And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, Bishop. Fear not, my lord; that Power, that made Hath power to keep you king, in spite of all. Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss; not, That when the searching eye of heaven is hid Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves? f " Who all this while hath revell'd in the night, For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd, Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards the right. Enter SALISBURY. Welcome, my lord; How far off lies your power? Sal. Nor near, nor further off, my gracious lord, Than this weak arm: Discomfort guides my tongue, And bids me speak of nothing but despair. One day too late, I fear, my noble lord, Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth: O, call back yesterday, bid time return, And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men! O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state; Aum. Comfort, my liege: why looks your grace so pale ? 3 Force. K. Rich. But now, the blood of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; And, till so much blood thither come again, Have I not reason to look pale and dead? All souls that will be safe, fly from my side; For time hath set a blot upon my pride. Aum. Comfort, my liege; remember who you are. K. Rich. I had forgot myself: Am I not king? Awake, thou sluggard majesty! thou sleep'st. Is not the king's name forty thousand names? Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes At thy great glory.-Look not to the ground, Ye favourites of a king; Are we not high? High be our thoughts: I know, my uncle York Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who Comes here? Enter SCRoop. Scroop. More health and happiness betide my liege, Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him. K. Rich. Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar'd; The worst is wordly loss, thou canst unfold. Say, is my kingdom lost? why, 'twas my care; And what loss is it, to be rid of care? Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we ? Greater he shall not be; if he serve God, We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so: Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend; They break their faith to God, as well as us: Cry, woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay; The worst is-death, and death will have his day. Scroop. Glad am I, that your highness is so arm'd To bear the tidings of calamity. Like an unseasonable stormy day, Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores, So high above his limits swells the rage Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land With hard bright steel, and hearts harder than steel. K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'st a tale so ill. Where is the earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot? I warrant, they have made peace with Bolingbroke. Scroop. Peace have they made with him, indeed, my lord. K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption ! Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart! Three Judasses, each one thrice worse than Judas! Would they make peace? terrible hell make war Upon their spotted souls for this offence! Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his property, Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate : Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made With heads, and not with hands: those whom you curse, Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound, Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads. Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; |