That, by confessing them, the souls of men
May deem that you are worthily depos'd.

K. Rich. Must I do so? and must I ravel out
My weav'd-up follies? Gentle Northumberland,
If thy offences were upon record,

Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop,
To read a lecture of them? If thou would'st,
There should'st thou find one heinous article,-
Containing the deposing of a king,

And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,-
Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heaven:-
Nay, all of you, that stand and look upon me,
Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,-
Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands,
Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates
Have here deliver'd me to my sour cross,
And water cannot wash away your sin.

North. My lord, despatch; read o'er these articles.

K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see: And yet salt water blinds them not so much, But they can see a sort of traitors here. Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself, I find myself a traitor with the rest: For I have given here my soul's consent, To undeck the pompous body of a king; Make glory base; and sovereignty, a slave; Proud majesty, a subject; state, a peasant. North. My lord,

K. Rich. No lord of thine, thou haughtt, insult-
ing man,

Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no title,-
No, not that name was given me at the font,-
But 'tis usurp'd:-Alack the heavy day,
That I have worn so many winters out,
And know not now what name to call myself!
O, that I were a mockery king of snew,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,

To melt myself away in water-drops!—
Good king,-great king-(and yet not greatly good),
An 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.

glass.

Boling. Go some of you, and fetch a looking[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 fac'd so many follies,
And was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face:

As brittle as the glory is the face;

[Dushes 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 tortur'd 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 K. Rich. 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.

* Jugglers, also robbers..

Car. The woe's to come; the children yet unborn Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.

Aum. You holy clergymen, 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.

[Exeunt.

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 towert,

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,

And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.-
Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand;

* Conceal...

+ Tower of London.

Thou map of honour; thou King Richard's tomb, And not King Richard; thou most beauteous inn, Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd 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 awak'd, 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 weakened? Hath Bolingbroke
Depos'd 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 their grief, Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,

*Picture of greatness.
Be even with them.

+ Passed.