Enter King RICHARD, and his Attendants, below. Boling. Stand all apart, And show fair duty to his majesty. My gracious lord,— [Kneeling. K. Rich. Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee, To make the base earth proud with kissing it : Boling. My gracious lord, I come but for mine own. K. Rich. Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all. Boling. So far be mine, my most redoubted lord, As my true service shall deserve your love. K. Rich. Well you deserve:-They well deserve to have, That know the strong'st and surest way to get.- K. Rich. Then I must not say, no. [Flourish. Exeunt. SCENE IV. Langley. The Duke of York's Garden. Enter the Queen, and two Ladies. Queen. What sport shall we devise here in this garden, To drive away the heavy thought of care? 1 Lady. Madam, we'll play at bowls. "Twill make me think, The world is full of rubs, and that my fortune 1 Lady. Madam, we will dance. Queen. My legs can keep no measure in delight, When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief: Therefore, no dancing, girl; some other sport. 1 Lady. Madam, we'll tell tales. Queen. 1 Lady. Of either, madam. Queen. Of sorrow, or of joy? Of neither, girl : It adds more sorrow to my want of joy : 'Tis well, that thou hast cause ; But thou should'st please me better, would'st thou weep. 1 Lady. I could weep, madam, would it do you good. Queen. And I could weep, would weeping do me good, And never borrow any tear of thee. But stay, here come the gardeners : Let's step into the shadow of these trees.— Enter a Gardener, and two Servants. My wretchedness unto a row of pins, Against a change: Woe is forerun with woe. [Queen and Ladies retire. Gard. Go, bind thou up yon' dangling apricocks, Cut off the heads of too-fast-growing sprays, 1 Serv. Why should we, in the compass of a pale, Keep law, and form, and due proportion, Showing, as in a model, our firm estate ? When our sea-walled garden, the whole land, Gard. Hold thy peace: He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring, The weeds, that his broad-spreading leaves did shelter, They are; and Bolingbroke Hath seiz'd the wasteful king.-Oh! what pity is it, That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land, As we this garden! We at time of year Gard. Depress'd he is already; and depos'd, 'Tis doubt, he will be: Letters came last night |