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When weeping made you break the story off,
Of our two cousins coming into London.
York. Where did I leave?
Duch.
At that sad stop, my lord,
Where rude misgovern'd hands, from windows' tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head.

York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,
With slow but stately pace kept on his course,
While all tongues cried-"God save thee, Boling-

broke!"

You would have thought the very windows spake,
So may greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls
With painted imagery had said at once,-
"Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!"
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus," I thank you, countrymen :"
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst?
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 so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did scowl on gentle Richard: no man cried, God save

him;

No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;

But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,

That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.

But heaven hath a hand in these events,

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To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow.
Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle.
York.
Aumerle that was;
But that is lost for being Richard's friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.
I am in parliament pledge for his truth,
And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

Enter AUMERLE.

Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me: I may not show it. York. I will be satisfied: let me see it, I say. [Snatches it and reads. Treason! foul treason!-villain! traitor! slave! Duch. What is the matter, my lord? York. Ho! who is within there? Saddle my horse. God for his mercy! what treachery is here! Duch. Why, what is it, my lord?

Duch. Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now,
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?
Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not:
God knows, I had as lief be none, as one.

you

York. Give me my boots, I say: saddle my horse.Now by mine honour, by my life, my troth, I will appeach the villain.

York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
Lest be cropp'd before you come to prime.
What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs?
Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do.
York. You will be there, I know.

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

Duch.

What's the matter? York. Peace, foolish woman.

Duch. I will not peace.-What is the matter, Aumerle?

Aum. Good mother, be content: it is no more Than my poor life must answer.

York. What seal is that, that hangs without thy
bosom?

Yea, look'st thou pale? let me then see the writing.
Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.
York.

Duch.
Thy life answer?
York. Bring me my boots! I will unto the king.
Enter Servant with boots.

Duch. Strike him, Aumerle.-Poor boy, thou art amaz'd.

Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.

No matter, then, who sees it:
I will be satisfied, let me see the writing.
Aum. I do beseech your grace to pardon me.
It is a matter of small consequence,
Which for some reasons I would not have seen.
York. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear,-

[Exit Servant.

York. Give me my boots, I say.
Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons, or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time,
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?
York, Thou fond, mad woman,

Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?

A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.
Duch.
He shall be none;
We'll keep him here: then, what is that to him?
York. Away, fond woman! were he twenty times
My son, I would appeach him.

Duch.
Hadst thou groan'd for him,
As I have done, thou would'st be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect,
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son.
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me, nor any of my kin,
And yet I love him.
York.

Make way, unruly woman. [Exit. Duch. After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse: Spur, post, and get before him to the king, And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee. I'll not be long behind: though I be old, I doubt not but to ride as fast as York: And never will I rise up from the ground, Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away! begone. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.-Windsor, A Room in the Castle. Enter BOLINGBROKE as King; PERCY, and other Lords. Boling. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son?

'Tis full three months, since I did see him last:
If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.

I would to God, my lords, he might be found.
Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there,
For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,
With unrestrained loose companions;
Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes,
And beat our watch, and rob our passengers;
While he, young wanton, and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour to support

So dissolute a crew.

Percy. My lord, some two days since I saw the prince, And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford.

Boling. And what said the gallant?

Percy. His answer was, he would unto the stews;
And from the common'st creature pluck a glove,
And wear it as a favour; and with that
He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.

Boling. As dissolute, as desperate yet through both
I see some sparks of better hope, which elder days
May happily bring forth. But who comes here?"
Enter AUMERLE, in great haste.

Aum. Where is the king?

Hath held his current, and defil'd himself!
Thy overflow of good converts to bad;
And thy abundant goodness shall excuse
This deadly blot in thy digressing son.

York. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd,
And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,
As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold.
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,
Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies:
Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath,
The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.

Duch. [Within.] What ho! my liege! for God's

sake let me in.

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

Duch. 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 altered, 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,

Boling. What means our cousin, that he stares and More sins for this forgiveness prosper may. looks

So wildly?

Aum. God save your grace. majesty,

I do beseech your

To have some conference with your grace alone.
Boling. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here
alone.-
[Exeunt PERCY and Lords.
What is the matter with our cousin now?
Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth,
[Kneels.

My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth,
Unless a pardon, ere I rise, or speak.

Boling. Intended, or committed, was this fault?
If on the first, how heinous e'er it be,
To win thy after love I pardon thee.

Aum. Then give me leave that I may turn the key,
That no man enter till my tale be done.

Boling. Have thy desire. [AUMERLE locks the door.
York. [Within.] My liege, beware! look to thyself:
Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.
Boling. Villain, I'll make thee safe. [Drawing.
Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand: thou hast no cause
to fear.

York. [Within.] Open the door, secure, fool-hardy
king:

Shall I for love speak treason to thy face?
Open the door, or I will break it open.

[BOLINGBROKE opens the door, and locks it again.
Enter YORK.

Boling. What is the matter, uncle? speak;
Recover breath: tell us how near is danger,
That we may arm us to encounter it.

York. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know
The treason that my haste forbids me show.

Aum. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise past.
I do repent me; read not my name there:
My heart is not confederate with my hand.

York. It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.
I tore it from the traitor's bosom, king:
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence.
Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove
A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.

Boling. O, heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!-
O. loyal father of a treacherous son!
Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,
From whence this stream through muddy passages

This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rest sound;
This, let alone, will all the rest confound.
Enter DUCHESS.

Duch. O king! believe not this hard-hearted man :
Love, loving not itself, none other can.

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

Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?
Duch. Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, gentle
[Kneels.

liege.
Boling. Rise up, good aunt.
Duch.

Not yet, I thee beseech:
For ever will I walk upon my knees,
And never see day that the happy sees,
By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.
Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,
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!
Duch. Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:
His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest;
He
prays but faintly, and would be denied;
We pray with heart, and soul, and all beside:
Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow:
His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;
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.
But, pardon first, and afterwards, stand up.
Duch.
Nay, do not say—stand up;
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
I never long'd to hear a word till now;
Pardon should be the first word of thy speech.
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-moi.
Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?
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.
Duch.

Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.

Boling. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.
Duch. 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 with all my heart.
Duch.
A god on earth thou art. [Rises.
Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law, and the
abbot,

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
I do not sue to stand: 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,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
With being nothing.-Music do I hear?
Ha, ha! keep time.-How sour sweet music is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the music of men's lives:
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To check time broke in a disorder'd string,
But for the concord of my state 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 numbering clock:
My thoughts are minutes, and with sighs they jar,
Their watches on unto mine eyes the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,

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 else these traitors be:
They shall not live within this world, I swear,
But I will have them, so I once know where.
Uncle, farewell,-and cousin mine, adieu:
Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.
Duch. Come, my old son; I pray God make thee

new.

SCENE IV.

[Exeunt.

Enter Sir PIERCE of 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.

[Music.

Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, for the sound, that tells what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell: so sighs, and tears, and groans,
Show minutes, times, and hours; but my time

Exton. "Have I no friend?" quoth he: he spake it Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,

twice,

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

Serv. He did.

Exton. And, speaking it, he wishtly 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.

While I stand fooling here, his Jack o' the clock.
This music mads me: let it sound no more,
For though it hath holpe madmen to their wits,
In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad,
Yet, blessing on his heart that gives it me!
For 'tis a sign of love, and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.
Enter Groom.

Groom. Hail, royal prince!
K. Rich.

Thanks, noble peer;
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.

K. Rich. I have been studying how I may compare What art thou? and how comest thou hither,

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't 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 small 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,

Where no man never comes, but that sad dog
That brings me food to make misfortune live?

Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometime royal master's face.
O! how it yern'd my heart, when I beheld
In London streets that coronation day,
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary!
That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,
That horse that I so carefully have dress'd!

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,

How went he under him?

Groom. So proud, as if he had disdain'd the ground.
K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back?
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down,
(Since pride must have a fall) and break the neck
Of that proud man that did usurp his back?
Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be aw'd by man,

Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;
And yet I bear a burden like an ass,
Spur-gall'd and tir'd by jauncing Bolingbroke.
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.
Groom. What my tongue dares not, that heart
my

[Exit.

shall say. Keep. My lord, will't please you to fall to? K. Rich. Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do. Keep. My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton, who lately came from the king, commands the contrary. K. Rich. The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and thee!

Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.

[Strikes the Keeper.

Keep. Help, help, help! Enter Sir PIERCE of EXTON, and Servants, armed. K. Rich. How now! what means death in this rude assault? Villain, thine own hand yields thy death's instrument. [Snatching a weapon, and killing one.

Go thou and fill another room in hell.

[He kills another: EXTON strikes him down.
That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire,
That staggers thus my person.-Exton, thy fierce hand
Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land.
Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high,
Whilst

my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die. [Dies.
Exton. As full of valour, as of royal blood:
Both have I spilt: O, 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 with the bodies.
SCENE VI.—Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle.
Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE, and YORK, with Lords

and Attendants.

Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear
Is, that the rebels have consum'd with fire
Our town of Ciceter in Glostershire;

But whether they be ta'en, or slain, we hear not.
Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.

Welcome, my lord. What is the news with you?
North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness:
The next news is,-I have to London sent

The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent:
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursed in this paper here.

[Presenting a Paper.
Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains,
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
Enter FITZWATER.

Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
The heads of Brocas, and Sir Bennet Seely,
Two of the dangerous consorted traitors,
That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.
Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

Enter PERCY, with the Bishop of Carlisle.
Percy. The grand conspirator, abbot of Westminster,
With clog of conscience, and sour melancholy,
Hath yielded up his body to the grave;
But here is Carlisle living, to abide
Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride.

Boling. Bishop of Carlisle, this shall be your doom:-
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
So, as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife:
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.

Enter EXTON, with Attendants bearing a Coffin.
Exton. Great king, within this coffin I present
Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.
Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought
A deed of slander 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 poison that do poison need,
Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
But neither my good word, nor princely favour:
And never show thy head by day nor light.-
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow:
Come, mourn with me for that I do lament,
And put on sullen black. Incontinent
I'll make a voyage to the Holy land,
March sadly after: grace my mourning here,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.
In weeping after this untimely bier.

[Exeunt.

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THOMAS PERCY, Earl of Worcester.

HENRY PERCY, Earl of Northumberland:

HENRY PERCY, surnamed HOTSPUR, his Son. EDMUND MORTIMER, Earl of March.

SCROOP, Archbishop of York.

ARCHIBALD, Earl of Douglas.

OWEN GLENdower.

SIR RICHARD Vernon. SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.

SIR MICHAEL, a friend of the Archbishop of York. POINS.

GADSHILL. PETO. BARDOLPH,

LADY PERCY, Wife to Hotspur.

LADY MORTIMER, Daughter to Glendower.

MRS. QUICKLY, Hostess of a Tavern in Eastcheap.

Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.

SCENE, England.

ACT I.

SCENE I.-London. An Apartment in the Palace. Enter King HENRY, WESTMORELAND, Sir WALTER BLUNT, and Others.

K. Hen. So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenc'd in stronds afar remote.
No more the thirsty entrance of this soil

Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood;
No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flowrets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one substance bred,
Did lately meet in the intestine shock
And furious close of civil butchery,
Shall now, in mutual, well-beseeming ranks,
March all one way, and be no more oppos'd
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,
As far as to the sepulchre of Christ,
Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross,
We are impressed, and engag'd to fight,
Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,
Whose arms were moulded in their mother's womb
To chase these pagans, in those holy fields,
Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet,
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd
For our advantage on the bitter cross.
But this our purpose is a twelve-month old,

And bootless 'tis to tell you we will go:
Therefore we meet not now.-Then, let me hear
Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
What yesternight our council did decree,
In forwarding this dear expedience.

West. My liege, this haste was hot in question,
And many limits of the charge set down
But yesternight; when, all athwart, there came
A post from Wales loaden with heavy news;
Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Against the irregular and wild Glendower,
Was by the rude hands of that Welchman taken,
A thousand of his people butchered;
Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse,
Such beastly, shameless transformation,
By those Welchwomen done, as may not be
Without much shame re-told or spoken of.

K. Hen. It seems, then, that the tidings of this broil Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

West. This, match'd with other, did, my gracious

lord;

For more uneven and unwelcome news
Came from the north, and thus it did import.
On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there,
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon met;

Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour,
As by discharge of their artillery,
And shape of likelihood, the news was told;
For he that brought them, in the very heat

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