K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair Woman, do not so,
To make my end too fudden: learn, good foul,
To think our former ftate a happy dream,
From which awak'd, the truth of what we are
Shews us but this. I am fworn brother, Sweet,
To grim Neceffity; and he and I

Will keep a league till death. Hye thee to France,
And cloifter thee in fome Religious Houfe;

Our holy lives, muft win a new world's Crown,
Which our profane hours here have ftricken down.
Queen. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind
Transform'd and weak? hath Bolingbroke 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
To be o'erpow'r'd: and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take thy correction mildly, kifs the rod,
And fawn on rage with base humility,
Which art a Lion and a King of beafts?

rage

K. Rich. A King of beafts, indeed; if aught but beasts,

I had been still a happy King of men.

Good fometime Queen, prepare thee hence for France; Think, I am dead; and that ev'n here thou tak'ft,

As from my death-bed, my laft living Leave.

In winter's tedious nights fit by the fire

With good old folks, and let them tell thee Tales
Of woeful ages, long ago betid:

And ere you bid good Night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable Fall of me,

And fend the hearers weeping to their beds.
For why the fenfeless brands will sympathize
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,
And in compaffion weep the fire out:

And fome will mourn in afhes, fome coal-black,
For the depofing 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

And, Madam, there is order ta'en for you:
With all swift fpeed, you must away to France.

K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke afcends my Throne,
The time shall not be many hours of age
More than it is, ere foul fin, gath'ring 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'ft the way
To plant unrightful Kings, wilt know again,
Being ne'er fo little urg'd, another way

To pluck him headlong from th' ufurped Throne.
The love of wicked friends converts to fear;
That fear to hate; and hate turns one, or both,
To worthy danger, and deferved death.

North. My guilt be on my head, and there's an end! Take leave and part, for you must part forthwith.

K. Rich. Doubly divorc'd? Bad men, ye violate
A two-fold marriage; 'twixt my crown and me:
And then betwixt me and my married wife.
Let me unkifs the oath 'twixt thee and me:

[To the Queen.

And yet not fo, for with a kifs 'twas made.
Part us, Northumberland: I, towards the North,
Where fhiv'ring cold and fickness pines the clime:
My Queen to France; from whence, set forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither like sweet May;

Sent back like Hollowmas, or shortest day.

Queen. And muft we be divided? must we part? K. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my Love, and heart from heart.

Queen. Banish us both, and fend the King with me. North. That were fome 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 ne'er the near. Go, count thy way with fighs, I mine with groans. Queen. So longest way fhall have the longest moans.

K. Rich.

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

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

1

To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart. [Kifs again.
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 delay: Once more, adieu; the reft let forrow fay.

Dutch.

[Exeunt SCENE, the Duke of York's Palace.

Enter York, and his Dutchefst

My lord, you told me, you would tell the

Μ

reft,

When Weeping made you break the ftory off° Of our two Coufins coming into London.

York. Where did I leave?

Dutch. At that fad ftop, my lord,"

1

Where rude mif-govern'd hands, from window-tops
Threw duft and rubbish on King Richard's head.
York. Then, as I faid, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery fteed,

Which his afpiring rider feem'd to know,

With flow, but ftately pace, kept

On his courfe :* While all tongues cry'd, God fave thee, Bolingbroke! You wou'd have thought, the very windows fpake, So many greedy looks of young and old

Through cafements darted their defiring.eyes
Upon his Vifage; and that all the walls
With painted imag'ry had faid at once,
Jefu preferve thee! welcome Bolingbroke
Whilft he, from one fide to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud fteed's neck,
VOL. IV.

D

Be

Befpoke them thus; I thank you, Country-men;
And thus ftill doing, thus he paft along.

Dutch. 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 fo, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did fcowl on Richard; no man cry'd, God fave him!
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;
But duft was thrown upon his facred head;
Which with such gentle forrow he fhook off,
His face ftill combating with tears and fmiles,
The badges of his grief and patience;

That had not God, for fome ftrong purpose, fteel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted;
And barbarism itself have pitied him.

But heaven hath a hand in thefe events,
To whofe high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we fworn Subjects now,
Whofe State, and Honour, I for aye allow.

Enter Aumerle.

Dutch. Here comes my fon Aumerle.
York. Aumerle that was,

But that is loft, for being Richard's Friend.
And, Madam, you must call him Rutland now:
I am in parliament pledge for his truth,

And lafting fealty to the new-made King.

Dutch. Welcome, my fon; who are the Violets now, That ftrew the green lap of the new-come spring? Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care: God knows, I had as lief be none, as one.

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

Left you

be cropt before you come to Prime. What news from Oxford? hold thofe Jufts and Triumphs?. Aum. For aught I know, they do.

York. You will be there?

Aum. If God prevent me not, I purpose so.

York.

York. What Seal is that, which hangs without thy

bofom ?

Yea, look'ft thou pale? let me fee the Writing.
Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.

York. No matter then who fees it..
I will be fatisfied, let me fee the Writing.

Aum. I do befeech your Grace to pardon me,
It is a matter of fmall confequence,

Which for fome reasons I would not have seen.
York. Which, for fome reasons, Sir, I mean to fee.
I fear, I fear

Dutch. What fhould you fear, my lord?

'Tis nothing but fome bond he's enter'd into, For gay apparel, against the triumph.

York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond, That he is bound to ? wife, thou art a fool.

Boy, let me fee the Writing!

Aum. I do befeech you, pardon me; I may not

fhew it.

York. I will be fatisfied, let me fee it, I fay.

[Snatches it, and reads. Treafon! foul treafon! villain, traitor, flave! Dutch. What's the matter, my lord?

York. Hoa, who's within there? faddle my horfe. Heav'n for his mercy! what treachery is here? Dutch. Why, what is't, my ford?

York. Give me my boots, I fay: faddle my horse. Now by my honour, by my life, my troth,

I will appeach the villain.

Dutch. What is the matter?

York. Peace, foolish woman.

Dutch. I will not Peace: what is the matter, fon? Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more Than my poor life muft answer !

Dutch. Thy life answer!

Enter Servant with boots.

York. Bring me my boots. I will unto the King. Dutch. Strike him, Aumerle. (Poor boy, thou art

amaz'd.)