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This, and much more, much more than twice all this, Condemns you to the death. See them deliver'd T'execution, and the hand of death.
Bujhy. Niore welcome is the itroke of death to me, Than Bolingbroke to England.---Lords, farewel.
Green. My comfort is, that heav'n will take our fouls, And plague injustice with the pains of hell. (patch’d.
Boling. My Lord Northumberland, see them difUncle, you say the Queen is at your house ; For heav'n's fake, fairly let her be intreated. Tell her, I send to her my kind commends; Take special care my greetings be deliver’d.
York. A gentleman of mine i have dispatch'd With letters of your love to her at large. [away.
Boling. Thanks, gentle uncle: come, my Lords, To fight with Glendower and his complices; A while to work, and, after, holiday. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. Changes to the coast of Wales.
Flourish: Drums, and Trumpets. Enter King Richard, Aumerle, Bishop of Carlisle, and
Soldiers. K. Rich. Barloughly castle call you this at hand?
Aum. Yea, my good Lord; how brooks your Grace After your toffing on the breaking feas? [the air,
K. Rich. Needs must I like it well. I weep for joy To stand upon my Kingdom once again. Dear earth, I do falute thee with
iny hand, Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs. As a long-parted mother with her child Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting; So weeping, smiling, greet I thee my earth, And do thee favour with my royal hands. Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth, Nor with thy sweets comfort his rav'nous sense : But let thy ipiders that suck up thy venom, And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way; Doing annoyance to the treach’rous feet, Which with usurping steps do trample thee. Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies; And, when they from thy bosom pluck a fic ver,
Guard it, I prythee, with a lurking adder;
Aum. He means, my Lord, that we are too remiss;
K. Rich. Discomfortable cousin, know'st thou not, " That when the searching eye of heav'n is hid “ Behind the globe, and lights the lower world ; “ Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen, " In murders, and in outrage bloody here? 6 But when from under this terrestrial ball * He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines, “ And darts his light through ev'ry guilty hole ; “ Then murders, treasons, and detested fins, [backs, * The cloak of night being pluck'd from off theig • Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves.” So when this thief, this traitor Bolingbroke, Who all this while hath revell’d in the night, Whilst we were wand'ring with th' antipodes, Shall see us rising in our throne, the east; His treasons will fit bluthing in his face, Not able to endure the fight of day; But, felf-affrighted, tremble at his fin. Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm from an anointed King; The breath of worldly men cannot depose The deputy elected by the Lord, For every man that Bolingbroke hath press’d, To lift tharp steel against our golden crown, Heav'n for his Richard hath in heav'nly pay
A glorious angel; then if angels fight,
SCENE III. Enter Salisbury. Welcome, my Lord, how far off lies your power ?
Salif. Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious Lord, Than this weak arm. Discomfort guides my tongue, And bids me fpeak of nothing but despair. One day too late, I fear, my noble Lord, Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth. Oh, call back yesterday, bid time, return, And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men. To-day, to-day, ---- unhappy day too late O’erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state. For all the Welchmen, hearing thoù wert dead, Are gone to Bolingbroke, difpers'd and fled. Aum. Comfort, my Liege, why looks your Grace
so pale? K. Rich. But now the blood. of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face, and they are fled. * All fouls 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 coward majesty, thou fleepest. 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 fav’rites of a King ! are we not high? High be our thoughts. I know my uncle York Hath pow'r to serve our turn. But who comes here?
SCENE IV. 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 preparid: The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold. Say, is my kingdom lost? why, 'twas my care ;
* and they are Aed.
And what loss is it, to be rid of care ?
Scrop. Glad am I that your Highness is so arm'd
K. Rich. Too well, too well thou tell’it a tale so ill. Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is he got ? What is become of Bushy? where is Green ? That they have let the dang’rous enemy Measure our confines with such peaceful steps ? If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it. I warrant they've made peace with Bolingbroke.
Scroop. Peace they have made with him, indeed,
K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn’d without redempDogs, easily won to fawn on any man ! [tion ! Snakes in my heart-blood warm’d, that sting my heart ! Three Judases, each one thrice-worse than Judas ! Would they make peace ? terrible hell make war Upon their fpotted souls for this offence !
* Called fo, because the leaves of yew are poison, and the word is employed for instruments of death.
Scroop. Sweet love, I fee changing his property, Turns to the fourest and moit deadly hate. Again uncurse their fouls; their peace is made With heads, and not with hands: those whom
curse, Have felt the worst of death's destroying hand, And lie full low, grav'd in the hallow'd ground.
sum. Is Bushy, Green, and th’Earl of Wiltshire, dead? Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads. Aum. Where is the Duke my father, with his power?
K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man speak. · Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes « Write forrow on the botom of the earth ! i Let's chuse executors, and talk of wills; • And yet not fo- for what can we bequeath, • Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own, but death; And that small model * of the barren earth, " Which serves as paite and cover to our bones. • For heav'n's fake, let us fit upon the ground, " And tell fad stories of the death of Kings; • How some have been depos’d, some flain in war; · Some haunted by the ghosts they dispotless'd ;
Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd; • All murther'd. For within the hollow crown, • That rounds the mortal temples of a King, * Keeps Death his court; and there the antic fits,
Scoiling his state, and grinning at his pomp ; Allowing him a breath, a little scene • To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit, " As if this flesh which walls about our life, "Were brafs impregnable; and, humour’d thus, • Comes at the lait, and with a little pin · Bores through his castle-walls, and farewel King ! ' Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood · With folemn rev'rence : throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty, • For you have but miitook me all this while. I live on bread like you, feel want like you ; * Model, for pari, portion