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That know the strong'st and surest way to get.
Uncle, give me your hand: nay, dry your eyes;
Tears show their love, but want their remedies.
Cousin, I am too young to be your father,
Though you are old enough to be my heir.
What you will have I'll give, and willing too;
For do we must what force will have us do.
Set on towards London. Cousin, is it so?
Boling. Yea, my good lord.
K. Rich.

Then I must not say no.
Flourish. Exeunt.

SCENE IV.-Langley. The Duke of YORK'S


Enter the QUEEN and two Ladies. Queen. What sport shall we devise here in this garden,

To drive away the heavy thought of care?
First Lady. Madam, we'll play at bowls.
Queen. Twill make me think the world is full
of rubs,

And that my fortune runs against the bias.
First Lady. Madam, we'll dance.

Queen. My legs can keep no measure in delight
When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief:
Therefore, no dancing, girl; some other sport.
First Lady. Madam, we 'll tell tales.
Queen. Of sorrow or of joy?
First Lady.

Queen. Of neither, girl;


Of either, madam.

For if of joy, being altogether wanting,

It doth remember me the more of sorrow;

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Enter a Gardener and two Servants. Gard. Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks, Which, like unruly children, make their sire Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight: Give some supportance to the bending twigs. Go thou, and like an executioner, Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays, That look too lofty in our commonwealth: All must be even in our government. You thus employ'd, I will go root away The noisome weeds, that without profit suck The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers.

First Serv. Why should we in the compass of a pale

Keep law and form and due proportion,
Showing, as in a model, our firm estate,
When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,
Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers chok'd up,
Her fruit-trees all unprun'd, her hedges ruin'd,
Her knots disorder'd, and her wholesome herbs
Swarming with caterpillars?



Hold thy peace :

He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf; The weeds that his broad-spreading leaves did shelter,


That seem'd in eating him to hold him up,
Are pluck'd up root and all by Bolingbroke;
I mean, the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.
First Serv. What are they dead?
They are; and Bolingbroke
Hath seiz'd the wasteful king. O! what pity is it
That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land
As we this garden. We at time of year
Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees,
Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood.
With too much riches it confound itself:
Had he done so to great and growing men,
They might have liv'd to bear and he to taste
Their fruits of duty: superfluous branches
We lop away that bearing boughs may live:
Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,
Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown


First Serv. What! think you then the king shall be depos'd?

Gard. Depress'd he is already, and depos'd 'Tis doubt he will be: letters came last night To a dear friend of the good Duke of York's, 70 That tell black tidings.



Queen. O! I am press'd to death through want | In that dead time when Gloucester's death was of speaking. Coming forward. Thou, old Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden, How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news?

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Post you to London and you'll find it so ;
I speak no more than every one doth know.
Queen. Nimble mischance, that art so light of

Doth not thy embassage belong to me,
And am I last that knows it? O! thou think'st
To serve me last, that I may longest keep
Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go,
To meet at London London's king in woe.
What! was I born to this, that my sad look
Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?
Gardener, for telling me these news of woe, 100
Pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow.
Exeunt QUEEN and Ladies.
Gard. Poor queen! so that thy state might
be no worse,

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I would my skill were subject to thy curse.
Here did she fall a tear; here in this place
I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace;
Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,
In the remembrance of a weeping queen.



SCENE I.-London. Westminster Hall. The Lords spiritual on the right side of the throne; the Lords temporal on the left; the Commons below.

Enter BOLINGBROKE, AUMERLE, SURREY, NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY, FITZWATER, another Lord, the Bishop of CARLISLE, the Abbot of WESTMINSTER, and Attendants. Officers behind, with BAGOT.

Boling. Call forth Bagot.

Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind;

What thou dost know of noble Gloucester's death, Who wrought it with the king, and who perform'd The bloody office of his timeless end.

Bagot. Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle.

Boling. Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man.

Bagot. My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue

Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver'd.

I heard you say, 'Is not my arm of length,
That reacheth from the restful English court
As far as Calais, to mine uncle's head?'
Amongst much other talk, that very time,
I heard you say that you had rather refuse
The offer of an hundred thousand crowns
Than Bolingbroke's return to England;
Adding withal, how blest this land would be
In this your cousin's death.
Princes and noble lords,
What answer shall I make to this base man! »
Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars,
On equal terms to give him chastisement?
Either I must, or have mine honour soil'd
With the attainder of his slanderous lips.
There is my gage, the manual seal of death,
That marks thee out for hell: I say thou liest,
And will maintain what thou hast said is false
In thy heart-blood, though being all too base
To stain the temper of my knightly sword.

Boling. Bagot, forbear; thou shalt not take it up.

Aum. Excepting one, I would he were the best In all this presence that hath mov'd me so.

Fitz. If that thy valour stand on sympathies, There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine. By that fair sun which shows me where thou stand'st,

I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak'st it, That thou wert cause of noble Gloucester's death. If thou deny'st it twenty times, thou liest; And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart, Where it was forged, with my rapier's point. * Aum. Thou dar'st not, coward, live to see that day.

Fitz. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour. Aum. Fitzwater, thou art damn'd to hell for this.

Percy. Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true

In this appeal as thou art all unjust;
And that thou art so, there I throw my gage.
To prove it on thee to the extremest point
Of mortal breathing: seize it if thou dar'st.
Aum. An if I do not may my hands rot off
And never brandish more revengeful steel
Over the glittering helmet of my foe!
Another Lord. I task the earth to the like,
forsworn Aumerle;

And spur thee on with full as many lies
As may be holla'd in thy treacherous ear
From sun to sun : there is my honour's pawn;
Engage it to the trial if thou dar'st.


Aum. Who sets me else? by heaven, I'll throw at all.

I have a thousand spirits in one breast,
To answer twenty thousand such as you.
Surrey. My Lord Fitzwater, I do remember well
The very time Aumerle and you did talk.


Fitz. 'Tis very true: you were in presence then; And you can witness with me this is true. Surrey. As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true.

Fitz. Surrey, thou liest.

Dishonourable boy!
That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword
That it shall render vengeance and revenge,
Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do lie

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repeal'd he shall be, And though mine enemy, restor❜d again To all his lands and signiories; when he's return'd, Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial.


Car. That honourable day shall ne'er be seen.
Many a time hath banish'd Norfolk fought
For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field,
Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross
Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens ;
And toil'd with works of war, retir'd himself
To Italy; and there at Venice gave
His body to that pleasant country's earth,
And his pure soul unto his captain Christ,
Under whose colours he had fought so long. 100
Boling. Why, bishop, is Norfolk dead?
Car. As surely as I live, my lord.
Boling. Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul
to the bosom

Of good old Abraham! Lords appellants,
Your differences shall all rest under gage
Till we assign you to your days of trial.

Enter YORK, attended.

York. Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee From plume-pluck'd Richard; who with willing soul


Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields
To the possession of thy royal hand.
Ascend his throne, descending now from him ;
And long live Henry, of that name the fourth!
Boling. In God's name, I'll ascend the regal

Car. Marry, God forbid!

Worst in this royal presence may I speak,
Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth.
Would God that any in this noble presence
Were enough noble to be upright judge

Of noble Richard! then true noblesse would
Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong. 120
What subject can give sentence on his king?
And who sits here that is not Richard's subject?
Thieves are not judg'd but they are by to hear,
Although apparent guilt be seen in them;
And shall the figure of God's majesty,
His captain, steward, deputy elect,
Anointed, crowned, planted many years,
Be judg'd by subject and inferior breath,
And he himself not present? O forfend it, God,
That in a Christian climate souls refin'd


Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed.
I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks,
Stirr'd up by God thus boldly for his king.
My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,
Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king;
And if you crown him, let me prophesy,
The blood of English shall manure the ground
And future ages groan for this foul act:
Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,
And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars
Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound;
Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny

Shall here inhabit, and this land be call'd
The field of Golgotha and dead men's skulls.
O! if you raise this house against this house,
It will the woefullest division prove
That ever fell upon this cursed earth.
Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so,


Lest child, child's children, cry against you 'woe!'

North. Well have you argu'd, sir; and, for your pains,


Of capital treason we arrest you here.
My lord of Westminster, be it your charge
To keep him safely till his day of trial.
May it please you, lords, to grant the commons'

Boling. Fetch hither Richard, that in common view

He may surrender; so we shall proceed
Without suspicion.


I will be his conduct.
Boling. Lords, you that here are under our

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K. Rich. Alack! why am I sent for to a king
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts
Wherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd
To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my limbs :
Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me
To this submission. Yet I well remember
The favours of these men were they not mine?
Did they not sometime cry 'All hail!' to me?
So Judas did to Christ: but he, in twelve,
Found truth in all but one; I, in twelve thou-
sand, none.
God save the king! Will no man say amen?
Am I both priest and clerk? well then, amen.
God save the king! although I be not he;
And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me.
To do what service am I sent for hither?
York. To do that office of thine own good will
Which tired majesty did make thee offer,
The resignation of thy state and crown
To Henry Bolingbroke.

K. Rich. Give me the crown.
seize the crown;

Here, cousin,


Here, cousin,

On this side my hand and on that side thine.
Now is this golden crown like a deep well
That owes two buckets filling one another;
The emptier ever dancing in the air,
The other down, unseen and full of water:
That bucket down and full of tears am I,
Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

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My care is loss of care, by old care done;
Your care is gain of care, by new care won:
The cares I give I have, though given away;
They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.
Boling. Are you contented to resign the crown?
K. Rich. Ay, no; no, ay; for I must nothing be;
Therefore no no, for I resign to thee.
Now mark me how I will undo myself:
I give this heavy weight from off my head,
And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand,
The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;
With mine own tears I wash away my balm,
With mine own hands I give away my crown,
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,
With mine own breath release all duty's rites:
All pomp and majesty I do forswear;
My manors, rents, revenues I forgo;
My acts, decrees, and statutes I deny :
God pardon all oaths that are broke to me!
God keep all vows unbroke that swear to thee!
Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd,
And thou with all pleas'd, that hast all achiev'd!
Long may'st thou live in Richard's seat to sit,
And soon lie Richard in an earthy pit!
God save King Henry, unking'd Richard says,
And send him many years of sunshine days!
What more remains?



North. Offering a paper. No more but that you read

These accusations and these grievous crimes
Committed by your person and your followers
Against the state and profit of this land;
That, by confessing them, the souls of men
May deem that you are worthily depos'd.


K. Rich. Must I do so? and must I ravel out My weav'd-up follies? Gentle Northumberland, If thy offences were upon record, Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop To read a lecture of them? If thou would'st, There should'st thou find one heinous article, Containing the deposing of a king, And cracking the strong warrant of an oath, Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heaven. Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me, Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself, Though some of you with Pilate wash your hands, Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates Have here deliver'd me to my sour cross, And water cannot wash away your sin. North. My lord, dispatch; read o'er these articles.


K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see: And yet salt water blinds them not so much But they can see a sort of traitors here. Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself, I find myself a traitor with the rest; For I have given here my soul's consent To undeck the pompous body of a king; Made glory base and sovereignty a slave, Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant.

North. My lord,

K. Rich. No lord of thine, thou haught insult. ing man,


Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no title,
No, not that name was given me at the font,
But 'tis usurp'd: alack! the heavy day,
That I have worn so many winters out,
And know not now what name to call myself.
O! that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt myself away in water-drops.
Good king, great king, and yet not greatly good,
An if my word be sterling yet in England,
Let it command a mirror hither straight,
That it may show me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.
Boling. Go some of you and fetch a looking.
Exit an Attendant.
North. Read o'er this paper while the glass
doth come.

K. Rich. Fiend! thou torment'st me ere I come to hell.


Boling. Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

North. The commons will not then be satisfied. K. Rich. They shall be satisfied: I'll read enough

When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.
Re-enter Attendant, with a glass.

Give me the glass, and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine
And made no deeper wounds? O flattering glass!
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me.


Was this face the face That every day under his household roof Did keep ten thousand men? was this the face That like the sun did make beholders wink? Was this the face that fac'd so many follies, And was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke? A brittle glory shineth in this face: As brittle as the glory is the face;

Dashes the glass against the ground. For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers. Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport, How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face. Boling. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd

The shadow of your face.

K. Rich.

Say that again. Ha! let's see:

The shadow of my sorrow!
'Tis very true, my grief lies all within;
And these external manners of laments
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul;
There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king.
For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st
Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,
And then be gone and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?

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K. Rich. Fair cousin!' I am greater than a king;

For when I was a king, my flatterers

250 Were then but subjects; being now a subject, I have a king here to my flatterer.

Being so great, I have no need to beg.

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Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.
Aum. You holy clergymen, is there no plot
To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?
Abbot. My lord,

Before I freely speak my mind herein,
You shall not only take the sacrament
To bury mine intents, but also to effect
Whatever I shall happen to devise.
I see your brows are full of discontent,
Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears:
Come home with me to supper; I will lay
A plot shall show us all a merry day.


SCENE I.-London.



A Street leading to the Tower.

Enter the QUEEN and Ladies.

Transform'd and weaken'd hath Bolingbroke


Thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart?
The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw
And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o'erpower'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like, 31
Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod,
And fawn on rage with base humility,
Which art a lion and a king of beasts?

K. Rich. A king of beasts indeed; if aught but beasts,

I had been still a happy king of men.
Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for


Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak'st,
As from my death-bed, thy last living leave.
In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire
With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales
Of woeful ages, long ago betid;
And ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable tale of me,

And send the hearers weeping to their beds:
For why, the senseless brands will sympathize
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,
And in compassion weep the fire out;
And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,
For the deposing of a rightful king.


Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, attended. North. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd;

You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.
And, madam, there is order ta'en for you;
With all swift speed you must away to France.
K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder where-

The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,
The time shall not be many hours of age
More than it is ere foul sin gathering head

Queen. This way the king will come; this is Shall break into corruption. Thou shalt think,

the way

To Julius Cæsar's ill-erected tower,
To whose flint bosom my condemned lord
Is doom'd a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke:
Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth
Have any resting for her true king's queen.
Enter King RICHARD and Guard.
But soft, but see, or rather do not see,
My fair rose wither: yet look up, behold,
That you in pity may dissolve to dew,
And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.
Ah! thou, the model where old Troy did stand,
Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb,
And not King Richard; thou most beauteous inn,
Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee,
When triumph is become an alehouse guest?
K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair woman, do

not so,


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Though he divide the realm and give thee half, It is too little, helping him to all;


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A two-fold marriage; 'twixt my crown and me,
And then betwixt me and my married wife.
Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me;
And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made.
Part us, Northumberland: I towards the north,
Where shivering cold and sickness pines the

My wife to France: from whence, set forth in pomp,

She came adorned hither like sweet May,
Sent back like Hallowmas or short'st of day. 80
Queen. And must we be divided? must we part?
K. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and
heart from heart.

Queen. Banish us both and send the king with


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