And know not now what name to call myself!
O, that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt myself away in water-drops!

Good king, great king-(and yet not greatly good),
And if my word be sterling yet in England,
Let it command a mirror hither straight;
That it may show me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.

Boling. Go some of you, and fetch a looking-glass.

[Exit an Attendant. North. Read o'er this paper, while the glass doth come. K. Rich. Fiend! thou torment'st me ere I come to hell. Boling. Urge it no more, my lord Northumberland. North. The commons will not then be satisfied.

K. Rich. They shall be satisfied: I'll read enough, When I do see the very book indeed

Where all my sins are writ, and that's-myself.

Re-enter Attendant with a Glass.

Give me that glass, and therein will I read.---
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine,

And made no deeper wounds ?-O, flattering glass,
Like to my followers in prosperity,

Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face,
That every day under his household roof

Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face,
That, like the sun, did make beholders wink?
Was this the face, that faced so many follies,
And was at last out-faced by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face
As brittle as the glory is the face;

[Dashes the glass against the ground.

For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.-
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,-
How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.
Boling. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd

The shadow of your face.

K. Rich. Say that again.

The shadow of my sorrow? Ha! let's see:

"Tis very true, my grief lies all within ;

And these external manners of lament

Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,

That swells with silence in the tortured soul;

There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st
Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,
And then be gone, and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?

Boling. Name it, fair cousin.

K. Rich. Fair cousin? Why, I am greater than a king:

For, when I was a king, my flatterers

Were then but subjects; being now a subject,
I have a king here to my flatterer.

Being so great, I have no need to beg.
Boling. Yet ask.

K. Rich. And shall I have?

Boling. You shall.

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

K. Rich. Whither you will, so I were from your sights.
Boling. Go, some of you, convey him to the Tower.
K. Rich. O, good! Convey ?-Conveyers* are you all,
That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall.

[Exeunt KING RICHARD, some Lords, and a Guard.

Boling. On Wednesday next, we solemnly set down Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves.

[Exeunt all but the ABBOT, Bishop of CARLISLE, and
AUMERLE.

Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here beheld.
Car. The woe's to come; the children yet unborn
Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.

Aum. You holy clergyman, 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 sacrament
To bury mine intents, but to effect
Whatever I shall happen to devise:-
I see your brows are full of discontent,
Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears;
Come home with me to supper; I will lay
A plot, shall show us all a merry day.

[Exevnt.

ACT V.

SCENE I.-London. A Street leading to the Tower.
Enter QUEEN and LADIES.

Queen. This way the king will come; this is the way
To Julius Cæsar's ill-erected+ Tower,

To whose flint bosom my condemned lord
Is doom'd a prisoner, by proud Bolingbroke;
Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth
Have any resting for her true king's queen.

Enter KING RICHARD, and Guards.

But soft, but see, or rather do not see,
My fair rose wither: Yet look up; behold;
That you in pity may dissolve to dew,

* Thieves.

+ Erected for evil purposes.

And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.-
Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand;
Thou map of honour; thou king Richard's tomb,
And not king Richard; thou most beauteous inn,
Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodged 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 sudden: learn, good soul,
To think our former state a happy dream;
From which awaked, the truth of what we are
Shows us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet,
To grim necessity; and he and I

Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France,
And cloister thee in some religious house:
Our holy lives must win a new world's crown,
Which our profane hours here have stricken down.

Queen. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind
Transform'd, and weaken'd? Hath Bolingbroke
Deposed thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart?
The lion, dying, thrusteth forth his paw,

And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o'erpower'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take thy correction mildly? kiss the rod;

And fawn on rage with base humility,
Which art a lion, and a king of beasts?

K. Rich. A king of beasts, indeed; if aught but beasts,
I had been still a happy king of men.

Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France:
Think I am dead; and that even here thou tak'st,
As from my death-bed, my last living leave.

In winter's tedious nights, sit 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
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,

their grief,

And send the hearers weeping to their beds.

For why, the senseless brands will sympathize
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,
And, in compassion, weep the fire out:

And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,

For the deposing of a rightful king.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, attended.

North. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is changed; You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.

And, Madam, there is order ta'en for you;

With all swift speed you must away to France.

K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,
The time shall not be many hours of age
More than it is, ere foul sin, gathering head,

*Picture of greatness.

VOL. II.

+ Passed.

2 C

Be quits with them

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'st the way
To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,

Being ne'er so little urged, another way

To pluck him headlong from the usurped 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 an end.
Take leave, and part; for you must part forthwith.
K. Rich. Doubly divorced ?-Bad man, ye violate
A twofold marriage; 'twixt my crown and me;
And then, betwixt me and my married wife.-
Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me;
And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made.-
Part us, Northumberland; I towards the north,
Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime,
My wife to France; from whence set forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither like sweet May,

Sent back like Hallowmas, or short'st of day.

Queen. And must we be divided? must 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 some 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 sighs; I, mine with groans.
Queen. So longest way shall have the longest moans.

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

And piece the way out with a heavy heart.

Come, come, in wooing sorrow let's be brief,

Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief.

One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part;

Thus give I mine, and thus I take thy heart.

[They kiss.

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

To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart.

So, now I have my own again, begone,

That I may strive to kill it with a groan.

Kiss again.

K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay:

Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.- The same. A Room in the Duke of YORK'S

Palace.

Enter YORK, and his DUCHESS.

Duch. My lord, you told me, you would tell the rest,

When weeping made you break the story off

Of our two cousins coming into London.

* Nigher.

York. Where did I leave ?

Duch. At that sad stop, my lord,

Where rude misgovern'd hands, from window 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, Bolingbroke!
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls,
With painted imag'ry,* had said at once,-
Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bareheaded, 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 rides he the while ?
York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-graced 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 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;

To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,

Whose state and honour I for ayet allow.

Enter AUMERLE.

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.

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.

*Tapestry hung from the windows.

† Ever.