Boling. You fhall.

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

K. Rich. Whither you will, so I were from your fight. Boling. Go fome of you convey him to the Tower*. On Wednesday next we folemnly fet down

Our coronation: Lords, prepare yourselves.

[Ex. all but Abbot, Bishop of Carlisle, and Aumerle..
SCENE IV.

Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here beheld.
Carl. The woe's to come; the children yet unborn
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 facrament,
To bury mine intents, but to effect
Whatever I shall happen to devife.

I fee your brows are full of difcontent,
Your hearts of forrow, and your eyes of tears.
Come home with me to fupper, and I'll lay
A plot fhall fhew us all a merry day.

[Exeunt

THIS way the King will come: this is

the way

To Julius Cæfar's ill erected tow'r;

To whofe flint bofom my condemned Lord
Is doom'd a prifoner, by proud Bolingbroke..
Here let us reft, if this rebellious earth
Have any refting for her true King's Queen.

convey him to the Tower.

K. Rich. Oh, good! convey: -conveyers are you all,
That rife thus nimbly by a true King's fall.
Boling. On Wednesday, &c.

Enter

Enter King Richard and guards.

But foft, but fee, or rather do not fee,
My fair rofe wither; yet look up; behold,
That you in pity may diffolve to dew,
And wath him fresh again with true-love tears.
O thou, the model where old Troy did ftand,

[To King Rich. Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb, And not King Richard; thou moft beauteous inn, Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee, When triumph is become an ale-house guest?

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, fweet,
To grim Neceflity; and he and I

Will keep a league till death.

Hie 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, thrufteth forth his paw,
And wounds the earth, if nothing elfe, with rage
To be o'erpower'd: and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take thy correction mildly, kifs the rod,

And fawn on rage with bafe humility,
Which art a lion, and a King of beasts?

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

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 thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
VOL. IV.

F

"Tell

• Sometime for formerly."

"Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,

"And send the hearers weeping to their beds *."

SCENE II.

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 from you;
With all swift fpeed you muft 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 fhall 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' ufarped 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's an end!
Take leave and part, for you muft 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 unkifs the oath 'twixt thee and me.

And yet not fo, for with a kifs 'twas made.

[To the Queen.

Part us, Northumberland: I, towards the north,
Where fhiv'ring cold and fickness pines the clime;

My Queen to France; from whence, fet forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither like sweet May!

to their beds."

For why? the fenfeless brand will fympathize
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.

SCENE, &c.

Sent

Sent back like Hollowmas, or shortest day.

Queen. And muft we be divided? muft 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 fome love, but little policy *.
K. Rich. Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart.
[They kifs.

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

[Exeunt

SCENE III. The Duke of York's palace.

Enter York, and his Dutchefs.

Dutch. My Lord, you told me, you would tell the rest, 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,

Where rude mifgovern'd hands, from window-tops,
Threw duft and rubbish on King Richard's head.
Tork. Then, as I faid, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,

• Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

Which his afpiring rider feem'd to know,

With flow, but lately pace, kept on his course; • While all tongues cry'd, God fave thee, Bolingbroke!

-but little policy.

F 2

K. Rich. So two together weeping, make one woe.
Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go,
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 longeft moans.

• You

K. Rich. Twice for one ftep I'll groan, the way being short, 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, &c.

You would 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 said 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,
Befpoke them thus: I thank you, countrymen;
And thus ftill doing, thus he pafs'd 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, mens' 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 fuch gentle forrow he shook off,
His face ftill combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience;

That had not God, for fome ftrong purpose, steel'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 sworn subjects now,
Whofe ftate and honour I for ay allow.

SCENE IV. 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 fpring? 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 fpring of time,

Left