Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath,
The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.
Dutch. [Within.] What ho, my liege! for God's
sake, let me in.

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

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

Enter Dutchess.

Dutch. Oking, believe not this hard-hearted man; Love, loving not itself, none other can.

York. Thou frantick woman, what dost thou make here?

Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?

Dutch. Sweet York, be patient: Hear me, gentle

liege.

Boling. Rise up, good aunt.

Dutch.

[Kneels.

Not yet, I thee beseech:

For ever will I kneel 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 knee.
[Kneels.
York. Against them both, my true joints bended

be.

[Kneels. Ill may'st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!

Dutch. 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.

Dutch.

Nay, do not say-stand up; But, pardon, first; and afterwards, stand up. An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to each, 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, pardonnez

moy.

Dutch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to de

stroy?

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.
Dutch.

I do not sue to stand,

Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.

Boling. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me. Dutch. 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.

I pardon him.

Dutch.

With all my heart

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

thee new.

SCENE IV.

Enter Exton, and a Servant.

Exton. Didst thou not mark the king, what words he spake?

Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?
Was it not so?

Serv.

Those were his very words.

Exton. Have I no friend? quoth he: he spake it twice,

And urg'd it twice together; did he not?

Serv. He did.

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.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

POMFRET. THE DUNGEON OF THE CASTLE.

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,