

par'd; VOL. V.

side ;

The worst is worldly loss, thou can’st 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:
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's
To bear the tidings of calamity.
Like an upseasonable 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 ; boys, with women's voices, Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints In stiff unweildy arms against thy crown: Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows Of double-fatal yew 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, lost without redemp

tion!

curse

Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!
Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my

heart !
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
Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound,
And lie full low, gravid 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

aphs ;
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 heaven'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, 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,

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