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North. That were some love but little policy. | That had not God, for some strong purpose,
Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go. steel'd
K. Rich. So two, together weeping, make one The hearts of men, they must perforce have

Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here; And barbarism itself have pitied him.
Better far off than near, be ne'er the near. But heaven hath a hand in these events,
Go, count thy way with sighs, I mine with groans. To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
Queen. So longest way shall have the longest To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,

Whose state and honour I for aye allow. K. Rich. Twice for one step I 'll groan, the Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle. way being short,


Aumerle that was ; And piece the way out with a heavy heart. But that is lost for being Richard's friend, Come, come, in wooing sorrow let 's be brief, And, madam, you must call him Rutland now. Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief. I am in parliament pledge for his truth One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part: And lasting fealty to the new made king. Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart.

Enter AUMERLE. Queen. Give me mine own again ; 'twere no good part

Duch. Welcome, my son: who are the violets To take on me to keep and kill thy heart. So, now I have mine own again, be gone, That strew the green lap of the new come spring! That I may strive to kill it with a groan.

Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond

not: delay :

God knows I had as lief be none as one. Once more, adieu ; the rest let sorrow say.

York. Well, bear you well in this new spring Exeunt. of time,

Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime. SCENE II.-The Same. A Room in the Duke of What news from Oxford ? hold those justs and YORK's Palace.

triumphs ?

Aum. For anght I know, my lord, they do. Enter YORK and the DUCHESS.

York. You will be there, I know. Duch. My lord, you told me you would tell Aum. If God prevent not, I purpose so. the rest,

York. What seal is that that hangs without
When weeping made you break the story off, thy bosom?
Of our two cousins coming into London. Yea, look'st thou pale ? let me see the writing.
York. Where did I leave ?

Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.
At that sad stop, my lord, York.

No matter then who sees it : Where rude misgovern'd hands, from windows' | I will be satisfied ; let me see the writing. tops,

Aum. I do beseech your grace to pardon me: Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head. It is a matter of small consequence, York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Boling. Which for some reasons I would not have seen. broke,

York. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

to see. Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know, I fear, I fear, With slow but stately pace kept on his conrse, Duch.

What should you fear? While all tongues cried.God save thee, Boling. 'Tis nothing but some bond that he is enter'd into broke!'

For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day. You would have thought the very windows spake, York. Bound to himself ? what doth he with So many greedy looks of young and old

a bond Through casements darted their desiring eyes That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool. Upon his visage, and that all the walls

Boy, let me see the writing. With painted imagery had said at once

Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!'

show it. Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,

York. I will be satisfied ; let me see it, I say. Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,

Snatches it, and reads. Bespake them thus: 'I thank you, countrymen': Treason! foul treason! Villain ! traitor! slave! And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along. Duch. What is the matter, my lord ? Duch. Alack! poor Richard ; where rode he York. Ho! who is within there?

the whilst ? York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,

Enter a Servant. After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,

Saddle my horse. Are idly bent on him that enters next,

God for his mercy! what treachers is here! Thinking his prattle to be tedious;

Duch. Why, what is it, my lord ? Even so,or with much more contempt, men's eyes York. Give me my boots, I say: saddle my Did scowl on Richard : no man cried God save horse.

Erit Serrant. him!'

Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth, No joyful tongue gave bim his welcome home; I will appeach the villain. But dust was thrown upon his sacred head, Duch.

What's the matter! Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, York. Peace, foolish woman. His face still combating with tears and smiles,

Duch, I will not peace.

What is the matter, The badges of his grief and patience,

Aumerle ?




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Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more Percy. His answer was, he would unto the Than my poor life must answer.

stews, Duch.

Thy life answer ! And from the common'st creature pluck a glove, York. Bring me my boots : I will unto the king. And wear it as a favour ; and with that

He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.
Re-enter Servant, with boots.

Boling. As dissolute as desperate : yet through

both Duch. Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amaz'd.

I see some sparks of better hope, which elder days Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.

May happily bring forth. But who comes here? Exit Servant.

Enter AUMERLE. York. Give me my boots, I say.

Aum. Where is the king ? Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do?

Boling. What means our cousin, that he stares Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?

and looks Have we more sons, or are we like to have ?

So wildly?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,

Aum. God save your grace! I do beseech And rob me of a happy mother's name?

your majesty

To have some conference with your grace alone. Is he not like thee? is he not thine own? York. Thou fond, mad woman,

Boling. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us

here alone. Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy ?

Exeunt PERCY and Lords. A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament, What is the matter with our cousin now? And interchangeably set down their hands,

Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth,

Knedls. 30 To kill the king at Oxford. Duch.

He shall be none;

My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, We'll keep him here : then what is that to him? Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak. York. Away, fond woman! were he twenty If on the first, how heinous e'er it be,

Boling. Intended or committed was this fault? times My son, I would appeach him.

To win thy after-love I pardon thee.
Hadst thou groan'd for him

Aum. Then give me leave that I may turn the As I have done thou would'st be more pitiful.

key, But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect

That no man enter till my tale be done. That I have been disloyal to thy bed,

Boling. Have thy desire. And that he is a bastard, not thr son :

York. Within. My liege, beware! look to thySweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind : Thon hast a traitor in thy presence there.

self ; He is as like thee as a man may be, Not like to me, nor any of my kin,

Boling. Villain, I 'll make thee safe. Drawing. And yet I love him.

Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand ; thou hast no York.

cause to fear, Make way, unruly woman! Exit. Duch. After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his

York. Within. Open the door, secure, foolhorse;

hardy king : Spur post, and get before him to the king,

Shall I for love speak treason to thy face? And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.

Open the door, or I will break it open.
I'll not be long behind; though I be old,

Enter YORK.
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:
And never will I rise up from the ground

Boling. What is the matter, uncle ? speak; Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away! Recover breath; tell us how near is danger,


That we may arm us to encounter it.
York. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt

know SCENE III.- WindsorA Room in the Castle. The treason that my haste forbids me show. 50

Aum. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise Enter BOLINGBROKE as king ; PERCY, and other

pass'd : Lords.

I do repent me; read not my name there ; Boling. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty My heart is not confederate with my hand. son ?

York. 'Twas, villain, ere thy hand did set it "Tis full three months since I did see him last. down. If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.

I tore it from the traitor's bosom, king ; I would to God, my lords, he might be found : Fear, and not love, begets his penitence. Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there, Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove For there, they say, he daily doth frequent, A serpent that will sting thee to the heart. With unrestrained loose companions,

Boling. O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy! Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes O loyal father of a treacherous son! And beat our watch and rob our passengers ; Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain, Which he, young wanton and effeminate boy, From whence this stream through muddy pasTakes on the point of honour to support

sages So dissolute a crew.

Hath held his current and defil'd himself ! Percy. My lord, some two days since I saw Thy overflow of good converts to bad, the prince,

And thy abundant goodness shall excuse And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford. This deadly blot in thy digressing son. Boling. And what said the gallant ?

York. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd,



be gone.







And he shall spend mine honour with his shame, Ah! my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,
As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold. That sett'st the word itself against the word.
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies, 70 Speak ‘pardon'as 'tis current in our land ;
Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies : The choppiny French we do not understand.
Thou kill'st me in his life ; giving him breath, Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there,
The traitor lives, the true man's put to death. Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear,
Duch. Within. What ho, my liege! for God's That hearing how our plaints and prayers do
sake, let me in.

Boling. What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse.
this eager cry?

Boling. Good aunt, stand up. Duch. A woman, and thine aunt, great king ; Duch.

I do not sue to stand ; 'tis I.

Pardon is all the suit I have in hand. Speak with me, pity me, open the door :

Boling. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me. A beggar begs that never begg'd before.

Duch. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee ! Boling. Our scene is alter'd from a serious Yet am I sick for fear : speak it again ; thing,

Twice saying 'pardon' doth not pardon twain, And now chang'd to · The Beggar and the King.' But makes one pardon strong. My dangerous cousin, let your mother in :


With all my heart I know she's come to pray for your foul sin. I pardon him. York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,

Duch. A god on earth thou art.
More sins for this forgiveness prosper may. Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law and
This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rest sound; the abbot,
This let alone will all the rest confound.

With all the rest of that consorted crew,

Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.

Good uncle, help to order several powers Duch. O king! believe not this hard-hearted To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are :

They shall not live within this world, I swear, Love loving not itself none other can.

But I will have them, if I once know where. York. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou Uncle, farewell: and cousin too, adieu : make here?

Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear? 90 true. Duch. Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, gentle Duch. Come, my old son: I pray God make liege. Kneels. thee new.

Ereunt. Boling. Rise up, good aunt.

Enter EXTON and Serrant. Duch.

Not yet, I thee beseech : For ever will I walk upon my knees,

Exton. Didst thou not mark the king, what And never see day that the happy sees,

words he spake, Till thou give joy ; until thou bid me joy, • Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?' By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy. Was it not so? Aum. Unto my mother's prayers I bend my Serv.

Those were his very words. knee.

Kneels. Exton. “Have I no friend?' quoth he: he spake York. Against them both my true joints it twice, bended be.

Kneels. And urg'd it twice together, did he not? Ill may'st thou thrive if thou grant any grace! Serv. He did.

Duch. Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face; Exton. And speaking it, he wistly look'd on me, His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest; | As who should say, 'I would thou wert the man His words come from his mouth, ours from our That would divorce this terror from my heart'; breast :

102 Meaning the king at Pomfret. Come, let's go : He prays but faintly and would be denied ;

I am the king's friend, and will rid his foe. We pray with heart and soul and all beside :

Exeunt. His weary joints would gladly rise, I know ; Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they SCENE IV.— Pomfret. The Dungeon of the Castle.

grow: His prayers are full of false hypocrisy;

Enter King RICHARD. Ours of true zeal and deep integrity.

K. Rich. I have been studying how I may Our prayers do out-pray his ; then let them have

compare That mercy which true prayer ought to have. 110 This prison where I live unto the world : Boling. Good aunt, stand up.

And for because the world is populous, Duch.

Nay, do not say “stand up'; And here is not a creature but myself, But 'pardon’ first, and afterwards “stand up.' I cannot do it; yet I'll hammer it out. An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach, My brain I'll prove the female to my soul ; * Pardon' should be the first word of thy speech. My soul the father : and these two beget I never long'd to hear a word till now;

A generation of still-breeding thoughts, Say 'pardon,' king ; let pity teach thee how: And these same thoughts people this little world, The word is short, but not so short as sweet ; In humours like the people of this world, No word like 'pardon' for kings' mouths so meet. For no thought is contented. The better sort, York. Speak it in French, king; say, par. As thoughts of things divine, are intermix'd donnez-moii'

With scruples, and do set the word itself Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to Against the word : destroy

As thus, 'Come, little ones’; and then again,


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It is as hard to come as for a camel
To thread the postern of a needle's eye.'
Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders; how these vain weak nails
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars
Who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame,
That many have and others must sit there:
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of such as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play I in one person many people,
And none contented: sometimes am I king;
Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am then crushing penury
Persuades me I was better when a king;
Then am I king'd again; and by and by
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing: but whate'er I be,
Nor I nor any man that but man is
With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
With being nothing.


Music do I hear?


Ha, ha! keep time. How sour sweet music is
When time is broke and no proportion kept!
So is it in the music of men's lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear
To check time broke in a disorder'd string;
But for the concord of my state and time
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;
For now hath time made me his numbering clock:
My thoughts are minutes, and with sighs they jar
Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward



Would he not stumble? would he not fall down,
Since pride must have a fall, and break the neck
Of that proud man that did usurp his back?
Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be aw'd by man,
Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;
And yet I bear a burden like an ass,
Spur-gall'd and tir'd by jauncing Bolingbroke.

Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans
Show minutes, times, and hours; but my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o' the clock.
This music mads me: let it sound no more;
For though it hath holp madmen to their wits,
In me it seems it will make wise men mad.
Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!
For 'tis a sign of love, and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.
Enter a Groom of the Stable.


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Enter Keeper, with a dish.

Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.

K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away.

Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say. Exit.

Keep. Help, help, help!


Keep. My lord, will 't please you to fall to? K. Rich. Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do. Keep. My lord, I dare not : Sir Pierce of Exton, who lately came from the king, commands the contrary.


K. Rich. The devil take Henry of Lancaster
and thee!

Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.
Strikes the Keeper.

Enter EXTON and Servants, armed.

K. Rich. How now! what means death in this rude assault? Villain, thine own hand yields thy death's instrument.

Snatching a weapon, and killing one. Go thou and fill another room in hell.

He kills another EXTON strikes him down. That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand


Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's
own land.

Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high,
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to

Exton. As full of valour as of royal blood:
Both have I spilt; O! would the deed were good;
For now the devil, that told me I did well,
Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.
This dead king to the living king I'll bear.
Take hence the rest and give them burial here.


SCENE V.-Windsor.

Groom. Hail, royal prince!
K. Rich.
Thanks, noble peer;
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
What art thou? and how comest thou hither,
Where no man never comes but that sad dog 70
That brings me food to make misfortune live?
Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
When thou wert king; who, travelling towards


An Apartment in the

With much ado at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometimes royal master's face. Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE and YORK, with
Lords and Attendants.

O how it yearn'd my heart when I beheld
In London streets, that coronation day,
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary,
That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,

Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we


Is that the rebels have consum'd with fire



Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire ;

More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life; But whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not. So, as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife: Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.

For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,

High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.
Welcome, my lord. What is the news ?
North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all Enter Exton, with Attendants bearing a coffin.

Exton. Great king, within this coffin I present
The next news is, I have to London sent

Thy buried fear : herein all breathless lies The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent. The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, The manner of their taking may appear

Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought. At large discoursed in this paper here.

Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy hast wrought pains,

A deed of slander with thy fatal hand And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. Upon my head and all this famous land. Enter FITZWATER.

Erton. From your own mouth, my lord, did I

this deed. Pitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London

Boling. They love not poison that do poison

need, The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely, Two of the dangerous consorted traitors

Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead, That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

I hate the murderer, love him murdered. Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour, forgot ;

But neither my good word nor princely favour : Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

With Cain go wander through the shades of

night, Enter PERCY, with the Bishop of CARLISLE. And never show thy head by day nor light. Percy. The grand conspirator, Abbot of West- Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe, minster,

That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow: With clog of conscience and sour melancholy, 20 Come, mourn with me for that I do lament, Hath yielded up his body to the grave;

And put on sullen biack incontinent.
But here is Carlisle living, to abide

I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,
Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride. To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. 50
Boling. Carlisle, this is your doom :

March sadly after; grace my mournings here,
Choose out some secret place, some reverend In weeping after this untimely bier.


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