North. The Noble Duke hath been too much abus'd
Ross. It stands your Grace vpon, to doe him right
Willo. Base men by his endowments are made great
York. My Lords of England, let me tell you this,I haue had feeling of my Cosens Wrongs,And labour'd all I could to doe him right:But in this kind, to come in brauing Armes,Be his owne Caruer, and cut out his way,To find out Right with Wrongs, it may not be;And you that doe abett him in this kind,Cherish Rebellion, and are Rebels all
North. The Noble Duke hath sworne his comming isBut for his owne; and for the right of that,Wee all haue strongly sworne to giue him ayd,And let him neu'r see Ioy, that breakes that Oath
York. Well, well, I see the issue of these Armes,I cannot mend it, I must needes confesse,Because my power is weake, and all ill left:But if I could, by him that gaue me life,I would attach you all, and make you stoopeVnto the Soueraigne Mercy of the King.But since I cannot, be it knowne to you,I doe remaine as Neuter. So fare you well,Vnlesse you please to enter in the Castle,And there repose you for this Night
Bull. An offer Vnckle, that wee will accept:But wee must winne your Grace to goe with vsTo Bristow Castle, which they say is heldBy Bushie, Bagot, and their Complices,The Caterpillers of the Commonwealth,Which I haue sworne to weed, and plucke away
York. It may be I will go with you: but yet Ile pawse,For I am loth to breake our Countries Lawes:Nor Friends, nor Foes, to me welcome you are,Things past redresse, are now with me past care.
Exeunt.
Scoena Quarta.
Enter Salisbury, and a Captaine.
Capt. My Lord of Salisbury, we haue stayd ten dayes,And hardly kept our Countreymen together,And yet we heare no tidings from the King;Therefore we will disperse our selues: farewell
Sal. Stay yet another day, thou trustie Welchman,The King reposeth all his confidence in thee
Capt. 'Tis thought the King is dead, we will not stay;The Bay-trees in our Countrey all are wither'd,And Meteors fright the fixed Starres of Heauen;The pale-fac'd Moone lookes bloody on the Earth,And leane-look'd Prophets whisper fearefull change;Rich men looke sad, and Ruffians dance and leape,The one in feare, to loose what they enioy,The other to enioy by Rage, and Warre:These signes fore-run the death of Kings.Farewell, our Countreymen are gone and fled,As well assur'd Richard their King is dead.Enter.
Sal. Ah Richard, with eyes of heauie mind,I see thy Glory, like a shooting Starre,Fall to the base Earth, from the Firmament:Thy Sunne sets weeping in the lowly West,Witnessing Stormes to come, Woe, and Vnrest:Thy Friends are fled, to wait vpon thy Foes,And crossely to thy good, all fortune goes.Enter.
Actus Tertius. Scena Prima.
Enter Bullingbrooke, Yorke, Northumberland, Rosse, Percie, Willoughby, with Bushie and Greene Prisoners.
Bull. Bring forth these men:Bushie and Greene, I will not vex your soules,(Since presently your soules must part your bodies)With too much vrging your pernitious liues,For 'twere no Charitie: yet to wash your bloodFrom off my hands, here in the view of men,I will vnfold some causes of your deaths.You haue mis-led a Prince, a Royall King,A happie Gentleman in Blood, and Lineaments,By you vnhappied, and disfigur'd cleane:You haue in manner with your sinfull houresMade a Diuorce betwixt his Queene and him,Broke the possession of a Royall Bed,And stayn'd the beautie of a faire Queenes Cheekes,With teares drawn fro[m] her eyes, with your foule wrongs.My selfe a Prince, by fortune of my birth,Neere to the King in blood, and neere in loue,Till you did make him mis-interprete me,Haue stoopt my neck vnder your iniuries,And sigh'd my English breath in forraine Clouds,Eating the bitter bread of banishment;While you haue fed vpon my Seignories,Dis-park'd my Parkes, and fell'd my Forrest Woods;From mine owne Windowes torne my Household Coat,Raz'd out my Impresse, leauing me no signe,Saue mens opinions, and my liuing blood,To shew the World I am a Gentleman.This, and much more, much more then twice all this,Condemnes you to the death: see them deliuered ouerTo execution, and the hand of death
Bushie. More welcome is the stroake of death to me,Then Bullingbrooke to England
Greene. My comfort is, that Heauen will take our soules,And plague Iniustice with the paines of Hell
Bull. My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatch'd:Vnckle, you say the Queene is at your House,For Heauens sake fairely let her be entreated,Tell her I send to her my kind commends;Take speciall care my Greetings be deliuer'd
York. A Gentleman of mine I haue dispatch'dWith Letters of your loue, to her at large
Bull. Thankes gentle Vnckle: come Lords away,To fight with Glendoure, and his Complices;A while to worke, and after holliday.
Exeunt.
Scena Secunda.
Drums: Flourish, and Colours. Enter Richard, Aumerle, Carlile,andSouldiers.
Rich. Barkloughly Castle call you this at hand?Au. Yea, my Lord: how brooks your Grace the ayre,After your late tossing on the breaking Seas?Rich. Needs must I like it well: I weepe for ioyTo stand vpon my Kingdome once againe.Deere Earth, I doe salute thee with my hand,Though Rebels wound thee with their Horses hoofes:As a long parted Mother with her Child,Playes fondly with her teares, and smiles in meeting;So weeping, smiling, greet I thee my Earth,And doe thee fauor with my Royall hands.Feed not thy Soueraignes Foe, my gentle Earth,Nor with thy Sweetes, comfort his rauenous sence:But let thy Spiders, that suck vp thy Venome,And heauie-gated Toades lye in their way,Doing annoyance to the trecherous feete,Which with vsurping steps doe trample thee.Yeeld stinging Nettles to mine Enemies;And when they from thy Bosome pluck a Flower,Guard it I prethee with a lurking Adder,Whose double tongue may with a mortall touchThrow death vpon thy Soueraignes Enemies.Mock not my sencelesse Coniuration, Lords;This Earth shall haue a feeling, and these StonesProue armed Souldiers, ere her Natiue KingShall falter vnder foule Rebellious Armes
Car. Feare not my Lord, that Power that made you KingHath power to keepe you King, in spight of all
Aum. He meanes, my Lord, that we are too remisse,Whilest Bullingbrooke through our securitie,Growes strong and great, in substance and in friends
Rich. Discomfortable Cousin, knowest thou not,That when the searching Eye of Heauen is hidBehind the Globe, that lights the lower World,Then Theeues and Robbers raunge abroad vnseene,In Murthers and in Out-rage bloody here:But when from vnder this Terrestriall BallHe fires the prowd tops of the Easterne Pines,And darts his Lightning through eu'ry guiltie hole,Then Murthers, Treasons, and detested sinnes(The Cloake of Night being pluckt from off their backs)Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselues.So when this Theefe, this Traytor Bullingbrooke,Who all this while hath reuell'd in the Night,Shall see vs rising in our Throne, the East,His Treasons will sit blushing in his face,Not able to endure the sight of Day;But selfe-affrighted, tremble at his sinne.Not all the Water in the rough rude SeaCan wash the Balme from an anoynted King;The breath of worldly men cannot deposeThe Deputie elected by the Lord:For euery man that Bullingbrooke hath prest,To lift shrewd Steele against our Golden Crowne,Heauen for his Richard hath in heauenly payA glorious Angell: then if Angels fight,Weake men must fall, for Heauen still guards the right.Enter Salisbury.
Welcome my Lord, how farre off lyes your Power?Salisb. Nor neere, nor farther off, my gracious Lord,Then this weake arme; discomfort guides my tongue,And bids me speake of nothing but despaire:One day too late, I feare (my Noble Lord)Hath clouded all thy happie dayes on Earth:Oh call backe Yesterday, bid Time returne,And thou shalt haue twelue thousand fighting men:To day, to day, vnhappie day too lateOrethrowes thy Ioyes, Friends, Fortune, and thy State;For all the Welchmen hearing thou wert dead,Are gone to Bullingbrooke, disperst, and fled
Aum. Comfort my Liege, why lookes your Grace sopale?Rich. But now the blood of twentie thousand menDid triumph in my face, and they are fled,And till so much blood thither come againe,Haue I not reason to looke pale, and dead?All Soules that will be safe, flye from my side,For Time hath set a blot vpon my pride
Aum. Comfort my Liege, remember who you are
Rich. I had forgot my selfe. Am I not King?Awake thou sluggard Maiestie, thou sleepest:Is not the Kings Name fortie thousand Names?Arme, arme my Name: a punie subiect strikesAt thy great glory. Looke not to the ground,Ye Fauorites of a King: are wee not high?High be our thoughts: I know my Vnckle YorkeHath Power enough to serue our turne.But who comes here?Enter Scroope.
Scroope. More health and happinesse betide my Liege,Then can my care-tun'd tongue deliuer him
Rich. Mine eare is open, and my heart prepar'd:The worst is worldly losse, thou canst vnfold:Say, Is my Kingdome lost? why 'twas my Care:And what losse is it to be rid of Care?Striues Bullingbrooke to be as Great as wee?Greater he shall not be: If hee serue God,Wee'l serue him too, and be his Fellow so.Reuolt our Subiects? That we cannot mend,They breake their Faith to God, as well as vs:Cry Woe, Destruction, Ruine, Losse, Decay,The worst is Death, and Death will haue his day
Scroope. Glad am I, that your Highnesse is so arm'dTo beare the tidings of Calamitie.Like an vnseasonable stormie day,Which make the Siluer Riuers drowne their Shores,As if the World were all dissolu'd to teares:So high, aboue his Limits, swells the RageOf Bullingbrooke, couering your fearefull LandWith hard bright Steele, and hearts harder then Steele:White Beares haue arm'd their thin and hairelesse ScalpsAgainst thy Maiestie, and Boyes with Womens Voyces,Striue to speake bigge, and clap their female iointsIn stiffe vnwieldie Armes: against thy CrowneThy very Beads-men learne to bend their BowesOf double fatall Eugh: against thy StateYea Distaffe-Women manage rustie Bills:Against thy Seat both young and old rebell,And all goes worse then I haue power to tell
Rich. Too well, too well thou tell'st a Tale so ill.Where is the Earle of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?What is become of Bushie? where is Greene?That they haue let the dangerous EnemieMeasure our Confines with such peacefull steps?If we preuaile, their heads shall pay for it.I warrant they haue made peace with Bullingbrooke
Scroope. Peace haue they made with him indeede (myLord.)Rich. Oh Villains, Vipers, damn'd without redemption,Dogges, easily woon to fawne on any man,Snakes in my heart blood warm'd, that sting my heart,Three Iudasses, each one thrice worse then Iudas,Would they make peace? terrible Hell make warreVpon their spotted Soules for this Offence
Scroope. Sweet Loue (I see) changing his propertie,Turnes to the sowrest, and most deadly hate:Againe vncurse their Soules; their peace is madeWith Heads, and not with Hands: those whom you curseHaue felt the worst of Deaths destroying hand,And lye full low, grau'd in the hollow ground
Aum. Is Bushie, Greene, and the Earle of Wiltshiredead?Scroope. Yea, all of them at Bristow lost their heads
Aum. Where is the Duke my Father with his Power?Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man speake:Let's talke of Graues, of Wormes, and Epitaphs,Make Dust our Paper, and with Raynie eyesWrite Sorrow on the Bosome of the Earth.Let's chuse Executors, and talke of Wills:And yet not so; for what can we bequeath,Saue our deposed bodies to the ground?Our Lands, our Liues, and all are Bullingbrookes,And nothing can we call our owne, but Death,And that small Modell of the barren Earth,Which serues as Paste, and Couer to our Bones:For Heauens sake let vs sit vpon the ground,And tell sad stories of the death of Kings:How some haue been depos'd, some slaine in warre,Some haunted by the Ghosts they haue depos'd,Some poyson'd by their Wiues, some sleeping kill'd,All murther'd. For within the hollow CrowneThat rounds the mortall Temples of a King,Keepes Death his Court, and there the Antique sitsScoffing his State, and grinning at his Pompe,Allowing him a breath, a little Scene,To Monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with lookes,Infusing him with selfe and vaine conceit,As if this Flesh, which walls about our Life,Were Brasse impregnable: and humor'd thus,Comes at the last, and with a little PinneBores through his Castle Walls, and farwell King.Couer your heads, and mock not flesh and bloodWith solemne Reuerence: throw away Respect,Tradition, Forme, and Ceremonious dutie,For you haue but mistooke me all this while:I liue with Bread like you, feele Want,Taste Griefe, need Friends: subiected thus,How can you say to me, I am a King?Carl. My Lord, wise men ne're waile their present woes,But presently preuent the wayes to waile:To feare the Foe, since feare oppresseth strength,Giues in your weakenesse, strength vnto your Foe;Feare, and be slaine, no worse can come to sight,And fight and die, is death destroying death,Where fearing, dying, payes death seruile breath
Aum. My Father hath a Power, enquire of him;And learne to make a Body of a Limbe
Rich. Thou chid'st me well: proud Bullingbrooke I comeTo change Blowes with thee, for our day of Doome:This ague fit of feare is ouer-blowne,An easie taske it is to winne our owne.Say Scroope, where lyes our Vnckle with his Power?Speake sweetly man, although thy lookes be sowre
Scroope. Men iudge by the complexion of the SkieThe state and inclination of the day;So may you by my dull and heauie Eye:My Tongue hath but a heauier Tale to say:I play the Torturer, by small and smallTo lengthen out the worst, that must be spoken.Your Vnckle Yorke is ioyn'd with Bullingbrooke,And all your Northerne Castles yeelded vp,And all your Southerne Gentlemen in ArmesVpon his Faction
Rich. Thou hast said enough.Beshrew thee Cousin, which didst lead me forthOf that sweet way I was in, to despaire:What say you now? What comfort haue we now?By Heauen Ile hate him euerlastingly,That bids me be of comfort any more.Goe to Flint Castle, there Ile pine away,A King, Woes slaue, shall Kingly Woe obey:That Power I haue, discharge, and let 'em goeTo eare the Land, that hath some hope to grow,For I haue none. Let no man speake againeTo alter this, for counsaile is but vaine
Aum. My Liege, one word
Rich. He does me double wrong,That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.Discharge my followers: let them hence away,From Richards Night, to Bullingbrookes faire Day.
Exeunt.
Scaena Tertia.
Enter with Drum and Colours, Bullingbrooke, Yorke,Northumberland,Attendants.
Bull. So that by this intelligence we learneThe Welchmen are dispers'd, and SalisburyIs gone to meet the King, who lately landedWith some few priuate friends, vpon this Coast
North. The newes is very faire and good, my Lord,Richard, not farre from hence, hath hid his head
York. It would beseeme the Lord Northumberland,To say King Richard: alack the heauie day,When such a sacred King should hide his head
North. Your Grace mistakes: onely to be briefe,Left I his Title out
York. The time hath beene,Would you haue beene so briefe with him, he wouldHaue beene so briefe with you, to shorten you,For taking so the Head, your whole heads length
Bull. Mistake not (Vnckle) farther then you should
York. Take not (good Cousin) farther then you should.Least you mistake the Heauens are ore your head
Bull. I know it (Vnckle) and oppose not my selfeAgainst their will. But who comes here?Enter Percie.
Welcome Harry: what, will not this Castle yeeld?Per. The Castle royally is mann'd, my Lord,Against thy entrance
Bull. Royally? Why, it containes no King?Per. Yes (my good Lord)It doth containe a King: King Richard lyesWithin the limits of yond Lime and Stone,And with him, the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury,Sir Stephen Scroope, besides a Clergie manOf holy reuerence; who, I cannot learne
North. Oh, belike it is the Bishop of Carlile
Bull. Noble Lord,Goe to the rude Ribs of that ancient Castle,Through Brazen Trumpet send the breath of ParleInto his ruin'd Eares, and thus deliuer:Henry Bullingbrooke vpon his knees doth kisseKing Richards hand, and sends allegeanceAnd true faith of heart to his Royall Person: hither comeEuen at his feet, to lay my Armes and Power,Prouided, that my Banishment repeal'd,And Lands restor'd againe, be freely graunted:If not, Ile vse th 'aduantage of my Power,And lay the Summers dust with showers of blood,Rayn'd from the wounds of slaughter'd Englishmen;The which, how farre off from the mind of BullingbrookeIt is, such Crimson Tempest should bedrenchThe fresh greene Lap of faire King Richards Land,My stooping dutie tenderly shall shew.Goe signifie as much, while here we marchVpon the Grassie Carpet of this Plaine:Let's march without the noyse of threatning Drum,That from this Castles tatter'd BattlementsOur faire Appointments may be well perus'd.Me thinkes King Richard and my selfe should meetWith no lesse terror then the ElementsOf Fire and Water, when their thundring smoakeAt meeting teares the cloudie Cheekes of Heauen:Be he the fire, Ile be the yeelding Water;The Rage be his, while on the Earth I raineMy Waters on the Earth, and not on him.March on, and marke King Richard how he lookes.
Parle without, and answere within: then a Flourish. Enter on theWalls,Richard, Carlile, Aumerle, Scroop, Salisbury.
See, see, King Richard doth himselfe appeareAs doth the blushing discontented Sunne,From out the fierie Portall of the East,When he perceiues the enuious Clouds are bentTo dimme his glory, and to staine the tractOf his bright passage to the Occident
York. Yet lookes he like a King: behold his Eye(As bright as is the Eagles) lightens forthControlling Maiestie: alack, alack, for woe,That any harme should staine so faire a shew
Rich. Wee are amaz'd, and thus long haue we stoodTo watch the fearefull bending of thy knee,Because we thought our selfe thy lawfull King:And if we be, how dare thy ioynts forgetTo pay their awfull dutie to our presence?If we be not, shew vs the Hand of God,That hath dismiss'd vs from our Stewardship,For well wee know, no Hand of Blood and BoneCan gripe the sacred Handle of our Scepter,Vnlesse he doe prophane, steale, or vsurpe.And though you thinke, that all, as you haue done,Haue torne their Soules, by turning them from vs,And we are barren, and bereft of Friends:Yet know, my Master, God Omnipotent,Is mustring in his Clouds, on our behalfe,Armies of Pestilence, and they shall strikeYour Children yet vnborne, and vnbegot,That lift your Vassall Hands against my Head,And threat the Glory of my precious Crowne.Tell Bullingbrooke, for yond me thinkes he is,That euery stride he makes vpon my Land,Is dangerous Treason: He is come to opeThe purple Testament of bleeding Warre;But ere the Crowne he lookes for, liue in peace,Ten thousand bloody crownes of Mothers SonnesShall ill become the flower of Englands face,Change the complexion of her Maid-pale PeaceTo Scarlet Indignation, and bedewHer Pastors Grasse with faithfull English Blood
North. The King of Heauen forbid our Lord the KingShould so with ciuill and vnciuill ArmesBe rush'd vpon: Thy thrice-noble Cousin,Harry Bullingbrooke, doth humbly kisse thy hand,And by the Honorable Tombe he sweares,That stands vpon your Royall Grandsires Bones,And by the Royalties of both your Bloods,(Currents that spring from one most gracious Head)And by the buried Hand of Warlike Gaunt,And by the Worth and Honor of himselfe,Comprising all that may be sworne, or said,His comming hither hath no further scope,Then for his Lineall Royalties, and to beggeInfranchisement immediate on his knees:Which on thy Royall partie graunted once,His glittering Armes he will commend to Rust,His barbed Steedes to Stables, and his heartTo faithfull seruice of your Maiestie:This sweares he, as he is a Prince, is iust,And as I am a Gentleman, I credit him
Rich. Northumberland, say thus: The King returnes,His Noble Cousin is right welcome hither,And all the number of his faire demandsShall be accomplish'd without contradiction:With all the gracious vtterance thou hast,Speake to his gentle hearing kind commends.We doe debase our selfe (Cousin) doe we not,To looke so poorely, and to speake so faire?Shall we call back Northumberland, and sendDefiance to the Traytor, and so die?Aum. No, good my Lord, let's fight with gentle words,Till time lend friends, and friends their helpeful Swords
Rich. Oh God, oh God, that ere this tongue of mine,That layd the Sentence of dread BanishmentOn yond prowd man, should take it off againeWith words of sooth: Oh that I were as greatAs is my Griefe, or lesser then my Name,Or that I could forget what I haue beene,Or not remember what I must be now:Swell'st thou prowd heart? Ile giue thee scope to beat,Since Foes haue scope to beat both thee and me
Aum. Northumberland comes backe from Bullingbrooke
Rich. What must the King doe now? must he submit?The King shall doe it: Must he be depos'd?The King shall be contented: Must he looseThe Name of King? o' Gods Name let it goe.Ile giue my Iewels for a sett of Beades,My gorgeous Pallace, for a Hermitage,My gay Apparrell, for an Almes-mans Gowne,My figur'd Goblets, for a Dish of Wood,My Scepter, for a Palmers walking Staffe,My Subiects, for a payre of carued Saints,And my large Kingdome, for a little Graue,A little little Graue, an obscure Graue.Or Ile be buryed in the Kings high-way,Some way of common Trade, where Subiects feetMay howrely trample on their Soueraignes Head:For on my heart they tread now, whilest I liue;And buryed once, why not vpon my Head?Aumerle, thou weep'st (my tender-hearted Cousin)Wee'le make foule Weather with despised Teares:Our sighes, and they, shall lodge the Summer Corne,And make a Dearth in this reuolting Land.Or shall we play the Wantons with our Woes,And make some prettie Match, with shedding Teares?As thus: to drop them still vpon one place,Till they haue fretted vs a payre of Graues,Within the Earth: and therein lay'd, there lyesTwo Kinsmen, digg'd their Graues with weeping Eyes?Would not this ill, doe well? Well, well, I seeI talke but idly, and you mock at mee.Most mightie Prince, my Lord Northumberland,What sayes King Bullingbrooke? Will his MaiestieGiue Richard leaue to liue, till Richard die?You make a Legge, and Bullingbrooke sayes I
North. My Lord, in the base Court he doth attendTo speake with you, may it please you to come downe
Rich. Downe, downe I come, like glist'ring Phaeton,Wanting the manage of vnruly Iades.In the base Court? base Court, where Kings grow base,To come at Traytors Calls, and doe them Grace.In the base Court come down: down Court, down King,For night-Owls shrike, where mou[n]ting Larks should sing
Bull. What sayes his Maiestie?North. Sorrow, and griefe of heartMakes him speake fondly, like a frantick man:Yet he is come
Bull. Stand all apart,And shew faire dutie to his Maiestie.My gracious Lord
Rich. Faire Cousin,You debase your Princely Knee,To make the base Earth prowd with kissing it.Me rather had, my Heart might feele your Loue,Then my vnpleas'd Eye see your Courtesie.Vp Cousin, vp, your Heart is vp, I know,Thus high at least, although your Knee be low
Bull. My gracious Lord, I come but for mineowne
Rich. Your owne is yours, and I am yours, andall
Bull. So farre be mine, my most redoubted Lord,As my true seruice shall deserue your loue
Rich. Well you deseru'd:They well deserue to haue,That know the strong'st, and surest way to get.Vnckle giue me your Hand: nay, drie your Eyes,Teares shew their Loue, but want their Remedies.Cousin, I am too young to be your Father,Though you are old enough to be my Heire.What you will haue, Ile giue, and willing to,For doe we must, what force will haue vs doe.Set on towards London:Cousin, is it so?Bull. Yea, my good Lord
Rich. Then I must not say, no.
Flourish.
Exeunt.
Scena Quarta.
Enter the Queene, and two Ladies
Qu. What sport shall we deuise here in this Garden,To driue away the heauie thought of Care?La. Madame, wee'le play at Bowles
Qu. 'Twill make me thinke the World is full of Rubs,And that my fortune runnes against the Byas
La. Madame, wee'le Dance
Qu. My Legges can keepe no measure in Delight,When my poore Heart no measure keepes in Griefe.Therefore no Dancing (Girle) some other sport
La. Madame, wee'le tell Tales
Qu. Of Sorrow, or of Griefe?La. Of eyther, Madame
Qu. Of neyther, Girle.For if of Ioy, being altogether wanting,It doth remember me the more of Sorrow:Or if of Griefe, being altogether had,It addes more Sorrow to my want of Ioy:For what I haue, I need not to repeat;And what I want, it bootes not to complaine
La. Madame, Ile sing
Qu. 'Tis well that thou hast cause:But thou should'st please me better, would'st thou weepe
La. I could weepe, Madame, would it doe you good
Qu. And I could sing, would weeping doe me good,And neuer borrow any Teare of thee.Enter a Gardiner, and two Seruants.
But stay, here comes the Gardiners,Let's step into the shadow of these Trees.My wretchednesse, vnto a Rowe of Pinnes,They'le talke of State: for euery one doth so,Against a Change; Woe is fore-runne with Woe
Gard. Goe binde thou vp yond dangling Apricocks,Which like vnruly Children, make their SyreStoupe with oppression of their prodigall weight:Giue some supportance to the bending twigges.Goe thou, and like an ExecutionerCut off the heads of too fast growing sprayes,That looke too loftie in our Common-wealth:All must be euen, in our Gouernment.You thus imploy'd, I will goe root awayThe noysome Weedes, that without profit suckeThe Soyles fertilitie from wholesome flowers
Ser. Why should we, in the compasse of a Pale,Keepe Law and Forme, and due Proportion,Shewing as in a Modell our firme Estate?When our Sea-walled Garden, the whole Land,Is full of Weedes, her fairest Flowers choakt vp,Her Fruit-trees all vnpruin'd, her Hedges ruin'd,Her Knots disorder'd, and her wholesome HearbesSwarming with Caterpillers
Gard. Hold thy peace.He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd Spring,Hath now himselfe met with the Fall of Leafe.The Weeds that his broad-spreading Leaues did shelter,That seem'd, in eating him, to hold him vp,Are pull'd vp, Root and all, by Bullingbrooke:I meane, the Earle of Wiltshire, Bushie, Greene
Ser. What are they dead?Gard. They are,And Bullingbrooke hath seiz'd the wastefull King.Oh, what pitty is it, that he had not so trim'dAnd drest his Land, as we this Garden, at time of yeare,And wound the Barke, the skin of our Fruit-trees,Least being ouer-proud with Sap and Blood,With too much riches it confound it selfe?Had he done so, to great and growing men,They might haue liu'd to beare, and he to tasteTheir fruites of dutie. Superfluous branchesWe lop away, that bearing boughes may liue:Had he done so, himselfe had borne the Crowne,Which waste and idle houres, hath quite thrown downe
Ser. What thinke you the King shall be depos'd?Gar. Deprest he is already, and depos'd'Tis doubted he will be. Letters came last nightTo a deere Friend of the Duke of Yorkes,That tell blacke tydings
Qu. Oh I am prest to death through want of speaking:Thou old Adams likenesse, set to dresse this Garden:How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this vnpleasing newesWhat Eue? what Serpent hath suggested thee,To make a second fall of cursed man?Why do'st thou say, King Richard is depos'd,Dar'st thou, thou little better thing then earth,Diuine his downfall? Say, where, when, and howCam'st thou by this ill-tydings? Speake thou wretch
Gard. Pardon me Madam. Little ioy haue ITo breath these newes; yet what I say, is true;King Richard, he is in the mighty holdOf Bullingbrooke, their Fortunes both are weigh'd:In your Lords Scale, is nothing but himselfe,And some few Vanities, that make him light:But in the Ballance of great Bullingbrooke,Besides himselfe, are all the English Peeres,And with that oddes he weighes King Richard downe.Poste you to London, and you'l finde it so,I speake no more, then euery one doth know
Qu. Nimble mischance, that art so light of foote,Doth not thy Embassage belong to me?And am I last that knowes it? Oh thou think'stTo serue me last, that I may longest keepeThy sorrow in my breast. Come Ladies goe,To meet at London, Londons King in woe.What was I borne to this: that my sad looke,Should grace the Triumph of great Bullingbrooke.Gard'ner, for telling me this newes of woe,I would the Plants thou graft'st, may neuer grow.Enter.
G. Poore Queen, so that thy State might be no worse,I would my skill were subiect to thy curse:Heere did she drop a teare, heere in this placeIle set a Banke of Rew, sowre Herbe of Grace:Rue, eu'n for ruth, heere shortly shall be seene,In the remembrance of a Weeping Queene.Enter.
Actus Quartus. Scoena Prima.
Enter as to the Parliament, Bullingbrooke, Aumerle,Northumberland,Percie, FitzWater, Surrey, Carlile, Abbot of Westminster. Herauld,Officers, and Bagot.
Bullingbrooke. Call forth Bagot.Now Bagot, freely speake thy minde,What thou do'st know of Noble Glousters death:Who wrought it with the King, and who perform'dThe bloody Office of his Timelesse end
Bag. Then set before my face, the Lord Aumerle
Bul. Cosin, stand forth, and looke vpon that man
Bag. My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongueScornes to vnsay, what it hath once deliuer'd.In that dead time, when Glousters death was plotted,I heard you say, Is not my arme of length,That reacheth from the restfull English CourtAs farre as Callis, to my Vnkles head.Amongst much other talke, that very time,I heard you say, that you had rather refuseThe offer of an hundred thousand Crownes,Then Bullingbrookes returne to England; adding withall,How blest this Land would be, in this your Cosins death
Aum. Princes, and Noble Lords:What answer shall I make to this base man?Shall I so much dishonor my faire Starres,On equall termes to giue him chasticement?Either I must, or haue mine honor soyl'dWith th' Attaindor of his sland'rous Lippes.There is my Gage, the manuall Seale of deathThat markes thee out for Hell. Thou lyest,And will maintaine what thou hast said, is false,In thy heart blood, though being all too baseTo staine the temper of my Knightly sword
Bul. Bagot forbeare, thou shalt not take it vp
Aum. Excepting one, I would he were the bestIn all this presence, that hath mou'd me so
Fitz. If that thy valour stand on sympathize:There is my Gage, Aumerle, in Gage to thine:By that faire Sunne, that shewes me where thou stand'st,I heard thee say (and vauntingly thou spak'st it)That thou wer't cause of Noble Glousters death.If thou deniest it, twenty times thou lyest,And I will turne thy falshood to thy hart,Where it was forged with my Rapiers point
Aum. Thou dar'st not (Coward) liue to see the day
Fitz. Now by my Soule, I would it were this houre
Aum. Fitzwater thou art damn'd to hell for this
Per. Aumerle, thou lye'st: his Honor is as trueIn this Appeale, as thou art all vniust:And that thou art so, there I throw my GageTo proue it on thee, to th' extreamest pointOf mortall breathing. Seize it, if thou dar'st
Aum. And if I do not, may my hands rot off,And neuer brandish more reuengefull Steele,Ouer the glittering Helmet of my Foe
Surrey. My Lord Fitzwater:I do remember well, the very timeAumerle, and you did talke
Fitz. My Lord,'Tis very true: You were in presence then,And you can witnesse with me, this is true
Surrey. As false, by heauen,As Heauen it selfe is true
Fitz. Surrey, thou Lyest
Surrey. Dishonourable Boy;That Lye, shall lie so heauy on my Sword,That it shall render Vengeance, and Reuenge,Till thou the Lye-giuer, and that Lye, doe lyeIn earth as quiet, as thy Fathers Scull.In proofe whereof, there is mine Honors pawne,Engage it to the Triall, if thou dar'st
Fitzw. How fondly do'st thou spurre a forward Horse?If I dare eate, or drinke, or breathe, or liue,I dare meete Surrey in a Wildernesse,And spit vpon him, whilest I say he Lyes,And Lyes, and Lyes: there is my Bond of Faith,To tye thee to my strong Correction.As I intend to thriue in this new World,Aumerle is guiltie of my true Appeale.Besides, I heard the banish'd Norfolke say,That thou Aumerle didst send two of thy men,To execute the Noble Duke at Callis
Aum. Some honest Christian trust me with a Gage,That Norfolke lyes: here doe I throw downe this,If he may be repeal'd, to trie his Honor
Bull. These differences shall all rest vnder Gage,Till Norfolke be repeal'd: repeal'd he shall be;And (though mine Enemie) restor'd againeTo all his Lands and Seignories: when hee's return'd,Against Aumerle we will enforce his Tryall
Carl. That honorable day shall ne're be seene.Many a time hath banish'd Norfolke foughtFor Iesu Christ, in glorious Christian fieldStreaming the Ensigne of the Christian Crosse,Against black Pagans, Turkes, and Saracens:And toyl'd with workes of Warre, retyr'd himselfeTo Italy, and there at Venice gaueHis Body to that pleasant Countries Earth,And his pure Soule vnto his Captaine Christ,Vnder whose Colours he had fought so long
Bull. Why Bishop, is Norfolke dead?Carl. As sure as I liue, my Lord
Bull. Sweet peace conduct his sweet SouleTo the Bosome of good old Abraham.Lords Appealants, your differe[n]ces shal all rest vnder gage,Till we assigne you to your dayes of Tryall.Enter Yorke.
Yorke. Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to theeFrom plume-pluckt Richard, who with willing SouleAdopts thee Heire, and his high Scepter yeeldsTo the possession of thy Royall Hand.Ascend his Throne, descending now from him,And long liue Henry, of that Name the Fourth
Bull. In Gods Name, Ile ascend the Regall Throne
Carl. Mary, Heauen forbid.Worst in this Royall Presence may I speake,Yet best beseeming me to speake the truth.Would God, that any in this Noble PresenceWere enough Noble, to be vpright IudgeOf Noble Richard: then true Noblenesse wouldLearne him forbearance from so foule a Wrong.What Subiect can giue Sentence on his King?And who sits here, that is not Richards Subiect?Theeues are not iudg'd, but they are by to heare,Although apparant guilt be seene in them:And shall the figure of Gods Maiestie,His Captaine, Steward, Deputie elect,Anoynted, Crown'd, planted many yeeres,Be iudg'd by subiect, and inferior breathe,And he himselfe not present? Oh, forbid it, God,That in a Christian Climate, Soules refin'deShould shew so heynous, black, obscene a deed.I speake to Subiects, and a Subiect speakes,Stirr'd vp by Heauen, thus boldly for his KingMy Lord of Hereford here, whom you call King,Is a foule Traytor to prowd Herefords King.And if you Crowne him, let me prophecie,The blood of English shall manure the ground,And future Ages groane for his foule Act.Peace shall goe sleepe with Turkes and Infidels,And in this Seat of Peace, tumultuous WarresShall Kinne with Kinne, and Kinde with Kinde confound.Disorder, Horror, Feare, and MutinieShall here inhabite, and this Land be call'dThe field of Golgotha, and dead mens Sculls.Oh, if you reare this House, against this HouseIt will the wofullest Diuision proue,That euer fell vpon this cursed Earth.Preuent it, resist it, and let it not be so,Least Child, Childs Children cry against you, Woe
North. Well haue you argu'd Sir: and for your paines,Of Capitall Treason we arrest you here.My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge,To keepe him safely, till his day of Tryall.May it please you, Lords, to grant the Commons Suit?Bull. Fetch hither Richard, that in common viewHe may surrender: so we shall proceedeWithout suspition
Yorke. I will be his Conduct.Enter.
Bull. Lords, you that here are vnder our Arrest,Procure your Sureties for your Dayes of Answer:Little are we beholding to your Loue,And little look'd for at your helping Hands.Enter Richard and Yorke.
Rich. Alack, why am I sent for to a King,Before I haue shooke off the Regall thoughtsWherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet haue learn'dTo insinuate, flatter, bowe, and bend my Knee.Giue Sorrow leaue a while, to tuture meTo this submission. Yet I well rememberThe fauors of these men: were they not mine?Did they not sometime cry, All hayle to me?So Iudas did to Christ: but he in twelue,Found truth in all, but one; I, in twelue thousand, none.God saue the King: will no man say, Amen?Am I both Priest, and Clarke? well then, Amen.God saue the King, although I be not hee:And yet Amen, if Heauen doe thinke him mee.To doe what seruice, am I sent for hither?Yorke. To doe that office of thine owne good will,Which tyred Maiestie did make thee offer:The Resignation of thy State and CrowneTo Henry Bullingbrooke
Rich. Giue me the Crown. Here Cousin, seize y Crown:Here Cousin, on this side my Hand, on that side thine.Now is this Golden Crowne like a deepe Well,That owes two Buckets, filling one another,The emptier euer dancing in the ayre,The other downe, vnseene, and full of Water:That Bucket downe, and full of Teares am I,Drinking my Griefes, whil'st you mount vp on high
Bull. I thought you had been willing to resigne
Rich. My Crowne I am, but still my Griefes are mine:You may my Glories and my State depose,But not my Griefes; still am I King of those
Bull. Part of your Cares you giue me with your Crowne
Rich. Your Cares set vp, do not pluck my Cares downe.My Care, is losse of Care, by old Care done,Your Care, is gaine of Care, by new Care wonne:The Cares I giue, I haue, though giuen away,They 'tend the Crowne, yet still with me they stay:Bull. Are you contented to resigne the Crowne?Rich. I, no; no, I: for I must nothing bee:Therefore no, no, for I resigne to thee.Now, marke me how I will vndoe my selfe.I giue this heauie Weight from off my Head,And this vnwieldie Scepter from my Hand,The pride of Kingly sway from out my Heart.With mine owne Teares I wash away my Balme,With mine owne Hands I giue away my Crowne,With mine owne Tongue denie my Sacred State,With mine owne Breath release all dutious Oathes;All Pompe and Maiestie I doe forsweare:My Manors, Rents, Reuenues, I forgoe;My Acts, Decrees, and Statutes I denie:God pardon all Oathes that are broke to mee,God keepe all Vowes vnbroke are made to thee.Make me that nothing haue, with nothing grieu'd,And thou with all pleas'd, that hast all atchieu'd.Long may'st thou liue in Richards Seat to sit,And soone lye Richard in an Earthie Pit.God saue King Henry, vn-King'd Richard sayes,And send him many yeeres of Sunne-shine dayes.What more remaines?North. No more: but that you readeThese Accusations, and these grieuous Crymes,Committed by your Person, and your followers,Against the State, and Profit of this Land:That by confessing them, the Soules of menMay deeme, that you are worthily depos'd
Rich. Must I doe so? and must I rauell outMy weau'd-vp follyes? Gentle Northumberland,If thy Offences were vpon Record,Would it not shame thee, in so faire a troupe,To reade a Lecture of them? If thou would'st,There should'st thou finde one heynous Article,Contayning the deposing of a King,And cracking the strong Warrant of an Oath,Mark'd with a Blot, damn'd in the Booke of Heauen.Nay, all of you, that stand and looke vpon me,Whil'st that my wretchednesse doth bait my selfe,Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands,Shewing an outward pittie: yet you PilatesHaue here deliuer'd me to my sowre Crosse,And Water cannot wash away your sinne
North. My Lord dispatch, reade o're these Articles
Rich. Mine Eyes are full of Teares, I cannot see:And yet salt-Water blindes them not so much,But they can see a sort of Traytors here.Nay, if I turne mine Eyes vpon my selfe,I finde my selfe a Traytor with the rest:For I haue giuen here my Soules consent,T' vndeck the pompous Body of a King;Made Glory base; a Soueraigntie, a Slaue;Prowd Maiestie, a Subiect; State, a Pesant
North. My Lord
Rich. No Lord of thine, thou haught-insulting man;No, nor no mans Lord: I haue no Name, no Title;No, not that Name was giuen me at the Font,But 'tis vsurpt: alack the heauie day,That I haue worne so many Winters out,And know not now, what Name to call my selfe.Oh, that I were a Mockerie, King of Snow,Standing before the Sunne of Bullingbrooke,To melt my selfe away in Water-drops.Good King, great King, and yet not greatly good,And if my word be Sterling yet in England,Let it command a Mirror hither straight,That it may shew me what a Face I haue,Since it is Bankrupt of his Maiestie
Bull. Goe some of you, and fetch a Looking-Glasse
North. Read o're this Paper, while y Glasse doth come
Rich. Fiend, thou torments me, ere I come to Hell
Bull. Vrge it no more, my Lord Northumberland
North. The Commons will not then be satisfy'd
Rich. They shall be satisfy'd: Ile reade enough,When I doe see the very Booke indeede,Where all my sinnes are writ, and that's my selfe.Enter one with a Glasse.
Giue me that Glasse, and therein will I reade.No deeper wrinckles yet? hath Sorrow struckeSo many Blowes vpon this Face of mine,And made no deeper Wounds? Oh flatt'ring Glasse,Like to my followers in prosperitie,Thou do'st beguile me. Was this Face, the FaceThat euery day, vnder his House-hold Roofe,Did keepe ten thousand men? Was this the Face,That like the Sunne, did make beholders winke?Is this the Face, which fac'd so many follyes,That was at last out-fac'd by Bullingbrooke?A brittle Glory shineth in this Face,As brittle as the Glory, is the Face,For there it is, crackt in an hundred shiuers.Marke silent King, the Morall of this sport,How soone my Sorrow hath destroy'd my Face
Bull. The shadow of your Sorrow hath destroy'dThe shadow of your Face
Rich. Say that againe.The shadow of my Sorrow: ha, let's see,'Tis very true, my Griefe lyes all within,And these externall manner of Laments,Are meerely shadowes, to the vnseene Griefe,That swells with silence in the tortur'd Soule.There lyes the substance: and I thanke thee KingFor thy great bountie, that not onely giu'stMe cause to wayle, but teachest me the wayHow to lament the cause. Ile begge one Boone,And then be gone, and trouble you no more.Shall I obtaine it?Bull. Name it, faire Cousin
Rich. Faire Cousin? I am greater then a King:For when I was a King, my flatterersWere then but subiects; being now a subiect,I haue a King here to my flatterer:Being so great, I haue no neede to begge
Bull. Yet aske
Rich. And shall I haue?Bull. You shall
Rich. Then giue me leaue to goe
Bull. Whither?Rich. Whither you will, so I were from your sights
Bull. Goe some of you, conuey him to the Tower
Rich. Oh good: conuey: Conueyers are you all,That rise thus nimbly by a true Kings fall
Bull. On Wednesday next, we solemnly set downeOur Coronation: Lords, prepare your selues.
Exeunt.
Abbot. A wofull Pageant haue we here beheld
Carl. The Woes to come, the Children yet vnborne,Shall feele this day as sharpe to them as Thorne
Aum. You holy Clergie-men, is there no PlotTo rid the Realme of this pernicious Blot
Abbot. Before I freely speake my minde herein,You shall not onely take the Sacrament,To bury mine intents, but also to effectWhat euer I shall happen to deuise.I see your Browes are full of Discontent,Your Heart of Sorrow, and your Eyes of Teares.Come home with me to Supper, Ile lay a PlotShall shew vs all a merry day.
Exeunt.
Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.
Enter Queene, and Ladies.
Qu. This way the King will come: this is the wayTo Iulius Cęsars ill-erected Tower:To whose flint Bosome, my condemned LordIs doom'd a Prisoner, by prowd Bullingbrooke.Here let vs rest, if this rebellious EarthHaue any resting for her true Kings Queene.Enter Richard, and Guard.
But soft, but see, or rather doe not see,My faire Rose wither: yet looke vp; behold,That you in pittie may dissolue to dew,And wash him fresh againe with true-loue Teares.Ah thou, the Modell where old Troy did stand,Thou Mappe of Honor, thou King Richards Tombe,And not King Richard: thou most beauteous Inne,Why should hard-fauor'd Griefe be lodg'd in thee,When Triumph is become an Ale-house Guest
Rich. Ioyne not with griefe, faire Woman, do not so,To make my end too sudden: learne good Soule,To thinke our former State a happie Dreame,From which awak'd, the truth of what we are,Shewes vs but this. I am sworne Brother (Sweet)To grim Necessitie; and hee and IWill keepe a League till Death. High thee to France,And Cloyster thee in some Religious House:Our holy liues must winne a new Worlds Crowne,Which our prophane houres here haue stricken downe
Qu. What, is my Richard both in shape and mindeTransform'd, and weaken'd? Hath BullingbrookeDepos'd thine Intellect? hath he beene in thy Heart?The Lyon dying, thrusteth forth his Paw,And wounds the Earth, if nothing else, with rageTo be o're-powr'd: and wilt thou, Pupill-like,Take thy Correction mildly, kisse the Rodde,And fawne on Rage with base Humilitie,Which art a Lyon, and a King of Beasts?Rich. A King of Beasts indeed: if aught but Beasts,I had beene still a happy King of Men.Good (sometime Queene) prepare thee hence for France:Thinke I am dead, and that euen here thou tak'st,As from my Death-bed, my last liuing leaue.In Winters tedious Nights sit by the fireWith good old folkes, and let them tell thee TalesOf wofull Ages, long agoe betide:And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their griefe,Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,And send the hearers weeping to their Beds:For why? the sencelesse Brands will sympathizeThe heauie accent of thy mouing Tongue,And in compassion, weepe the fire out:And some will mourne in ashes, some coale-black,For the deposing of a rightfull King.Enter Northumberland.
North. My Lord, the mind of Bullingbrooke is chang'd.You must to Pomfret, not vnto the Tower.And Madame, there is order ta'ne for you:With all swift speed, you must away to France
Rich. Northumberland, thou Ladder wherewithallThe mounting Bullingbrooke ascends my Throne,The time shall not be many houres of age,More then it is, ere foule sinne, gathering head,Shall breake into corruption: thou shalt thinke,Though he diuide the Realme, and giue thee halfe,It is too little, helping him to all:He shall thinke, that thou which know'st the wayTo plant vnrightfull Kings, wilt know againe,Being ne're so little vrg'd another way,To pluck him headlong from the vsurped Throne.The Loue of wicked friends conuerts to Feare;That Feare, to Hate; and Hate turnes one, or both,To worthie Danger, and deserued Death
North. My guilt be on my Head, and there an end:Take leaue, and part, for you must part forthwith
Rich. Doubly diuorc'd? (bad men) ye violateA two-fold Marriage; 'twixt my Crowne, and me.And then betwixt me, and my marryed Wife.Let me vn-kisse the Oath 'twixt thee, and me;And yet not so, for with a Kisse 'twas made.Part vs, Northumberland: I, towards the North,Where shiuering Cold and Sicknesse pines the Clyme:My Queene to France: from whence, set forth in pompe,She came adorned hither like sweet May;Sent back like Hollowmas, or short'st of day
Qu. And must we be diuided? must we part?Rich. I, hand from hand (my Loue) and heart fro[m] heart
Qu. Banish vs both, and send the King with me
North. That were some Loue, but little Pollicy
Qu. Then whither he goes, thither let me goe
Rich. So two together weeping, make one Woe.Weepe thou for me in France; I, for thee heere:Better farre off, then neere, be ne're the neere.Goe, count thy Way with Sighes; I, mine with Groanes
Qu. So longest Way shall haue the longest Moanes
Rich. Twice for one step Ile groane, y Way being short,And peece the Way out with a heauie heart.Come, come, in wooing Sorrow let's be briefe,Since wedding it, there is such length in Griefe:One Kisse shall stop our mouthes, and dumbely part;Thus giue I mine, and thus take I thy heart
Qu. Giue me mine owne againe: 'twere no good part,To take on me to keepe, and kill thy heart.So, now I haue mine owne againe, be gone,That I may striue to kill it with a groane
Rich. We make Woe wanton with this fond delay:Once more adieu; the rest, let Sorrow say.
Exeunt.
Scoena Secunda.
Enter Yorke, and his Duchesse.
Duch. My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest,When weeping made you breake the story off,Of our two Cousins comming into London
Yorke. Where did I leaue?Duch. At that sad stoppe, my Lord,Where rude mis-gouern'd hands, from Windowes tops,Threw dust and rubbish on King Richards head
Yorke. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bullingbrooke,Mounted vpon a hot and fierie Steed,Which his aspiring Rider seem'd to know,With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course:While all tongues cride, God saue thee Bullingbrooke.You would haue thought the very windowes spake,So many greedy lookes of yong and old,Through Casements darted their desiring eyesVpon his visage: and that all the walles,With painted Imagery had said at once,Iesu preserue thee, welcom Bullingbrooke.Whil'st he, from one side to the other turning,Bare-headed, lower then his proud Steeds necke,Bespake them thus: I thanke you Countrimen:And thus still doing, thus he past along
Dutch. Alas poore Richard, where rides he the whilst?Yorke. As in a Theater, the eyes of menAfter a well grac'd Actor leaues the Stage,Are idlely bent on him that enters next,Thinking his prattle to be tedious:Euen so, or with much more contempt, mens eyesDid scowle on Richard: no man cride, God saue him:No ioyfull tongue gaue him his welcome home,But dust was throwne vpon his Sacred head,Which with such gentle sorrow he shooke off,His face still combating with teares and smiles(The badges of his greefe and patience)That had not God (for some strong purpose) steel'dThe hearts of men, they must perforce haue melted,And Barbarisme it selfe haue pittied him.But heauen hath a hand in these euents,To whose high will we bound our calme contents.To Bullingbrooke, are we sworne Subiects now,Whose State, and Honor, I for aye allow.Enter Aumerle
Dut. Heere comes my sonne Aumerle
Yor. Aumerle that was,But that is lost, for being Richards Friend.And Madam, you must call him Rutland now:I am in Parliament pledge for his truth,And lasting fealtie to the new-made King
Dut. Welcome my sonne: who are the Violets now,That strew the greene lap of the new-come Spring?Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not,God knowes, I had as liefe be none, as one
Yorke. Well, beare you well in this new-spring of timeLeast you be cropt before you come to prime.What newes from Oxford? Hold those Iusts & Triumphs?Aum. For ought I know my Lord, they do
Yorke. You will be there I know
Aum. If God preuent not, I purpose so
Yor. What Seale is that that hangs without thy bosom?Yea, look'st thou pale? Let me see the Writing
Aum. My Lord, 'tis nothing
Yorke. 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 haue seene
Yorke. Which for some reasons sir, I meane to see:I feare, I feare
Dut. What should you feare?'Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter'd intoFor gay apparrell, against the Triumph
Yorke. Bound to himselfe? What doth he with a BondThat he is bound to? Wife, thou art a foole.Boy, let me see the Writing
Aum. I do beseech you pardon me, I may not shew it
Yor. I will be satisfied: let me see it I say.
Snatches it
Treason, foule Treason, Villaine, Traitor, Slaue
Dut. What's the matter, my Lord?Yorke. Hoa, who's within there? Saddle my horse.Heauen for his mercy: what treachery is heere?Dut. Why, what is't my Lord?Yorke. Giue me my boots, I say: Saddle my horse:Now by my Honor, my life, my troth,I will appeach the Villaine
Dut. What is the matter?Yorke. Peace foolish Woman
Dut. I will not peace. What is the matter Sonne?Aum. Good Mother be content, it is no moreThen my poore life must answer
Dut. Thy life answer?Enter Seruant with Boots.
Yor. Bring me my Boots, I will vnto the King
Dut. Strike him Aumerle. Poore boy, y art amaz'd,Hence Villaine, neuer more come in my sight
Yor. Giue me my Boots, I say
Dut. Why Yorke, what wilt thou do?Wilt thou not hide the Trespasse of thine owne?Haue we more Sonnes? Or are we like to haue?Is not my teeming date drunke vp with time?And wilt thou plucke my faire Sonne from mine Age,And rob me of a happy Mothers name?Is he not like thee? Is he not thine owne?Yor. Thou fond mad woman:Wilt thou conceale this darke Conspiracy?A dozen of them heere haue tane the Sacrament,And interchangeably set downe their handsTo kill the King at Oxford
Dut. He shall be none:Wee'l keepe him heere: then what is that to him?Yor. Away fond woman: were hee twenty times mySon, I would appeach him
Dut. Hadst thou groan'd for him as I haue done,Thou wouldest be more pittifull:But now I know thy minde; thou do'st suspectThat I haue bene disloyall to thy bed,And that he is a Bastard, not thy Sonne:Sweet Yorke, sweet husband, be not of that minde:He is as like thee, as a man may bee,Not like to me, nor any of my Kin,And yet I loue him
Yorke. Make way, vnruly Woman.
Exit
Dut. After Aumerle. Mount thee vpon his horse,Spurre post, and get before him to the King,And begge thy pardon, ere he do accuse thee,Ile not be long behind: though I be old,I doubt not but to ride as fast as Yorke:And neuer will I rise vp from the ground,Till Bullingbrooke haue pardon'd thee: Away be gone.
Exit
Scoena Tertia.
Enter Bullingbrooke, Percie, and other Lords.
Bul. Can no man tell of my vnthriftie Sonne?'Tis full three monthes since I did see him last.If any plague hang ouer vs, 'tis he,I would to heauen (my Lords) he might be found:Enquire at London, 'mongst the Tauernes there:For there (they say) he dayly doth frequent,With vnrestrained loose Companions,Euen such (they say) as stand in narrow Lanes,And rob our Watch, and beate our passengers,Which he, yong wanton, and effeminate BoyTakes on the point of Honor, to supportSo dissolute a crew
Per. My Lord, some two dayes since I saw the Prince,And told him of these Triumphes held at Oxford
Bul. And what said the Gallant?Per. His answer was: he would vnto the Stewes,And from the common'st creature plucke a GloueAnd weare it as a fauour, and with thatHe would vnhorse the lustiest Challenger
Bul. As dissolute as desp'rate, yet through both,I see some sparkes of better hope: which elder dayesMay happily bring forth. But who comes heere?Enter Aumerle.
Aum. Where is the King?Bul. What meanes our Cosin, that hee staresAnd lookes so wildely?Aum. God saue your Grace. I do beseech your MaiestyTo haue some conference with your Grace alone
Bul. Withdraw your selues, and leaue vs here alone:What is the matter with our Cosin now?Aum. For euer may my knees grow to the earth,My tongue cleaue to my roofe within my mouth,Vnlesse a Pardon, ere I rise, or speake
Bul. Intended, or committed was this fault?If on the first, how heynous ere it bee,To win thy after loue, I pardon thee
Aum. Then giue me leaue, that I may turne the key,That no man enter, till my tale be done
Bul. Haue thy desire.
Yorke within.
Yor. My Liege beware, looke to thy selfe,Thou hast a Traitor in thy presence there
Bul. Villaine, Ile make thee safe
Aum. Stay thy reuengefull hand, thou hast no causeto feare
Yorke. Open the doore, secure foole-hardy King:Shall I for loue speake treason to thy face?Open the doore, or I will breake it open.Enter Yorke.
Bul. What is the matter (Vnkle) speak, recouer breath,Tell vs how neere is danger,That we may arme vs to encounter it
Yor. Peruse this writing heere, and thou shalt knowThe reason that my haste forbids me show
Aum. Remember as thou read'st, thy promise past:I do repent me, reade not my name there,My heart is not confederate with my hand
Yor. It was (villaine) ere thy hand did set it downe.I tore it from the Traitors bosome, King.Feare, and not Loue, begets his penitence;Forget to pitty him, least thy pitty proueA Serpent, that will sting thee to the heart
Bul. Oh heinous, strong, and bold Conspiracie,O loyall Father of a treacherous Sonne:Thou sheere, immaculate, and siluer fountaine,From whence this streame, through muddy passagesHath had his current, and defil'd himselfe.Thy ouerflow of good, conuerts to bad,And thy abundant goodnesse shall excuseThis deadly blot, in thy digressing sonne
Yorke. So shall my Vertue be his Vices bawd,And he shall spend mine Honour, with his Shame;As thriftlesse Sonnes, their scraping Fathers Gold.Mine honor liues, when his dishonor dies,Or my sham'd life, in his dishonor lies:Thou kill'st me in his life, giuing him breath,The Traitor liues, the true man's put to death.
Dutchesse within.
Dut. What hoa (my Liege) for heauens sake let me in
Bul. What shrill-voic'd Suppliant, makes this eager cry?Dut. A woman, and thine Aunt (great King) 'tis I.Speake with me, pitty me, open the dore,A Begger begs, that neuer begg'd before
Bul. Our Scene is alter'd from a serious thing,And now chang'd to the Begger, and the King.My dangerous Cosin, let your Mother in,I know she's come, to pray for your foule sin
Yorke. If thou do pardon, whosoeuer pray,More sinnes for this forgiuenesse, prosper may.This fester'd ioynt cut off, the rest rests sound,This let alone, will all the rest confound.Enter Dutchesse.
Dut. O King, beleeue not this hard-hearted man,Loue, louing not it selfe, none other can