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0, 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

How went he under him ?

Groom. So proudly, as if he 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 54.

Enter Keeper, with a dish. Keep. Fellow, give place ; here is no longer stay.

[To the Groum. K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert

away. Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say.

[E.cit. 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.

[Beats the Keeper. Keep. Help, help, help!

Enter Exton, and Servants, armed.
K. Rich. How now? what means death in this

rude assault ? Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument.

[Snatching a weapon, and killing one. Go thou, and fill another room in hell.

[He kills another; then 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

i 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; 0, 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.



Windsor. A Room 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 Cicester in Glostershire ; But whether they be ta'en, or slain, we hear not.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND. Welcome, my lord : What is the news ?

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 West,

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. Carlisle, this is your doom:-
Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
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 Bourdeaux, 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. Buling. 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,
But neither my good word, nor princely favour :
With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
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 what I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent;
I'll make a voyage to the Holy land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand :-
March sadly after ; grace my mournings here,
In weeping after this untimely bier. (Ereunt.

And puthourn with menkle me, to more,

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