And yet we hear no tidings from the King:
Therefore we all difperfe our felves: farewel!

Sal. Stay yet another day, thou trufty Welshman :
The King repofeth all his truft 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 ftars of heav'n; The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth; And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change; Rich men look fad, and ruffians dance and leap The one in fear to lose what they enjoy, The other hope t'enjoy by rage and war. These boding figns forerun the death of Kings, Farewel; our countrymen are gone and fled, As well affur'd, Richard their King is dead. [Exit. Sal. Ah, Richard, ah! with eyes of heavy mind I fee thy glory, like a fhooting star,

Fall to the base earth from the firmament:
Thy fun fets weeping in the lowly west,
Witneffing ftorms to come, woe, and unreft:
Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes;
And grofsly to thy good all fortune goes.

ACT III. SCENE I.
Bolingbroke's Camp.

[Exit.

Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Rofs, Percy,
Willoughby, with Bushy and Green Prisoners.
Ring forth thefe

Boling.

B

men.

Busby and Green, I will not vex your fouls (Since prefently your fouls muft 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 fome caufes of your deaths. You have mif-led a Prince, a royal King, A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments, By you unhapped, and disfigur'd clean. You have, in manner, with your finful hours Made a divorce betwixt his Queen and him; Broke the poffeffion of a royal bed,

And

And ftain'd the beauty of a fair Queen's cheeks
With tears drawn from her eyes, by your foul wrongs.
My felf a Prince, by fortune of my birth,
Near to the King in blood, (and near in love,
'Till you did make him mif-interpret me,)
Have ftoopt my neck under your injuries,
And figh'd my English breath in foreign clouds,
Eating the bitter bread of banishment:
While you have fed upon my figniories;
Dif-park'd my parks, and fell'd my foreft woods ;.
From mine own windows torn my houfhold-coat,
Raz'd out my Imprefs; leaving me no fign,
Save mens opinions, and my living blood,
To fhew 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
To execution, and the hand of death.

Busby. More welcome is the ftroak of death to me,
Than Bolingbroke to England.

Green. My comfort is, that heav'n will take our fouls, And plague injuftice with the pains of hell.

Boling. My Lord Northumberland, fee them dispatch'd, Uncle, you fay the Queen is at your house; For heav'n's fake fairly let her be intreated; Tell her I fend to her my kind commends; Take fpecial 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, my Lords, away, A while to work; and, after, holiday.

[Exeunt SCENE II. Changes to the Coaft of Wales. Flourish: Drums, and Trumpets.

Enter King Richard, Aumerle, Bishop of Carlisle, and Soldiers.
K. Rich. Barkloughly-caffle call you this at hand.?
Aum. Yea, my good Lord; how brooks you Grace the air,
After your toffing on the breaking feas?

K. Rich. Need muft I like it well; I weep for joy

To ftand upon my kingdom once again.
Dear earth, I do falute thee with my hand,
Though rebels wound thee with their horfes hoofs :

As

As a long-parted mother with her child

Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting;
So weeping, fmiling, 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 fweets comfort his rav'nous fenfe:
But let thy fpiders that fuck up thy venom,
And heavy-gaited toads, lye in his way,
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet
Which with ufurping fteps do trample thee.
Yield ftinging nettles to mine enemies ;
And when they from thy bofom pluck a flower,
Guard it, I pr'ythee, with a lurking adder;
Whofe,double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy Sovereign's enemies.
Mock not my fenfelefs conjuration, Lords;
This earth fhall have a feeling, and these ftones
Prove armed foldiers, ere her native King
Shall faulter under foul rebellious arms.

2

Carl. Fear not, my Lord, that Pow'r that made you King
Hath pow'r to keep you King, in spight of all.
The means that heaven yields must be embrac❜d,
And not neglected: elfe if heaven would
And we would not, heav'n's offer we refufe,
The proffer'd means of fuccour and redrefs.

Aum. He means, my Lord, that we are too remifs,
Whilft Bolingbroke, through our fecurity,
Grows ftrong and great, in fubftance and in power.
K. Rich. Difcomfortable coufin, know'st thou not,
That when the fearching eye of heav'n is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world;
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unfeen,
In murders, and in outrage bloody here:
But when from under this terreftrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through ev'ry guilty hole;
Then murders, treafons, and detefted fins,

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

King RICHARD II.
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilft we were wand'ring with th' Antipodes,
Shall fee us rifing in our throne, the east;
His treafons will fet blufhing in his face,
Not able to endure the fight of day;
But felf-affrighted, tremble at his fin.
Not all the water in the rough rude fea
Can wash the balm from an anointed King;
The breath of worldly man cannot depofe
The Deputy elected by the Lord.
For every man that Bolingbroke hath preft,
To lift sharp fteel against our golden crown,
Heav'n for his Richard hath in heav'nly pay
A glorious angel; then if angels fight,

Weak men muft fall, for heav'n ftill guards the right.
SCENE III. Enter Salisbury.

Welcome, my Lord, how far off lyes your power?
Sal. Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious Lord,
Than this weak arm; discomfort guides my tongue,
And bids me fpeak of nothing but defpair:
One day too late, I fear, my noble Lord,
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.
Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou fhalt have twelve thousand fighting men.
To-day, to-day, unhappy day too late

O'er-throws thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy flate.
For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, difperft and fled.

Aum. Comfort, my Leige; why looks your Grace fo pale? K. Rich. But now the blood of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face, and they are fled.*

All fouls, that will be fafe, fly from my fide;

For time hath fet a blot upon my pride.

Aum. Comfort, my Liege, remember who you are.
K. Rich. I had forgot my felf: am I not King?
Awake, thou coward Majefty, thou sleepest:
Is not the King's name forty thousand names?

--and they are fled,

And 'till to much blood thither come again,
Have I not reafon to look pale, and dead?
All fouls.

Arm, arm, my name ! a puny fubject strikes
At thy great glory. Look not to the ground,
Ye fav'rites of a King! are we not high?
High be our thoughts! I know my uncle York
Hath pow'r to ferve our turn. But who comes here?
SCENE IV. 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 lofs thou canft unfold.
Say, is my kingdom loft? why, 'twas my care:
And what lofs 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 fo.
Revolt our fubjects? that we cannot mend ;
They break their faith to God as well as us.
Cry woe, deftruction, ruin, lofs, 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 unfeafonable ftormy day,

Which makes the filver rivers drown their fhores,

As if the world were all diffolv'd in tears;

So high above his limits fwells the rage

Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring your fearful land

With hard bright fteel, and hearts more hard than steel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless fcalps
Against thy Majefty; boys with womens voices
Strive to fpeak big, and clafp their female joints
In stiff unwieldly arms, against thy crown;
The very beadfmen learn to bend their bows
Of doubly-fatal yew*, against thy ftate :
Yea, diftaff-women manage rufty bills.
Against thy feat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have pow'r to tell.

K. Rich. Too well, too well thou tell'ft a tale fo ill. Where is the Earl of Wiltshire ?

The Yew is faid to be doubly fatal, from a poifonous quality in it, and from affording inftruments of death in war.

VOL. IV.

What