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Thoughts tending to content, flatter themfelves,
That they are not the firft of Fortune's flaves,
And fhall not be the laft; (like filly beggars,
Who, fitting in the stocks, refuge their fhame,
That many have, and others must fit there );
And in this thought they find a kind of ease.
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
• Of fuch as have before endur'd the like.

Thus play I, in oné prifon, many people. And none contented. Sometimes am I King, • Then treafon makes me with myself a beggar, And fo I am. Then crushing penury Perfuades 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 ftraight am nothing but whate'er I am, nor I, nor any man, that but man is,

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With nothing fhall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
With being nothing-Mufic do I hear? [Mufic.
Ha, ha; keep time: how four fweet mufic is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the mufic of mens' lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To check time broke in a disorder'd string;
But for the concord of my ftate 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 numb'ring clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and with fighs they jar
Their watches to mine eyes the outward watch;
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,

Is pointing ftill, in cleanfing them from tears.
Now, Sir, the founds that tell what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that ftrike upon my heart,
Which is the bell; fo fighs, and tears, and groans,
Shew minutes, hours, and times-O, but my time
Runs pofting on, in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I ftand fooling here, his jack o' th' clock.
This mufic mads me, let it found no more;
For though it have help'd mad men to their wits,
In me, it feems, it will make wife men mad.
Yet bleffing on his heart, that gives it me!

For

For tis a fign of love; and love to Richard

Is a ftrange brooch, in this fall-hating world.

SCENE XI. Enter Groom.

Groom. Hail, Royal Prince!

K. Rich. Thanks, Noble Peer. * What art? how com'ft thou hither?

Where no man ever comes, but that fad drudge,
That brings me food, to make Misfortune live?
Groom. I was a poor groom of thy ftable, King,
When thou wert King; who travelling tow'rds York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometime † master's face.
O, how it yearn'd my heart, when I beheld,
In London ftreets, that coronation-day;
When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary,
That horfe that thou so often haft bestrid,
That horse that I fo carefully have dress'd.

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him?

Groom. So proudly as he had difdain'd the ground. K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back! That jade had eat bread from my Royal hand. This hand hath made him proud with clapping him, Would he not ftumble? would he not fall down, (Since pride must have a fall), and break the neck Of that proud man that did ufurp his back? Forgiveness, horfe; why do I rail on thee, Since thou, created to be aw'd by man, Waft born to bear? I was not made a horse; And yet I bear a burthen like an afs; Spur-gall'd, and tir'd, by jaunting Bolingbroke.

SCENE XII. Enter Keeper, with a dish. Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay. [To the Groom. K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away.

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Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my

fhall fay.

heart

[Exit.

Keep. My Lord, wilt please you to fall to? K. Rich. Taste of it firft, as thou wert wont to do. Keep. My Lord, I dare not; for Sir Pierce of Exton, Who, late came from the King, commands the contrary. K. Rich. The dev'l take Henry of Lancaster, and thee! Patience is ftale, and I am weary of it.

Keep. Help, help, help!

[Beats the keeper.

Enter Exton, and Servants.

K. Rich. How now? what means death in this rude affault?

Wretch, thine own hand yields thy death's inftrument;
[Snatching a fword from one of the fervants, kills him.
Go thou, and fill another room in hell. [Kills another.
[Exton Arike him down.
That hand fhall burn in never-quenching fire,
That ftaggers thus my perfon: thy fierce hand
Hath with the King's blood ftain'd the King's own land.
Mount, mount, my foul! thy feat is up on high;
Whilft my grofs flesh finks downward, here to die. [Dies.
Exton. As full of valour, as of Royal blood;
Both have I fpilt: Oh, 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.

[Exeunt.

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Changes to the court at Windfor.

Flourish. Enter Bolingbroke, York, with other Lords. and Attendants.

Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear, Is, that the rebels have confum'd with fire

Our town of Cicefter in Gloucestershire;

But whether they be ta'en or flain, we hear not.

Enter

Enter Northumberland.

Welcome, my Lord: what is the news?

North. First, to thy facred state wish I all happiness; The next news is, I have to London fent

The heads of Sal'fbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent:
The manner of their taking may appear
At large difcourfed in this paper here.

[Prefenting a paper. Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains, And to thy worth will add right-worthy gains.

Enter Fitzwater.

Fitzw. My Lord, I have from Oxford fent to London The heads of Broccas and Sir Bennet Seely; Two of the dangerous conforted traitors, That fought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, fhall not be forgot; Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

1 2

Enter Percy and the Bishop of Carlisle.

Percy. The grand confpirator, Abbot of Westminster. With clog of confcience, and four melancholy, Hath yielded up his body to the grave:

But here is Carlisle, living to abide

Thy kingly doom, and fentence of his pride.
Boling. Carlisle, this is your doom:

Chufe out fome fecret place, some reverend room
More than thou hast, and with it 'joy thy life;
So, as thou liv'ft in peace, die free from ftrife.
For though mine enemy thou haft ever been,
High fparks of honour in thee I have feen.
Enter Exton with a coffin.

Exton. Great King, within this coffin I prefent.
Thy bury'd fear. Herein all breathless lies

The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,

Richard of Bourdeaux, by me hither brought.
Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou haft wrought
A deed of flander with thy fatal hand,

Upon my head, and all this famous land.

Exton. From your own mouth, my Lord, did I this

deed.

Boling. They love not poifon, that do poifon need; Nor do I thee; though I did with him dead, I hate the murth'rer, love him murthered. The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour, But neither my good word nor princely favour. With Cain go wander through the fhade of night, And never show thy head by day or light. Lords, I proteft, my foul is full of woe, That blood fhould fprinkle me to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put on fullen black incontinent : I'll make a voyage to the holy land, To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March fadly after, grace my mourning here, In weeping over this untimely bier.

[Exeunt omnes..

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