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And these external manners of lament
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?

Boling. Name it, fair cousin.

K. Rich. Fair cousin? Why, I am greater than a king:

For, when I was a king, my flatterers
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.
Boling. Yet ask.

K. Rich. And shall I have?
Boling. You shall.

K. Rich. Then give me leave to go.
Boling. Whither?

K. Rich. Whither you will, so I were from your sights.

Boling. Go, some of you, convey him to the Tower.

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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. Before I freely speak my mind herein, You shall not only take the sacrament To bury mine intents, but 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. [Exeuni.

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Queen. This way the king will come; this is Transform'd, and weaken'd? Hath Bolingbroke

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 Guards.
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,

To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul,
To think our former state a happy dream;
From which awak'd, the truth of what we are
Shows us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet,
To grim necessity; and he and I
Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France,
And cloister thee in some religious house:

Depos'd 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,
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 sught but beasts,

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

Think, I am dead; and that even here thou tak'st,
As from my death-bed, my 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 fall 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, wherewithal

The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,The time shall not be many hours of age

More than it is, ere foul sin, gathering head, Shall break into corruption: thou shalt think, Though he divide the realm, and give thee half, It is too little, helping him to all;

And he shall think, that thou, which know'st the way

To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,
Being ne'er so little urg'd, another way
To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.
The love of wicked friends converts to fear;
That fear, to hate; and hate turns one, or both,
To worthy danger, and deserved death.

North. My guilt be on my head, and there
an end.

Take leave, and part; for you must part forthwith.

K. Rich. Doubly divorc'd?-Bad men, ye violate

A twofold 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 clime;

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.
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 me.

North. That were some love, but little policy. Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go. K. Rich. So two, together weeping, make one

woe.

Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here; Better far off, than-near, be neʼer the nearʼ. Go, count thy way with sighs; I, mine with groans.

Queen. So longest way shall have the longest

moans.

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 I take thy heart. [They kiss.

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

To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart.
Kiss again.

So, now I have mine own again, begone,
That I may strive to kill it with a groan.
K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond
delay:

Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.-The same. A room in the Duke of York's palace.

Enter YORK, and his 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?

Duch. At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgovern'd hands, from window's tops,

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, Bo-
lingbroke!

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 imagʼry, 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. Alas, poor Richard! where rides he
the while?

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

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God knows, I had as lief be none, as one. York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,

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 it 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.

York. 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

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That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.Boy, let me see the writing.

Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not show it.

York. I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say. [Snatches it, and reads. Treason! foul treason!-villain! traitor! slave! Duch. What is the matter, my lord? York. Ho! who is within there? [Enter a Servant. Saddle my horse. God for his mercy! what treachery is here! Duch. Why, what is it, my lord?

York. Give me my boots, I say; saddle my
horse :
For by mine honour, by my life,
I will impeach the villain.

Duch. What's the matter?
York. Peace, foolish woman.

my troth, [Exit Servant.

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Re-enter Servant, with boots.

York. Bring me my boots, I will unto the king.
Duch. Strike him, Aumerle.-Poor boy, thou
art amaz'd:-
-

Hence, villain; never more come in my sight.-
[To the 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.

Duch. He shall be none;

We'll keep him here: Then what is that to him?
York. Away,

Fond woman! were he twenty times my son,
I would appeach him.

Duch. Hadst thou groan'd for him,
As I have done, thou'dst 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, or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.

[Exit.

York. Make way, unruly woman.
Duch. After, Aumerle; mount thee upon his

horse;

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;
Begone.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III.-Windsor. A room in the castle.

Enter BOLINGBROKE as King; PERCY, and other Lords.

Boling. Can no man tell of my unthrifty 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,

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stews;

And from the common'st creature pluck a glove,
And wear it as a favour; and with that
He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.
Boling. As dissolute, as desperate: yet, through
both

I see some sparkles of a better hope,
Which elder days may happily bring forth.
But who comes here?

Enter AUMERLE, hastily.
Aum. Where is the king?
Boling. What means

Our cousin, that he stares and looks so wildly? Aum. God save your grace. I do beseech your majesty,

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

here alone. [Exeunt Percy and Lords. What is the matter with our cousin now? Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth, [Kneels. My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, Unless a pardon, ere I rise, or speak.

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

I do repent me; read not my name there,
My heart is not confederate with my hand.
York. 'Twas, villain, ere thy hand did set it
down.-

I tore it from the traitor's bosom, king;
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence;
Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove
A serpent, that will sting thee to the heart.
Boling. O heinous, strong, and bold conspi-
racy!-

O loyal father of a treacherous son!
Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,
From whence this stream, through muddy pas-
sages,

Hath held his current, and defil'd himself!
Thy overflow of good converts to bad;
And thy abundant goodness shall excuse
This deadly blot in thy digressing son.

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

And now chang'd to The Beggar and the King.

Aum. Then give me leave, that I may turn My dangerous cousin, let your mother in ;

the key,

That no man enter till my tale be done.

Boling. Have thy desire.
[Aumerle locks the door.
York. [Within. My liege, beware; look to
thyself;

Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.
Boling. Villain, I'll make thee safe.

Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand;
Thou hast no cause to fear.

[Drawing.

York. Within.] Open the door, secure, foolhardy king:

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

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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 rests sound; This, let alone, will all the rest confound.

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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:

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 grow:
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 prayers ought to have.
Boling. Good aunt, stand up.

Duch. Nay, do not say-stand up;

But, pardon, first; and afterwards, stand up.
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,

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Pardon-should be the first word of thy speech. SCENE V.-Pomfret. The dungeon of the castle.

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, pardon-

nez moy.

Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?

Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,
That set'st the word itself against the word!
Speak, pardon, as 'tis current in our land;
The chopping French we do not understand.
Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there:
Or, in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear;
That, hearing how our plaints and prayers do
pierce,

Pity may move thee, pardon to rehearse.
Boling. Good aunt, stand up.
-Duch. I do not sue to stand,
Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.

Boling. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.
Duch. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
Yet am I sick for fear: speak it again;
Twice saying pardon, doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon strong.

Boling. With all my heart

I pardon him.

Duch. A god on earth thou art.-
Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law,-
and the abbot,

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.
Uncle, farewell,-and cousin too, adieu :
Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.
Duch. Come, my old son ;-I pray God make
[Exeunt.

thee new.

SCENE IV.

Enter EXTON, and a Servant,

Enter King RICHARD.

K. Rich. I have been studying how I may

compare

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 treason makes 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 am,
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? [Music

Exton. Didst thou not mark the king, what Ha, ha! keep time:-How sour sweet music is,

words he spake?

When time is broke, and no proportion kept!

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