My wife to France; 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 North. That were some love, but little policy. Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go?

K. Rich. So two, together weeping, make one 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 K. Rich. Twice for one step I'll

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 I take thy heart.

[They kiss. Queen. Give me mine own again ; 'twere no good

part, To take on me to keep and kill thy heart.

[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.


groan, the

2 Allhallows, i.e. All-saints, Nov. 1.


The same.

A Room in the Duke of York's Palace.

Enter York, and his Duchess. Duch. My lord, you told me, you would tell the

When weeping made you break the story off,
Of our two cousins coming into London.

York. Where did I leave ?

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 Boling

broke, 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 Boling

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 imag'ry, 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 rides he the

while ?
York. As, in a theatre, the eyes


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 Richard ; 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



Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle.

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.
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: Heaven 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 3 and

triumphs? Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do. York. You will be there, I know. Aum. I purpose so. York. What seal is that, that hangs without thy


3 Tilts and tournaments.

Yea, look'st thou pale ? let me see the writing.

Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.

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,

What should


fear ? 'Tis nothing but some bond that he is enter'd into For gay apparel, 'gainst the triumph day. York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a

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? [Enter a Servant.] Saddle


Heaven 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.

[Exit Servant. Duch.

What's the matter ?
York. Peace, foolish woman.
Duch. I will not peace:

What is the matter,
Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.

Thy life answer!

Re-enter Servant, with Boots. York. Bring me my boots, I will unto the king. Duch. Strike him, Aumerle, - Poor boy, thou

art amaz’d: Hence, villain ; never more come in my sight. —

[To the 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 ?
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,
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.

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.

Hadst thou groan’d for him, As I have done, thou’dst be more pitiful.

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 :



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