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K. Rich. Twice for one step I'll groan, the way being short,

And piece the way out with a heavy heart.
Come, come, in wooing sorrow let's be brief,
Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief.
One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part:
Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart.
Queen. Give me mine own again; 'twere no
good part

To take on me to keep and kill thy heart.
So, now I have mine own again, be gone,
That I may strive to kill it with a groan.
K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond

Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say.



SCENE II.-The Same. A Room in the Duke of YORK'S Palace.

Enter YORK and the DUCHESS.

Duch. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest,

When weeping made you break the story off,
Of our two cousins coming into London.
York. Where did I leave?
At that sad stop, my lord,
Where rude misgovern'd hands, from windows'

Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head. York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,

Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,
With slow but stately pace kept on his course,
While all tongues cried God save thee, Boling-


You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage, and that all the walls
With painted imagery had said at once
'Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke !'
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus: 'I thank you, countrymen':
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.
Duch. Alack poor Richard; where rode he
the whilst?

York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious;


Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did scowl on Richard: no man cried 'God save him!'

No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home; But dust was thrown upon his sacred head, Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, His face still combating with tears and smiles, The badges of his grief and patience,


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Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime. What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs?

Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do.
York. You will be there, I know.
Aum. If God prevent not, I purpose so.
York. What seal is that that hangs without
thy bosom ?

Yea, look'st thou pale? let me see the writing.
Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.


No matter then who sees it : I will be satisfied; let me see the writing. Aum. I do beseech your grace to pardon me: It is a matter of small consequence, Which for some reasons I would not have seen. York. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see. I fear, I fear,Duch.

What should you fear? 'Tis nothing but some bond that he is enter'd into For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day.

York. Bound to himself? what doth he with

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Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.

Thy life answer!
York. Bring me my boots: I will unto the king.

Re-enter Servant, with boots.

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

Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.
Exit Servant.

York. Give me my boots, I say.
Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons, or are we like to have?


Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?
York. Thou fond, mad woman,

Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.


He shall be none;
We'll keep him here: then what is that to him?
York. Away, fond woman! were he twenty


My son, I would appeach him.



Hadst thou groan'd for him
As I have done thou would'st be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son:
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me, nor any of my kin,
And yet I love him.


Make way, unruly woman! Exit.
Duch. After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his
Spur post, and get before him to the king,
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
I'll not be long behind; though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York :
And never will I rise up from the ground
Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away!

be gone.


SCENE III.- Windsor. A Room in the Castle.
Enter BOLINGBROKE as king; PERCY, and other


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Aum. God save your grace! I do beseech
your majesty

To have some conference with your grace alone.
Boling. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us
Exeunt PERCY and Lords.

here alone.

What is the matter with our cousin now?
Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the
Kneels. 30

My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth,
Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak.

If on the first, how heinous e'er it be,
Boling. Intended or committed was this fault?
To win thy after-love I pardon thee.

Aum. Then give me leave that I may turn the

That no man enter till my tale be done.
Boling. Have thy desire.

York. Within. My liege, beware! look to thy-

Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.


Boling. Villain, I'll make thee safe. Drawing. Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand; thou hast no cause to fear.

York. Within. Open the door, secure, fool-
hardy king:

Shall I for love speak treason to thy face?
Open the door, or I will break it open.

Enter YORK.

Boling. What is the matter, uncle? speak; 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

The treason that my haste forbids me show. 50 Aum. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise pass'd:

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 ?

"Tis full three months since I did see him last.
If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.

I would to God, my lords, he might be found:
Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there,
For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,
With unrestrained loose companions,
Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes
And beat our watch and rob our passengers;
Which he, young wanton and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour to support
So dissolute a crew.

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And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,
As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold.
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,
Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies:
Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath,
The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.
Duch. Within. What ho, my liege! for God's
sake, let me in.

Boling. What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes
this eager cry?

Duch. A woman, and thine aunt, great king;
'tis I.

Speak with me, pity me, open the door :
A beggar begs that never begg'd before.

Boling. Our scene is alter'd from a serious


And now chang'd to 'The Beggar and the King.'
My dangerous cousin, let your mother in :
I know she's come to pray for your foul sin.
York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
More sins for this forgiveness prosper may.
This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rest sound;
This let alone will all the rest confound.


Duch. O king! believe not this hard-hearted


Love loving not itself none other can.

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With all the rest of that consorted crew,
Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.
Good uncle, help to order several powers
To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are:
They shall not live within this world, I swear,
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?

Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear? 90 Duch. Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, gentle liege.

Boling. Rise up, good aunt.



Not yet, I thee beseech:
For ever will I walk upon my knees,
And never see day that the happy sees,
Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,
By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.
Aum. Unto my mother's prayers I bend my


York. Against them both my true joints bended be. Kneels. Ill may'st thou thrive if thou grant any grace! Duch. Pleads he in earnest ? look upon his face; His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest; His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast. 102

Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you


Duch. Come, my old son: I pray God make thee new. Exeunt.

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Exton. And speaking it, he wistly look'd on me, As who should say, 'I would thou wert the man That would divorce this terror from my heart'; Meaning the king at Pomfret. Come, let's go : I am the king's friend, and will rid his foe.


He prays but faintly and would be denied;
We pray with heart and soul and all beside :
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.


His prayers are full of false hypocrisy ;
Ours of true zeal and deep integrity.
Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have
That mercy which true prayer ought to have. 110
Boling. Good aunt, stand up.

Nay, do not say 'stand up';
But 'pardon' first, and afterwards 'stand up.'
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
'Pardon should be the first word of thy speech.
I never long'd to hear a word till now;
Say 'pardon,' king; let pity teach thee how :
The word is short, but not so short as sweet;
No word like 'pardon' for kings' mouths so meet.
York. Speak it in French, king; say, 'par-

Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to

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This prison where I live unto the world:
And for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it; yet I'll hammer it out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul;
My soul the father and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,
And these same thoughts people this little world,
In humours like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented. The better sort,
As thoughts of things divine, are intermix'd
With scruples, and do set the word itself
Against the word:

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



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.

Ha, ha! keep time.




Music do I hear? 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 watch,



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.
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

With much ado at length have gotten leave


That horse that I so carefully have dress'd. K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,

How went he under him?

Groom. So proudly as if he disdain'd the ground.

K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!

That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand; This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.


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.
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. 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.

Keep. Help, help, help!

Strikes the Keeper.

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To look upon my sometimes royal master's face. Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE and YORK, with

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,

Lords and Attendants.

Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear

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:

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