Boling. Fetch hither Richard, that in common view
He may furrender: fo we fhall proceed
Without fufpicion.

York. I will be his conduct.

Boling. Lords, you that are here under our arreft,
Procure your fureties for your days of answer:
Little are we beholden to your love,

And little look'd for at your helping hands.

[Exit.

[ To Carle

SCENE III. Enter King Richard and York.
K. Rich. Alack, why am I fent for to a King,
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts
Wherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd
T'infinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee:
Give forrow leave a-while to tutor me
To this fubmiffion. Yet I well remember
The favours of these men: were they not mine?
Did they not fometime cry, all hail to me?
So Judas did to Chrift: but he in twelve,

Found truth in all but one; I, in twelve thousand, none.
To do what fervice, am I fent for hither?

York. To do that office of thine own good will,
Which tired Majefty did make thee offer:

The refignation of thy ftate and crown.

K. Rich. Give me the crown. Here, coufin, feize the

crown.

Here, on this fide my hand, on that fide thine. †

✰ ...... in twelve thoufand, none.

God fave the King! will no man fay, Amen?
Am I both priest and clark? well then, Amen.
God fave the King, although I be not he:
And yet Amen, if heav'n do think him me,
To do what fervice, &c.

on that fide thine.

Now is this golden crown like a deep well,
That owes two buckets, filling one another,
The emptier ever dancing in the air,
The other down, unfeen, and full of water:
That bucket down, and full of tears, am 1,

Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.
Boling. I thought you had been willing to relign.
K. Rich. My crown I am, but ftill my griefs are mine:
You may my glories, and my ftate depole,
But not my griefs, ftill am I King of thofe.

D4 3

Boling

Now, mark me how I will undo'my felf;
I give this heavy weight from off
my head,
And this unwieldy scepter from my hand,
The pride of kingly fway 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 facred state,
With mine own breath releafe all duteous oaths:
All pomp and Majesty I do forswear:
My manors, rents, revenues, I forego;
My acts, decrees, and ftatutes I deny:
God pardon all oaths that are broke to me!
God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee!
Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev❜d,
And thou with all pleas'd, that haft all atchiev'd!
What more remains?

North. No more; but that you read

These accufations, and thefe grievous crimes
Committed by your perfon, and your followers,
Against the state and profit of this land:
That by confeffing them, the fouls of men
May deem that you are worthily depos'd.

K. Rich. Muft I do fo? and must I ravel out
My weav'd-up follies? Oh Northumberland,
If thy offences were upon record,

Would it not fhame thee, in fo fair a troop,
To read a lecture of them? if thou would'st,

Boling. Part of your cares you give me with your crown.
K. Rich. Your cares fet up do not pluck my cares down.
My care, is lofs of care, by old care done;

Your care, is gain of care, by new care won.
The cares 1 give, I have, though given away;
They tend the crown, yet ftill with me they stay.
Boling. Are you contented to refign the crown?
K. Rich. I, no, no, I; for I must nothing be:
Therefore no no, for I refign to thee.
Now, mark me, &c.

that haft all atchiev'd!

Long may'ft thou live in Richard's feat to fit,
And foon lye Richard in an earthy pit!
God fave King Henry, unking'd Richard fays,
And fend him many years of fun-fhine days!
What more, &.

There

There fhould't thou find one heinous article,
Containing the depofing of a King,

And cracking the ftrong warrant of an oath,
Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heav'n.
Nay, all of you, that stand and look upon me,
Whilft that my wretchedness doth bait my self,
Though fome of you with Pilate wash your hands,
Shewing an outward pity; yet you Pilates
Have here deliver'd me to my fow'r cross,
And water cannot wash away your fin.

North. My Lord, difpatch; read o'er these articles.
K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears: I cannot fee:
And yet falt-water blinds them not fo much,
But they can fee a fort of traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon my felf,
I find my felf a traitor with the reft:
For I have given here my foul's confent,
T'undeck the pompous body of a King;
Made glory bafe; a Sovereign, a flave;
Proud Majefty, a subject; state, a peasant.
North. My Lord.

K. Rich. No Lord of thine, infulting man;
Nor no man's Lord: I have no name, no title
No, not that name was giv'n me at the font,
But 'tis ufurp'd. Alack the heavy day!
That I have worn fo many winters out,
And know not now what name to call my felf.
Oh, that I were a mockery King of fnow,
Standing before the fun of Bolingbroke,
To melt my felf away in water-drops! *
An if my word be fterling yet in England,
Let it command a mirror hither straight,
That it may fhew me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his Majefty.

Boling. Go fome of you and fetch a looking-glass.
North. Read o'er this paper, while the glafs doth come,
K. Rich. Fiend, thou torment'ft me, ere I come to hell.

in water-drops.

Good King, great King, and yet not greatly good,

An if my,

Botng.

Boling. Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.
North. The Commons will not then be fatisfy'd.
K. Rich. They fhall be fatisfy'd: I'll read enough,
When I do fee the very book indeed,

Where all my fins are writ, and that's my felf.
Enter one with a glass.

Give me that glass, and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? hath forrow ftruck
So many blows upon this face of mine,

And made no deeper wounds? oh flatt'ring glafs,
Like to my followers in profperity,

Thou doft beguile me. Was this face the face
That every day under his houfhold-roof
Did keep ten thousand men? was this the face,
That like the fun did make beholders wink? †
How foon my forrow hath destroy'd my face!
Boling. The fhadow of your forrow hath deftroy'd
The fhadow of your face.

K. Rich. Say that again.

The fhadow of my forrow! ha, let's fee;
'Tis very true, my grief lies all within,
And these external manners of laments
Are merely fhadows to the unfeen grief,
That fwells with filence in the tortur'd foul.
There lyes the fubftance: and I thank thee, King,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv't
Me caufe to wail, but teacheft me the way
How to lament the caufe. I'll beg one boon,
And then be gone, and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?

Boling. Name it, my fair coufin.

K. Rich. Fair coufin! I am greater than a King a For when I was a King, my flatterers

+ ...... beholders wink?

Is this the face which fac'd fo many follies,
That was at laft out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A bittle glory fineth in this face,

As brittle as the glory, is the face,

For there it is, crackt in an hundred fhivers,
Mark, filent King, the moral of this fport,
How foon my forrow, B.,

Were'

Were then but fubjects? being now a subject,

I have a King here to my flatterer:

Being fo great, I have no need to beg.
Boling. Yet afk.

K. Rich. And fhall I have?

Boling. You fhall.

K. Rich. Then give me leave to go.

Boling. Whither?

K. Rich. Whither you will, fo I were from your fight. Boling. Go fome of you, convey him to the Tower. On Wednesday next we folemnly fet down

Our coronation: Lords, prepare your felves.

[Exe. all but Abbot, Bishop of Carlisle and Aumerle,
SCENE IV.

Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here beheld.
Carl. The woe's to come: the children yet unborn
Shall feel this day as fharp to them as thorn.
Aum. You holy clergy-men, is there no plot
To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?

Abbat. Before I freely speak my mind herein,
You fhall not only take the facrament,
To bury mine intents, but to effect
Whatever I fhall happen to devife.

I fee your brows are full of difcontent,
Your hearts of forrow, and your eyes of tears.
Come home with me to fupper, and I'll lay
A plot fhall fhew us all a merry day.

[Exeunt

A Street in London. Enter Queen and Ladies.
HIS way the King will come: this is the way
To Julius Cefar's ill-erected tow'r,

Queen. T

To whofe flint bofom my condemned Lord
Is doom'd a prifoner, by proud Bolingbroke.
Here let us reft, if this rebellious earth
Have any refting for her true King's Queen.

- to the Tower.

K. Rich. Oh, good! convey: conveyers are you all,
That rife thus nimbly by a true King's fall.
Boling. On Wednesday, &c.

Enter