ACT IISCENE I. London. An Apartment in Ely House.Gaunton a couch; theDuke of Yorkand Others standing by him.GAUNT.Will the King come, that I may breathe my lastIn wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?YORK.Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath,For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.GAUNT.O, but they say the tongues of dying menEnforce attention like deep harmony.Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.He that no more must say is listened moreThan they whom youth and ease have taught to glose.More are men’s ends marked than their lives before.The setting sun and music at the close,As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,Writ in remembrance more than things long past.Though Richard my life’s counsel would not hear,My death’s sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.YORK.No, it is stopped with other flattering sounds,As praises, of whose state the wise are fond;Lascivious metres, to whose venom soundThe open ear of youth doth always listen;Report of fashions in proud Italy,Whose manners still our tardy-apish nationLimps after in base imitation.Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity—So it be new, there’s no respect how vile—That is not quickly buzzed into his ears?Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard.Direct not him whose way himself will choose.’Tis breath thou lack’st, and that breath wilt thou lose.GAUNT.Methinks I am a prophet new inspired,And thus expiring do foretell of him:His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,For violent fires soon burn out themselves;Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder.Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle,This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,This other Eden, demi-paradise,This fortress built by Nature for herselfAgainst infection and the hand of war,This happy breed of men, this little world,This precious stone set in the silver sea,Which serves it in the office of a wallOr as a moat defensive to a house,Against the envy of less happier lands;This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,Feared by their breed, and famous by their birth,Renowned for their deeds as far from home,For Christian service and true chivalry,As is the sepulchre in stubborn JewryOf the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son,This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,Dear for her reputation through the world,Is now leased out—I die pronouncing it—Like to a tenement or pelting farm.England, bound in with the triumphant sea,Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siegeOf wat’ry Neptune, is now bound in with shame,With inky blots and rotten parchment bondsThat England that was wont to conquer othersHath made a shameful conquest of itself.Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,How happy then were my ensuing death!EnterKing RichardandQueen; Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, RossandWilloughby.YORK.The King is come. Deal mildly with his youth,For young hot colts, being raged, do rage the more.QUEEN.How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?KING RICHARD.What comfort, man? How is’t with aged Gaunt?GAUNT.O, how that name befits my composition!Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old.Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast,And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt?For sleeping England long time have I watched;Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt.The pleasure that some fathers feed uponIs my strict fast—I mean my children’s looks,And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt.Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.KING RICHARD.Can sick men play so nicely with their names?GAUNT.No, misery makes sport to mock itself.Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.KING RICHARD.Should dying men flatter with those that live?GAUNT.No, no, men living flatter those that die.KING RICHARD.Thou, now a-dying, sayest thou flatterest me.GAUNT.O, no, thou diest, though I the sicker be.KING RICHARD.I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill.GAUNT.Now, He that made me knows I see thee ill,Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill.Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land,Wherein thou liest in reputation sick;And thou, too careless patient as thou art,Committ’st thy anointed body to the cureOf those physicians that first wounded thee.A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,Whose compass is no bigger than thy head;And yet, encaged in so small a verge,The waste is no whit lesser than thy land.O, had thy grandsire with a prophet’s eyeSeen how his son’s son should destroy his sons,From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,Deposing thee before thou wert possessed,Which art possessed now to depose thyself.Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world,It were a shame to let this land by lease;But for thy world enjoying but this land,Is it not more than shame to shame it so?Landlord of England art thou now, not king.Thy state of law is bondslave to the law,And thou—KING RICHARD.A lunatic lean-witted fool,Presuming on an ague’s privilege,Darest with thy frozen admonitionMake pale our cheek, chasing the royal bloodWith fury from his native residence.Now, by my seat’s right royal majesty,Wert thou not brother to great Edward’s son,This tongue that runs so roundly in thy headShould run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders.GAUNT.O! spare me not, my brother Edward’s son,For that I was his father Edward’s son.That blood already, like the pelican,Hast thou tapped out, and drunkenly caroused.My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul,Whom fair befall in heaven ’mongst happy souls!—May be a precedent and witness goodThat thou respect’st not spilling Edward’s blood.Join with the present sickness that I have,And thy unkindness be like crooked ageTo crop at once a too-long withered flower.Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!These words hereafter thy tormentors be!Convey me to my bed, then to my grave.Love they to live that love and honour have.[Exit, borne off by his Attendants.]KING RICHARD.And let them die that age and sullens have,For both hast thou, and both become the grave.YORK.I do beseech your Majesty, impute his wordsTo wayward sickliness and age in him.He loves you, on my life, and holds you dearAs Harry, Duke of Hereford, were he here.KING RICHARD.Right, you say true: as Hereford’s love, so his;As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.EnterNorthumberland.NORTHUMBERLAND.My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty.KING RICHARD.What says he?NORTHUMBERLAND.Nay, nothing; all is said.His tongue is now a stringless instrument;Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.YORK.Be York the next that must be bankrupt so!Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.KING RICHARD.The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he.His time is spent; our pilgrimage must be.So much for that. Now for our Irish wars:We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns,Which live like venom where no venom elseBut only they have privilege to live.And, for these great affairs do ask some charge,Towards our assistance we do seize to usThe plate, coin, revenues, and moveablesWhereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possessed.YORK.How long shall I be patient? Ah, how longShall tender duty make me suffer wrong?Not Gloucester’s death, nor Hereford’s banishment,Nor Gaunt’s rebukes, nor England’s private wrongs,Nor the prevention of poor BolingbrokeAbout his marriage, nor my own disgrace,Have ever made me sour my patient cheek,Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign’s face.I am the last of noble Edward’s sons,Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first.In war was never lion raged more fierce,In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,Than was that young and princely gentleman.His face thou hast, for even so looked he,Accomplished with the number of thy hours;But when he frowned, it was against the FrenchAnd not against his friends. His noble handDid win what he did spend, and spent not thatWhich his triumphant father’s hand had won.His hands were guilty of no kindred’s blood,But bloody with the enemies of his kin.O Richard! York is too far gone with grief,Or else he never would compare between.KING RICHARD.Why, uncle, what’s the matter?YORK.O my liege.Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleasedNot to be pardoned, am content withal.Seek you to seize and gripe into your handsThe royalties and rights of banished Hereford?Is not Gaunt dead? And doth not Hereford live?Was not Gaunt just? And is not Harry true?Did not the one deserve to have an heir?Is not his heir a well-deserving son?Take Hereford’s rights away, and take from TimeHis charters and his customary rights;Let not tomorrow then ensue today;Be not thyself; for how art thou a kingBut by fair sequence and succession?Now, afore God—God forbid I say true!—If you do wrongfully seize Hereford’s rights,Call in the letters patents that he hathBy his attorneys-general to sueHis livery, and deny his offered homage,You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,And prick my tender patience to those thoughtsWhich honour and allegiance cannot think.KING RICHARD.Think what you will, we seize into our handsHis plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.YORK.I’ll not be by the while. My liege, farewell.What will ensue hereof there’s none can tell;But by bad courses may be understoodThat their events can never fall out good.[Exit.]KING RICHARD.Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight.Bid him repair to us to Ely HouseTo see this business. Tomorrow nextWe will for Ireland, and ’tis time, I trow.And we create, in absence of ourself,Our Uncle York Lord Governor of England,For he is just, and always loved us well.Come on, our queen. Tomorrow must we part;Be merry, for our time of stay is short.[ExeuntKing, Queen, Bushy, Aumerle, GreenandBagot.]NORTHUMBERLAND.Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.ROSS.And living too, for now his son is Duke.WILLOUGHBY.Barely in title, not in revenues.NORTHUMBERLAND.Richly in both, if justice had her right.ROSS.My heart is great, but it must break with silenceEre’t be disburdened with a liberal tongue.NORTHUMBERLAND.Nay, speak thy mind, and let him ne’er speak moreThat speaks thy words again to do thee harm!WILLOUGHBY.Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford?If it be so, out with it boldly, man.Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.ROSS.No good at all that I can do for him,Unless you call it good to pity him,Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.NORTHUMBERLAND.Now, afore God, ’tis shame such wrongs are borneIn him, a royal prince, and many moeOf noble blood in this declining land.The King is not himself, but basely ledBy flatterers; and what they will inform,Merely in hate ’gainst any of us all,That will the King severely prosecute’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.ROSS.The commons hath he pilled with grievous taxes,And quite lost their hearts. The nobles hath he finedFor ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts.WILLOUGHBY.And daily new exactions are devised,As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what.But what, i’ God’s name, doth become of this?NORTHUMBERLAND.Wars hath not wasted it, for warred he hath not,But basely yielded upon compromiseThat which his ancestors achieved with blows.More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.ROSS.The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.WILLOUGHBY.The King’s grown bankrupt like a broken man.NORTHUMBERLAND.Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.ROSS.He hath not money for these Irish wars,His burdenous taxations notwithstanding,But by the robbing of the banished Duke.NORTHUMBERLAND.His noble kinsman. Most degenerate king!But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm;We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,And yet we strike not, but securely perish.ROSS.We see the very wrack that we must suffer;And unavoided is the danger nowFor suffering so the causes of our wrack.NORTHUMBERLAND.Not so. Even through the hollow eyes of deathI spy life peering; but I dare not sayHow near the tidings of our comfort is.WILLOUGHBY.Nay, let us share thy thoughts as thou dost ours.ROSS.Be confident to speak, Northumberland.We three are but thyself, and, speaking so,Thy words are but as thoughts. Therefore be bold.NORTHUMBERLAND.Then thus: I have from Le Port Blanc, a bayIn Brittany, received intelligenceThat Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham,That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston,Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Coint,All these well furnished by the Duke of BrittanyWith eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,Are making hither with all due expedience,And shortly mean to touch our northern shore.Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stayThe first departing of the king for Ireland.If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke,Imp out our drooping country’s broken wing,Redeem from broking pawn the blemished crown,Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre’s gilt,And make high majesty look like itself,Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh.But if you faint, as fearing to do so,Stay and be secret, and myself will go.ROSS.To horse, to horse! Urge doubts to them that fear.WILLOUGHBY.Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.[Exeunt.]SCENE II. The Same. A Room in the Castle.EnterQueen, BushyandBagot.BUSHY.Madam, your Majesty is too much sad.You promised, when you parted with the King,To lay aside life-harming heavinessAnd entertain a cheerful disposition.QUEEN.To please the King I did; to please myselfI cannot do it. Yet I know no causeWhy I should welcome such a guest as grief,Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guestAs my sweet Richard. Yet again methinks,Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune’s womb,Is coming towards me, and my inward soulWith nothing trembles. At something it grievesMore than with parting from my lord the King.BUSHY.Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,Which shows like grief itself, but is not so;For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears,Divides one thing entire to many objects,Like perspectives which, rightly gazed upon,Show nothing but confusion; eyed awry,Distinguish form. So your sweet Majesty,Looking awry upon your lord’s departure,Find shapes of grief more than himself to wail,Which, looked on as it is, is naught but shadowsOf what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious Queen,More than your lord’s departure weep not. More is not seen,Or if it be, ’tis with false sorrow’s eye,Which for things true weeps things imaginary.QUEEN.It may be so; but yet my inward soulPersuades me it is otherwise. Howe’er it be,I cannot but be sad—so heavy sadAs thought, in thinking, on no thought I think,Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.BUSHY.’Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.QUEEN.’Tis nothing less. Conceit is still derivedFrom some forefather grief. Mine is not so,For nothing hath begot my something grief,Or something hath the nothing that I grieve.’Tis in reversion that I do possess,But what it is, that is not yet known what,I cannot name. ’Tis nameless woe, I wot.EnterGreen.GREEN.God save your majesty! And well met, gentlemen.I hope the King is not yet shipped for Ireland.QUEEN.Why hop’st thou so? ’Tis better hope he is,For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope.Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipped?GREEN.That he, our hope, might have retired his power,And driven into despair an enemy’s hopeWho strongly hath set footing in this land.The banished Bolingbroke repeals himself,And with uplifted arms is safe arrivedAt Ravenspurgh.QUEEN.Now God in heaven forbid!GREEN.Ah, madam, ’tis too true; and that is worse,The Lord Northumberland, his son young Harry Percy,The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.BUSHY.Why have you not proclaimed NorthumberlandAnd all the rest revolted faction traitors?GREEN.We have, whereupon the Earl of WorcesterHath broken his staff, resigned his stewardship,And all the household servants fled with himTo Bolingbroke.QUEEN.So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,And Bolingbroke my sorrow’s dismal heir.Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy,And I, a gasping new-delivered mother,Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow joined.BUSHY.Despair not, madam.QUEEN.Who shall hinder me?I will despair and be at enmityWith cozening hope. He is a flatterer,A parasite, a keeper-back of death,Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,Which false hope lingers in extremity.EnterYork.GREEN.Here comes the Duke of York.QUEEN.With signs of war about his aged neck.O! full of careful business are his looks!Uncle, for God’s sake, speak comfortable words.YORK.Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts.Comfort’s in heaven, and we are on the earth,Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and grief.Your husband, he is gone to save far off,Whilst others come to make him lose at home.Here am I left to underprop his land,Who, weak with age, cannot support myself.Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made;Now shall he try his friends that flattered him.Enter aServingman.SERVINGMAN.My lord, your son was gone before I came.YORK.He was? Why, so! Go all which way it will!The nobles they are fled, the commons they are coldAnd will, I fear, revolt on Hereford’s side.Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester;Bid her send me presently a thousand pound.Hold, take my ring.SERVINGMAN.My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship:Today, as I came by, I called there—But I shall grieve you to report the rest.YORK.What is’t, knave?SERVINGMAN.An hour before I came, the Duchess died.YORK.God for his mercy, what a tide of woesComes rushing on this woeful land at once!I know not what to do. I would to God,So my untruth had not provoked him to it,The King had cut off my head with my brother’s.What, are there no posts dispatched for Ireland?How shall we do for money for these wars?Come, sister—cousin, I would say, pray, pardon me.Go, fellow, get thee home; provide some cartsAnd bring away the armour that is there.[ExitServingman.]Gentlemen, will you go muster men?If I know how or which way to order these affairsThus disorderly thrust into my hands,Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen.Th’ one is my sovereign, whom both my oathAnd duty bids defend; th’ other againIs my kinsman, whom the King hath wronged,Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin,I’ll dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster up your men,And meet me presently at Berkeley Castle.I should to Plashy too,But time will not permit. All is uneven,And everything is left at six and seven.[ExeuntYorkandQueen.]BUSHY.The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,But none returns. For us to levy powerProportionable to the enemyIs all unpossible.GREEN.Besides, our nearness to the King in loveIs near the hate of those love not the King.BAGOT.And that is the wavering commons, for their loveLies in their purses; and whoso empties them,By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.BUSHY.Wherein the King stands generally condemned.BAGOT.If judgment lie in them, then so do we,Because we ever have been near the King.GREEN.Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol Castle.The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.BUSHY.Thither will I with you, for little officeWill the hateful commons perform for us,Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.Will you go along with us?BAGOT.No, I will to Ireland to his Majesty.Farewell. If heart’s presages be not vain,We three here part that ne’er shall meet again.BUSHY.That’s as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.GREEN.Alas, poor Duke! The task he undertakesIs numb’ring sands and drinking oceans dry.Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever.BUSHY.Well, we may meet again.BAGOT.I fear me, never.[Exeunt.]SCENE III. The Wolds in Gloucestershire.EnterBolingbrokeandNorthumberlandwith Forces.BOLINGBROKE.How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now?NORTHUMBERLAND.Believe me, noble lord,I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire.These high wild hills and rough uneven waysDraws out our miles and makes them wearisome.And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,Making the hard way sweet and delectable.But I bethink me what a weary wayFrom Ravenspurgh to Cotshall will be foundIn Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company,Which, I protest, hath very much beguiledThe tediousness and process of my travel.But theirs is sweetened with the hope to haveThe present benefit which I possess;And hope to joy is little less in joyThan hope enjoyed. By this the weary lordsShall make their way seem short as mine hath doneBy sight of what I have, your noble company.BOLINGBROKE.Of much less value is my companyThan your good words. But who comes here?EnterHarry Percy.NORTHUMBERLAND.It is my son, young Harry Percy,Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.Harry, how fares your uncle?PERCY.I had thought, my lord, to have learned his health of you.NORTHUMBERLAND.Why, is he not with the Queen?PERCY.No, my good lord. He hath forsook the court,Broken his staff of office, and dispersedThe household of the King.NORTHUMBERLAND.What was his reason?He was not so resolved when last we spake together.PERCY.Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.But he, my lord, is gone to RavenspurghTo offer service to the Duke of Hereford,And sent me over by Berkeley to discoverWhat power the Duke of York had levied there,Then with directions to repair to Ravenspurgh.NORTHUMBERLAND.Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy?PERCY.No, my good lord; for that is not forgotWhich ne’er I did remember. To my knowledge,I never in my life did look on him.NORTHUMBERLAND.Then learn to know him now. This is the Duke.PERCY.My gracious lord, I tender you my service,Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young,Which elder days shall ripen and confirmTo more approved service and desert.BOLINGBROKE.I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sureI count myself in nothing else so happyAs in a soul rememb’ring my good friends;And as my fortune ripens with thy love,It shall be still thy true love’s recompense.My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.NORTHUMBERLAND.How far is it to Berkeley, and what stirKeeps good old York there with his men of war?PERCY.There stands the castle by yon tuft of trees,Manned with three hundred men, as I have heard.And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and Seymour,None else of name and noble estimate.EnterRossandWilloughby.NORTHUMBERLAND.Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.BOLINGBROKE.Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursuesA banished traitor. All my treasuryIs yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enriched,Shall be your love and labour’s recompense.ROSS.Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.WILLOUGHBY.And far surmounts our labour to attain it.BOLINGBROKE.Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor;Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,Stands for my bounty. But who comes here?EnterBerkeley.NORTHUMBERLAND.It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess.BERKELEY.My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you.BOLINGBROKE.My lord, my answer is—to “Lancaster”,And I am come to seek that name in England;And I must find that title in your tongueBefore I make reply to aught you say.BERKELEY.Mistake me not, my lord, ’tis not my meaningTo rase one title of your honour out.To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will,From the most gracious regent of this land,The Duke of York, to know what pricks you onTo take advantage of the absent time,And fright our native peace with self-borne arms.EnterYork,attended.BOLINGBROKE.I shall not need transport my words by you.Here comes his Grace in person. My noble uncle![Kneels.]YORK.Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,Whose duty is deceivable and false.BOLINGBROKE.My gracious uncle—YORK.Tut, tut!Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle.I am no traitor’s uncle, and that word “grace”In an ungracious mouth is but profane.Why have those banished and forbidden legsDared once to touch a dust of England’s ground?But then more why: why have they dared to marchSo many miles upon her peaceful bosom,Frighting her pale-faced villages with warAnd ostentation of despised arms?Com’st thou because the anointed king is hence?Why, foolish boy, the King is left behind,And in my loyal bosom lies his power.Were I but now lord of such hot youthAs when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myselfRescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,From forth the ranks of many thousand French,O, then how quickly should this arm of mine,Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise theeAnd minister correction to thy fault!BOLINGBROKE.My gracious uncle, let me know my fault.On what condition stands it and wherein?YORK.Even in condition of the worst degree,In gross rebellion and detested treason.Thou art a banished man, and here art come,Before the expiration of thy time,In braving arms against thy sovereign.BOLINGBROKE.As I was banished, I was banished Hereford;But as I come, I come for Lancaster.And, noble uncle, I beseech your GraceLook on my wrongs with an indifferent eye.You are my father, for methinks in youI see old Gaunt alive. O then, my father,Will you permit that I shall stand condemnedA wandering vagabond, my rights and royaltiesPlucked from my arms perforce and given awayTo upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?If that my cousin king be King in England,It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster.You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin.Had you first died and he been thus trod down,He should have found his uncle Gaunt a fatherTo rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay.I am denied to sue my livery here,And yet my letters patents give me leave.My father’s goods are all distrained and sold,And these, and all, are all amiss employed.What would you have me do? I am a subject,And challenge law. Attorneys are denied me,And therefore personally I lay my claimTo my inheritance of free descent.NORTHUMBERLAND.The noble Duke hath been too much abused.ROSS.It stands your Grace upon to do him right.WILLOUGHBY.Base men by his endowments are made great.YORK.My lords of England, let me tell you this:I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrongsAnd laboured all I could to do him right.But in this kind to come, in braving arms,Be his own carver and cut out his wayTo find out right with wrong, it may not be.And you that do abet him in this kindCherish rebellion and are rebels all.NORTHUMBERLAND.The noble Duke hath sworn his coming isBut for his own; and for the right of thatWe all have strongly sworn to give him aid;And let him never see joy that breaks that oath!YORK.Well, well, I see the issue of these arms.I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,Because my power is weak and all ill-left;But if I could, by Him that gave me life,I would attach you all and make you stoopUnto the sovereign mercy of the King.But since I cannot, be it known unto youI do remain as neuter. So fare you well—Unless you please to enter in the castleAnd there repose you for this night.BOLINGBROKE.An offer, uncle, that we will accept;But we must win your Grace to go with usTo Bristol Castle, which they say is heldBy Bushy, Bagot, and their complices,The caterpillars of the commonwealth,Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.YORK.It may be I will go with you; but yet I’ll pause,For I am loath to break our country’s laws.Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are.Things past redress are now with me past care.[Exeunt.]SCENE IV. A camp in Wales.EnterEarl of Salisburyand a WelshCaptain.CAPTAIN.My Lord of Salisbury, we have stayed ten daysAnd hardly kept our countrymen together,And yet we hear no tidings from the King.Therefore we will disperse ourselves. Farewell.SALISBURY.Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman.The King reposeth all his confidence in thee.CAPTAIN.’Tis thought the King is dead. We will not stay.The bay trees in our country are all withered,And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth,And lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change;Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap,The one in fear to lose what they enjoy,The other to enjoy by rage and war.These signs forerun the death or fall of kings.Farewell. Our countrymen are gone and fled,As well assured Richard their king is dead.[Exit.]SALISBURY.Ah, Richard! With the eyes of heavy mindI see thy glory like a shooting starFall to the base earth from the firmament.Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest.Thy friends are fled, to wait upon thy foes,And crossly to thy good all fortune goes.[Exit.]
Gaunton a couch; theDuke of Yorkand Others standing by him.
GAUNT.Will the King come, that I may breathe my lastIn wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?
YORK.Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath,For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.
GAUNT.O, but they say the tongues of dying menEnforce attention like deep harmony.Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.He that no more must say is listened moreThan they whom youth and ease have taught to glose.More are men’s ends marked than their lives before.The setting sun and music at the close,As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,Writ in remembrance more than things long past.Though Richard my life’s counsel would not hear,My death’s sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.
YORK.No, it is stopped with other flattering sounds,As praises, of whose state the wise are fond;Lascivious metres, to whose venom soundThe open ear of youth doth always listen;Report of fashions in proud Italy,Whose manners still our tardy-apish nationLimps after in base imitation.Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity—So it be new, there’s no respect how vile—That is not quickly buzzed into his ears?Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard.Direct not him whose way himself will choose.’Tis breath thou lack’st, and that breath wilt thou lose.
GAUNT.Methinks I am a prophet new inspired,And thus expiring do foretell of him:His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,For violent fires soon burn out themselves;Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder.Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle,This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,This other Eden, demi-paradise,This fortress built by Nature for herselfAgainst infection and the hand of war,This happy breed of men, this little world,This precious stone set in the silver sea,Which serves it in the office of a wallOr as a moat defensive to a house,Against the envy of less happier lands;This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,Feared by their breed, and famous by their birth,Renowned for their deeds as far from home,For Christian service and true chivalry,As is the sepulchre in stubborn JewryOf the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son,This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,Dear for her reputation through the world,Is now leased out—I die pronouncing it—Like to a tenement or pelting farm.England, bound in with the triumphant sea,Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siegeOf wat’ry Neptune, is now bound in with shame,With inky blots and rotten parchment bondsThat England that was wont to conquer othersHath made a shameful conquest of itself.Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,How happy then were my ensuing death!
EnterKing RichardandQueen; Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, RossandWilloughby.
YORK.The King is come. Deal mildly with his youth,For young hot colts, being raged, do rage the more.
QUEEN.How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?
KING RICHARD.What comfort, man? How is’t with aged Gaunt?
GAUNT.O, how that name befits my composition!Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old.Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast,And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt?For sleeping England long time have I watched;Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt.The pleasure that some fathers feed uponIs my strict fast—I mean my children’s looks,And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt.Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.
KING RICHARD.Can sick men play so nicely with their names?
GAUNT.No, misery makes sport to mock itself.Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.
KING RICHARD.Should dying men flatter with those that live?
GAUNT.No, no, men living flatter those that die.
KING RICHARD.Thou, now a-dying, sayest thou flatterest me.
GAUNT.O, no, thou diest, though I the sicker be.
KING RICHARD.I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill.
GAUNT.Now, He that made me knows I see thee ill,Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill.Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land,Wherein thou liest in reputation sick;And thou, too careless patient as thou art,Committ’st thy anointed body to the cureOf those physicians that first wounded thee.A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,Whose compass is no bigger than thy head;And yet, encaged in so small a verge,The waste is no whit lesser than thy land.O, had thy grandsire with a prophet’s eyeSeen how his son’s son should destroy his sons,From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,Deposing thee before thou wert possessed,Which art possessed now to depose thyself.Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world,It were a shame to let this land by lease;But for thy world enjoying but this land,Is it not more than shame to shame it so?Landlord of England art thou now, not king.Thy state of law is bondslave to the law,And thou—
KING RICHARD.A lunatic lean-witted fool,Presuming on an ague’s privilege,Darest with thy frozen admonitionMake pale our cheek, chasing the royal bloodWith fury from his native residence.Now, by my seat’s right royal majesty,Wert thou not brother to great Edward’s son,This tongue that runs so roundly in thy headShould run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders.
GAUNT.O! spare me not, my brother Edward’s son,For that I was his father Edward’s son.That blood already, like the pelican,Hast thou tapped out, and drunkenly caroused.My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul,Whom fair befall in heaven ’mongst happy souls!—May be a precedent and witness goodThat thou respect’st not spilling Edward’s blood.Join with the present sickness that I have,And thy unkindness be like crooked ageTo crop at once a too-long withered flower.Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!These words hereafter thy tormentors be!Convey me to my bed, then to my grave.Love they to live that love and honour have.
[Exit, borne off by his Attendants.]
KING RICHARD.And let them die that age and sullens have,For both hast thou, and both become the grave.
YORK.I do beseech your Majesty, impute his wordsTo wayward sickliness and age in him.He loves you, on my life, and holds you dearAs Harry, Duke of Hereford, were he here.
KING RICHARD.Right, you say true: as Hereford’s love, so his;As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.
EnterNorthumberland.
NORTHUMBERLAND.My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty.
KING RICHARD.What says he?
NORTHUMBERLAND.Nay, nothing; all is said.His tongue is now a stringless instrument;Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.
YORK.Be York the next that must be bankrupt so!Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
KING RICHARD.The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he.His time is spent; our pilgrimage must be.So much for that. Now for our Irish wars:We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns,Which live like venom where no venom elseBut only they have privilege to live.And, for these great affairs do ask some charge,Towards our assistance we do seize to usThe plate, coin, revenues, and moveablesWhereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possessed.
YORK.How long shall I be patient? Ah, how longShall tender duty make me suffer wrong?Not Gloucester’s death, nor Hereford’s banishment,Nor Gaunt’s rebukes, nor England’s private wrongs,Nor the prevention of poor BolingbrokeAbout his marriage, nor my own disgrace,Have ever made me sour my patient cheek,Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign’s face.I am the last of noble Edward’s sons,Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first.In war was never lion raged more fierce,In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,Than was that young and princely gentleman.His face thou hast, for even so looked he,Accomplished with the number of thy hours;But when he frowned, it was against the FrenchAnd not against his friends. His noble handDid win what he did spend, and spent not thatWhich his triumphant father’s hand had won.His hands were guilty of no kindred’s blood,But bloody with the enemies of his kin.O Richard! York is too far gone with grief,Or else he never would compare between.
KING RICHARD.Why, uncle, what’s the matter?
YORK.O my liege.Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleasedNot to be pardoned, am content withal.Seek you to seize and gripe into your handsThe royalties and rights of banished Hereford?Is not Gaunt dead? And doth not Hereford live?Was not Gaunt just? And is not Harry true?Did not the one deserve to have an heir?Is not his heir a well-deserving son?Take Hereford’s rights away, and take from TimeHis charters and his customary rights;Let not tomorrow then ensue today;Be not thyself; for how art thou a kingBut by fair sequence and succession?Now, afore God—God forbid I say true!—If you do wrongfully seize Hereford’s rights,Call in the letters patents that he hathBy his attorneys-general to sueHis livery, and deny his offered homage,You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,And prick my tender patience to those thoughtsWhich honour and allegiance cannot think.
KING RICHARD.Think what you will, we seize into our handsHis plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.
YORK.I’ll not be by the while. My liege, farewell.What will ensue hereof there’s none can tell;But by bad courses may be understoodThat their events can never fall out good.
[Exit.]
KING RICHARD.Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight.Bid him repair to us to Ely HouseTo see this business. Tomorrow nextWe will for Ireland, and ’tis time, I trow.And we create, in absence of ourself,Our Uncle York Lord Governor of England,For he is just, and always loved us well.Come on, our queen. Tomorrow must we part;Be merry, for our time of stay is short.
[ExeuntKing, Queen, Bushy, Aumerle, GreenandBagot.]
NORTHUMBERLAND.Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.
ROSS.And living too, for now his son is Duke.
WILLOUGHBY.Barely in title, not in revenues.
NORTHUMBERLAND.Richly in both, if justice had her right.
ROSS.My heart is great, but it must break with silenceEre’t be disburdened with a liberal tongue.
NORTHUMBERLAND.Nay, speak thy mind, and let him ne’er speak moreThat speaks thy words again to do thee harm!
WILLOUGHBY.Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford?If it be so, out with it boldly, man.Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.
ROSS.No good at all that I can do for him,Unless you call it good to pity him,Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.
NORTHUMBERLAND.Now, afore God, ’tis shame such wrongs are borneIn him, a royal prince, and many moeOf noble blood in this declining land.The King is not himself, but basely ledBy flatterers; and what they will inform,Merely in hate ’gainst any of us all,That will the King severely prosecute’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.
ROSS.The commons hath he pilled with grievous taxes,And quite lost their hearts. The nobles hath he finedFor ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts.
WILLOUGHBY.And daily new exactions are devised,As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what.But what, i’ God’s name, doth become of this?
NORTHUMBERLAND.Wars hath not wasted it, for warred he hath not,But basely yielded upon compromiseThat which his ancestors achieved with blows.More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.
ROSS.The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.
WILLOUGHBY.The King’s grown bankrupt like a broken man.
NORTHUMBERLAND.Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.
ROSS.He hath not money for these Irish wars,His burdenous taxations notwithstanding,But by the robbing of the banished Duke.
NORTHUMBERLAND.His noble kinsman. Most degenerate king!But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm;We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,And yet we strike not, but securely perish.
ROSS.We see the very wrack that we must suffer;And unavoided is the danger nowFor suffering so the causes of our wrack.
NORTHUMBERLAND.Not so. Even through the hollow eyes of deathI spy life peering; but I dare not sayHow near the tidings of our comfort is.
WILLOUGHBY.Nay, let us share thy thoughts as thou dost ours.
ROSS.Be confident to speak, Northumberland.We three are but thyself, and, speaking so,Thy words are but as thoughts. Therefore be bold.
NORTHUMBERLAND.Then thus: I have from Le Port Blanc, a bayIn Brittany, received intelligenceThat Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham,That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston,Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Coint,All these well furnished by the Duke of BrittanyWith eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,Are making hither with all due expedience,And shortly mean to touch our northern shore.Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stayThe first departing of the king for Ireland.If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke,Imp out our drooping country’s broken wing,Redeem from broking pawn the blemished crown,Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre’s gilt,And make high majesty look like itself,Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh.But if you faint, as fearing to do so,Stay and be secret, and myself will go.
ROSS.To horse, to horse! Urge doubts to them that fear.
WILLOUGHBY.Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.
[Exeunt.]
EnterQueen, BushyandBagot.
BUSHY.Madam, your Majesty is too much sad.You promised, when you parted with the King,To lay aside life-harming heavinessAnd entertain a cheerful disposition.
QUEEN.To please the King I did; to please myselfI cannot do it. Yet I know no causeWhy I should welcome such a guest as grief,Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guestAs my sweet Richard. Yet again methinks,Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune’s womb,Is coming towards me, and my inward soulWith nothing trembles. At something it grievesMore than with parting from my lord the King.
BUSHY.Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,Which shows like grief itself, but is not so;For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears,Divides one thing entire to many objects,Like perspectives which, rightly gazed upon,Show nothing but confusion; eyed awry,Distinguish form. So your sweet Majesty,Looking awry upon your lord’s departure,Find shapes of grief more than himself to wail,Which, looked on as it is, is naught but shadowsOf what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious Queen,More than your lord’s departure weep not. More is not seen,Or if it be, ’tis with false sorrow’s eye,Which for things true weeps things imaginary.
QUEEN.It may be so; but yet my inward soulPersuades me it is otherwise. Howe’er it be,I cannot but be sad—so heavy sadAs thought, in thinking, on no thought I think,Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.
BUSHY.’Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.
QUEEN.’Tis nothing less. Conceit is still derivedFrom some forefather grief. Mine is not so,For nothing hath begot my something grief,Or something hath the nothing that I grieve.’Tis in reversion that I do possess,But what it is, that is not yet known what,I cannot name. ’Tis nameless woe, I wot.
EnterGreen.
GREEN.God save your majesty! And well met, gentlemen.I hope the King is not yet shipped for Ireland.
QUEEN.Why hop’st thou so? ’Tis better hope he is,For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope.Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipped?
GREEN.That he, our hope, might have retired his power,And driven into despair an enemy’s hopeWho strongly hath set footing in this land.The banished Bolingbroke repeals himself,And with uplifted arms is safe arrivedAt Ravenspurgh.
QUEEN.Now God in heaven forbid!
GREEN.Ah, madam, ’tis too true; and that is worse,The Lord Northumberland, his son young Harry Percy,The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.
BUSHY.Why have you not proclaimed NorthumberlandAnd all the rest revolted faction traitors?
GREEN.We have, whereupon the Earl of WorcesterHath broken his staff, resigned his stewardship,And all the household servants fled with himTo Bolingbroke.
QUEEN.So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,And Bolingbroke my sorrow’s dismal heir.Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy,And I, a gasping new-delivered mother,Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow joined.
BUSHY.Despair not, madam.
QUEEN.Who shall hinder me?I will despair and be at enmityWith cozening hope. He is a flatterer,A parasite, a keeper-back of death,Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,Which false hope lingers in extremity.
EnterYork.
GREEN.Here comes the Duke of York.
QUEEN.With signs of war about his aged neck.O! full of careful business are his looks!Uncle, for God’s sake, speak comfortable words.
YORK.Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts.Comfort’s in heaven, and we are on the earth,Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and grief.Your husband, he is gone to save far off,Whilst others come to make him lose at home.Here am I left to underprop his land,Who, weak with age, cannot support myself.Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made;Now shall he try his friends that flattered him.
Enter aServingman.
SERVINGMAN.My lord, your son was gone before I came.
YORK.He was? Why, so! Go all which way it will!The nobles they are fled, the commons they are coldAnd will, I fear, revolt on Hereford’s side.Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester;Bid her send me presently a thousand pound.Hold, take my ring.
SERVINGMAN.My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship:Today, as I came by, I called there—But I shall grieve you to report the rest.
YORK.What is’t, knave?
SERVINGMAN.An hour before I came, the Duchess died.
YORK.God for his mercy, what a tide of woesComes rushing on this woeful land at once!I know not what to do. I would to God,So my untruth had not provoked him to it,The King had cut off my head with my brother’s.What, are there no posts dispatched for Ireland?How shall we do for money for these wars?Come, sister—cousin, I would say, pray, pardon me.Go, fellow, get thee home; provide some cartsAnd bring away the armour that is there.
[ExitServingman.]
Gentlemen, will you go muster men?If I know how or which way to order these affairsThus disorderly thrust into my hands,Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen.Th’ one is my sovereign, whom both my oathAnd duty bids defend; th’ other againIs my kinsman, whom the King hath wronged,Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin,I’ll dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster up your men,And meet me presently at Berkeley Castle.I should to Plashy too,But time will not permit. All is uneven,And everything is left at six and seven.
[ExeuntYorkandQueen.]
BUSHY.The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,But none returns. For us to levy powerProportionable to the enemyIs all unpossible.
GREEN.Besides, our nearness to the King in loveIs near the hate of those love not the King.
BAGOT.And that is the wavering commons, for their loveLies in their purses; and whoso empties them,By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.
BUSHY.Wherein the King stands generally condemned.
BAGOT.If judgment lie in them, then so do we,Because we ever have been near the King.
GREEN.Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol Castle.The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.
BUSHY.Thither will I with you, for little officeWill the hateful commons perform for us,Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.Will you go along with us?
BAGOT.No, I will to Ireland to his Majesty.Farewell. If heart’s presages be not vain,We three here part that ne’er shall meet again.
BUSHY.That’s as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.
GREEN.Alas, poor Duke! The task he undertakesIs numb’ring sands and drinking oceans dry.Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever.
BUSHY.Well, we may meet again.
BAGOT.I fear me, never.
[Exeunt.]
EnterBolingbrokeandNorthumberlandwith Forces.
BOLINGBROKE.How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now?
NORTHUMBERLAND.Believe me, noble lord,I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire.These high wild hills and rough uneven waysDraws out our miles and makes them wearisome.And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,Making the hard way sweet and delectable.But I bethink me what a weary wayFrom Ravenspurgh to Cotshall will be foundIn Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company,Which, I protest, hath very much beguiledThe tediousness and process of my travel.But theirs is sweetened with the hope to haveThe present benefit which I possess;And hope to joy is little less in joyThan hope enjoyed. By this the weary lordsShall make their way seem short as mine hath doneBy sight of what I have, your noble company.
BOLINGBROKE.Of much less value is my companyThan your good words. But who comes here?
EnterHarry Percy.
NORTHUMBERLAND.It is my son, young Harry Percy,Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.Harry, how fares your uncle?
PERCY.I had thought, my lord, to have learned his health of you.
NORTHUMBERLAND.Why, is he not with the Queen?
PERCY.No, my good lord. He hath forsook the court,Broken his staff of office, and dispersedThe household of the King.
NORTHUMBERLAND.What was his reason?He was not so resolved when last we spake together.
PERCY.Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.But he, my lord, is gone to RavenspurghTo offer service to the Duke of Hereford,And sent me over by Berkeley to discoverWhat power the Duke of York had levied there,Then with directions to repair to Ravenspurgh.
NORTHUMBERLAND.Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy?
PERCY.No, my good lord; for that is not forgotWhich ne’er I did remember. To my knowledge,I never in my life did look on him.
NORTHUMBERLAND.Then learn to know him now. This is the Duke.
PERCY.My gracious lord, I tender you my service,Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young,Which elder days shall ripen and confirmTo more approved service and desert.
BOLINGBROKE.I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sureI count myself in nothing else so happyAs in a soul rememb’ring my good friends;And as my fortune ripens with thy love,It shall be still thy true love’s recompense.My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.
NORTHUMBERLAND.How far is it to Berkeley, and what stirKeeps good old York there with his men of war?
PERCY.There stands the castle by yon tuft of trees,Manned with three hundred men, as I have heard.And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and Seymour,None else of name and noble estimate.
EnterRossandWilloughby.
NORTHUMBERLAND.Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.
BOLINGBROKE.Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursuesA banished traitor. All my treasuryIs yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enriched,Shall be your love and labour’s recompense.
ROSS.Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.
WILLOUGHBY.And far surmounts our labour to attain it.
BOLINGBROKE.Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor;Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,Stands for my bounty. But who comes here?
EnterBerkeley.
NORTHUMBERLAND.It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess.
BERKELEY.My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you.
BOLINGBROKE.My lord, my answer is—to “Lancaster”,And I am come to seek that name in England;And I must find that title in your tongueBefore I make reply to aught you say.
BERKELEY.Mistake me not, my lord, ’tis not my meaningTo rase one title of your honour out.To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will,From the most gracious regent of this land,The Duke of York, to know what pricks you onTo take advantage of the absent time,And fright our native peace with self-borne arms.
EnterYork,attended.
BOLINGBROKE.I shall not need transport my words by you.Here comes his Grace in person. My noble uncle!
[Kneels.]
YORK.Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,Whose duty is deceivable and false.
BOLINGBROKE.My gracious uncle—
YORK.Tut, tut!Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle.I am no traitor’s uncle, and that word “grace”In an ungracious mouth is but profane.Why have those banished and forbidden legsDared once to touch a dust of England’s ground?But then more why: why have they dared to marchSo many miles upon her peaceful bosom,Frighting her pale-faced villages with warAnd ostentation of despised arms?Com’st thou because the anointed king is hence?Why, foolish boy, the King is left behind,And in my loyal bosom lies his power.Were I but now lord of such hot youthAs when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myselfRescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,From forth the ranks of many thousand French,O, then how quickly should this arm of mine,Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise theeAnd minister correction to thy fault!
BOLINGBROKE.My gracious uncle, let me know my fault.On what condition stands it and wherein?
YORK.Even in condition of the worst degree,In gross rebellion and detested treason.Thou art a banished man, and here art come,Before the expiration of thy time,In braving arms against thy sovereign.
BOLINGBROKE.As I was banished, I was banished Hereford;But as I come, I come for Lancaster.And, noble uncle, I beseech your GraceLook on my wrongs with an indifferent eye.You are my father, for methinks in youI see old Gaunt alive. O then, my father,Will you permit that I shall stand condemnedA wandering vagabond, my rights and royaltiesPlucked from my arms perforce and given awayTo upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?If that my cousin king be King in England,It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster.You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin.Had you first died and he been thus trod down,He should have found his uncle Gaunt a fatherTo rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay.I am denied to sue my livery here,And yet my letters patents give me leave.My father’s goods are all distrained and sold,And these, and all, are all amiss employed.What would you have me do? I am a subject,And challenge law. Attorneys are denied me,And therefore personally I lay my claimTo my inheritance of free descent.
NORTHUMBERLAND.The noble Duke hath been too much abused.
ROSS.It stands your Grace upon to do him right.
WILLOUGHBY.Base men by his endowments are made great.
YORK.My lords of England, let me tell you this:I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrongsAnd laboured all I could to do him right.But in this kind to come, in braving arms,Be his own carver and cut out his wayTo find out right with wrong, it may not be.And you that do abet him in this kindCherish rebellion and are rebels all.
NORTHUMBERLAND.The noble Duke hath sworn his coming isBut for his own; and for the right of thatWe all have strongly sworn to give him aid;And let him never see joy that breaks that oath!
YORK.Well, well, I see the issue of these arms.I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,Because my power is weak and all ill-left;But if I could, by Him that gave me life,I would attach you all and make you stoopUnto the sovereign mercy of the King.But since I cannot, be it known unto youI do remain as neuter. So fare you well—Unless you please to enter in the castleAnd there repose you for this night.
BOLINGBROKE.An offer, uncle, that we will accept;But we must win your Grace to go with usTo Bristol Castle, which they say is heldBy Bushy, Bagot, and their complices,The caterpillars of the commonwealth,Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.
YORK.It may be I will go with you; but yet I’ll pause,For I am loath to break our country’s laws.Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are.Things past redress are now with me past care.
[Exeunt.]
EnterEarl of Salisburyand a WelshCaptain.
CAPTAIN.My Lord of Salisbury, we have stayed ten daysAnd hardly kept our countrymen together,And yet we hear no tidings from the King.Therefore we will disperse ourselves. Farewell.
SALISBURY.Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman.The King reposeth all his confidence in thee.
CAPTAIN.’Tis thought the King is dead. We will not stay.The bay trees in our country are all withered,And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth,And lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change;Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap,The one in fear to lose what they enjoy,The other to enjoy by rage and war.These signs forerun the death or fall of kings.Farewell. Our countrymen are gone and fled,As well assured Richard their king is dead.
[Exit.]
SALISBURY.Ah, Richard! With the eyes of heavy mindI see thy glory like a shooting starFall to the base earth from the firmament.Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest.Thy friends are fled, to wait upon thy foes,And crossly to thy good all fortune goes.
[Exit.]