Enter King Richard and Guards,

But foft, but fee, or rather do not fee,
My fair rofe wither; yet look up; behold,
That you in pity may diffolve to dew,

And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.

O thou, the model where old Troy did stand, [To K. Rich.
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 ale-house guest?

K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,
To make my end too fudden: learn, good foul,
To think our former ftate a happy dream,
From which awak'd, the truth of what we are
Shews us but this. I am fworn brother, Sweet,
To grim Neceffity; and he and I

Will keep a league 'till death. Hye thee to France,
And cloifter thee in fome religious house;
Our holy lives muft win a new world's crown,
Which our profane hours here have ftricken down.
Queen. How, is my Richard both in fhape and mind
Transform'd and weak? hath Bolingbroke depos'd
Thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart?
The Lion dying thrusteth forth his paw,

And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o'erpow'r'd: and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take thy correction mildly, kifs the rod
And fawn on rage with base humility,
Which art a Lion and a King of beafts?

K. Rich. A King of beafts indeed; if ought but beafts, I had been ftill a happy King of men.

Good, fometime Queen! prepare thee hence for France; Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak'ft,

As from my death-bed, my laft living leave.

In winter's tedious nights fit 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,

Sometime, for formerly.

Tell

Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,

And fend the hearers weeping to their beds. †

SCENE II. Enter Northumberland.
North. My Lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd:
You muft to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.
3 And, Madam, there is order ta'en for you:
With all swift speed you muft away to France.
K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke afcends my throne,"
The time fhall not be many hours of age
More than it is, ere foul fin gath'ring 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!

And he shall think, that thou, which know'ft the way
To plant unrightful Kings, wift know again,
Being ne'er fo little urg'd, another way

To pluck him headlong from th' ufurped throne.
The love of wicked friends converts to fear;
That fear to hate; and hate turns one, or both,
To worthy danger, and deferved death.

North. My guilt be on my head! and there's an end.
Take leave, and part, for you must part forthwith.
K. Rich. Doubly divorc'd? Bad men, ye violate
A two-fold marriage; 'twixt my crown and me,
And then betwixt me and my married wife.

Let me unkifs the oath 'twixt thee and me: [To the Queen,
And yet not fo, for with a kiss 'twas made.

Part us, Northumberland: I, towards the North,
Where thiv'ring cold and fickness pines the clime:

My Queen to France; from whence, fet forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither like sweet May,

Sent back like Hollowmas, or fhortest day.

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

+ to their beds.

For why the fenfelefs brands will fympathize

The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,

And in compaffion weep the fire out:

And fome will mourn in afhes, fome coal-black,

For the depofing of a rightful King.
SCENE

Banifh us both, and fend the King with me.
North. That were fome love, but little policy.

K. Rich. Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart.

[They kifs.

Queen. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good part, To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart, [Kifs again, So, now I have mine own again, be gone, That I may ftrive to kill it with a gróan. K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay: Once more, adieu! the reft let forrow say.

SCENE III.

.

[Exeunt,

The Duke of York's Palace.
Enter York and bis Dutchess.

Dutch. My Lord, you told me you would tell the reft,
When weeping made you break the ftory off,

Of our two coufins coming into London.

York. Where did I leave?

Dutch. At that fad ftop, my Lord,

Where rude mif-govern'd hands, from window-tops,
Threw duft and rubbish on King Richard's head.
York. Then, as I faid, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery fteed,

Which his afpiring rider feem'd to know,

With flow but stately pace kept on his courfe:
While all tongues cry'd, God fave thee, Bolingbroke
You would have thought the very windows fpake,
So many greedy looks of young and old

Through cafements darted their defiring eyes
Upon his vifage; and that all the walls
With painted imag'ry had faid at once,

$....... but little policy.

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 heres
Better far off; than near, be ne'er the near.

Go, count thy way with fighs, I mine with groans:
Queen. So longeft way thall have the longest moans.

K. Rich. Twice for one itep I'll groan, the way being short,
And piece the way out with a heavy heart.

Come, come, in wooing forrow let's be brief,
Since, wedding it, there is fuch length in grief:
One kifs fhall top our mouths, and dumbly part ;
Thus give I mine, .

1

Jefu preferve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilft he, from one fide to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud fteed's neck,
Bespoke them thus; I thank you, country-men ;
And thus still doing, thus he paft along.

Dutch. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while?
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 fo, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did fcowl on Richard; no man cry'd, God fave him!
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;
But duft was thrown upon his facred head;
Which with fuch gentle forrow he shook off,
His face ftill combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience;

That had not God, for fome ftrong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism it felf have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whofe high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we fworn fubjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow.

SCENE IV. Enter Aumerle.
Dutch. Here comes my fon Aumerle.
York. Aumerle that was,

But that is loft, for being Richard's friend.
And, Madam, you must call him Rutland now:
I am in Parliament pledge for his truth,
And lafting fealty to the new-made King.

Dutch. Welcome, my fon; who are the Violets now,
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?
Aum. Madam, I know not, nor do greatly care :

God knows I had as lief be none, as one.

York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time, Left you be cropt before you come to prime.

What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs ? Aum. For ought I know, they do.

York. You will be there,

VOL. IV.

Bum

Aum. If God prevent me not, I purpofe fo.

York. What feal is that that hangs without thy bofom? Yea, look'ft thou pale? come, let me fee the writing. Aum. My Lord, 'tis nothing.

York. No matter then who fees it.
I will be fatisfied, let me fee the writing.
Aum. I do befeech your Grace to pardon me,
It is a matter of fmall confequence,

Which for fome reafons I would not have feen.

York. Which for fome reafons, Sir, I mean to fee. I fear, I fear

Dutch. What fhould you fear, my Lord ?

Tis nothing but fome bond he's enter'd into, For gay apparel, now against the triumph.

York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond That he is bound to? wife, thou art a fool.

Boy, let me fee the writing.

Aum. I do befeech you pardon me, I may not fhew it. York: I will be fatisfied, let me fee it, I fay.

[Snatches it, and reads. Treafon! foul treafon! villain, traitor, flave!

Dutch. What's the matter, my Lord?

York. Hoa, who's within there? faddle me my horfe. Heav'n for his mercy! what treachery is here!

Dutch. Why, what is't, my Lord?

York. Give me my boots, 1 fay; laddle my horse. Now by my honour, by my life, my troth,

I will appeach the villain.

Dutch. What is the matter?

York. Peace, foolish woman!

Dutch. I will not peace: what is the matter, fon? Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more Thin my poor life must answer.

Dutch. Thy life answer!

SCENE V. Enter Servant with boots. York, Bring me my boots. I will unto the King. Dutch. Strike him, Aumerle. (Poor boy, thou art amaz`d.)

Hence, villain, never more come in my fight!

York. Give me my boots.

[Speaking to the Servant.

Dutch.