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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 [France, Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to 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 [broke Transform'd, and weakened? Hath BolingDepos'd thine intellect? hath he been in thy
The lion, dying, thrusteth forth his paw,
To be s'erpower'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like,
K. Rich. A king of beasts, indeed; if aught but beasts,
I had been still a happy king of men.
Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, attended.
Part us, Northumberland; I towards the north, [clime; Where shivering cold and sickness pines the 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
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. [Kiss again.
So, now I have my own again, begone, That I may strive to kill it with a groan. K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay: more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say. [Exeunt.
North. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is SCENE II.-The same.-A Room in the Duke
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
of YORK'S Palace.
Enter YORK, and his DUCHESS.
Duch. My lord, you told me, you would tell
When weeping made you break the story off Of our two cousins coming into London. York. Where did I leave?
Duch. At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgovern'd hands, from window's tops, [head. Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bol
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
You would have thought the very windows
All-hallows, i. e. All-saints, Nov. 1. + Never the nigher.
Tapestry hung from the windows,
Bespake them thus,-I thank you, country
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-grac'd 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
Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle.
But that is lost, for being Richard's friend,
God knows, I had as lief be none, as one. York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime, What news from Oxford? hold those justs! and triumphs?
Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do.
Yea, look'st thou pale? let me see the writing.
York. No matter then who sees it:
I will be satisfied, let me see the writing.
to see. I fear, I fear,
Duch. What should you fear? [into "Tis nothing but some bond that he is enter'd For gay apparel, 'gainst the triumph day. York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.Boy, let me see the writing.
Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me; I may
not show it.
York. I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say. [Snatches it, and reads. Treason! foul treason!-villain! traitor! slave! Duch. What is the matter, my lord? York. Ho! who is within there? [Enter a Servant.] Saddle my horse. God for his mercy! what treachery is here! + Ever
* Carelessly turned. Tilts and tournaments,
Duch. Why, what is it, my lord?
Now by mine honour, by my life, my troth,
Duch. What's the matter?
Duch. I will not peace:-What is the matter,
Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more Than my poor life must answer. Duch. Thy life answer!
Re-enter Servant, with Boots.
York. Bring me my boots, I will unto the king.
Duch. Strike him, Aumerle.-Poor boy, thou art amaz'd:*
Hence, villain; never more come in my sight.--
Wilt thou conceal this dark con spiracy?
Duch. He shall be none;
Fond woman! were he twenty times my son, I would appeach him.
Duch. Hadst thou groan'd for him, As I have done, thou'd'st be more pitiful. But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect, That I have been disloyal to thy bed, And that he is a bastard, not thy son: [mind: Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that He is as like thee as a man may be, Not like to me, or any of my kin, And yet I love him.
York. Make way, unruly woman.
Spur, post; and get before him to the king,
SCENE III.-Windsor.-A Room in the Castle.
Boling. Can no man tell of my unthrifty son? 'Tis full three months, since I did see him
Percy. My lord, some two days since I saw | Thy overflow of good converts to bad;
And from the common'st creature pluck a glove,
I see some sparkles of a better hope,
Enter AUMERLE, hastily.
Our cousin, that he stares and looks so wildly?
To have some conference with your grace alone. Boling. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.
[Exeunt PERCY and LORDS. What is the matter with our cousin now? Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth, [Kneels. My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, Unless a pardon, ere I rise, or speak.
Boling. Intended, or committed, was this If but the first, how heinous ere it be, [fault? To win thy after-love, I pardon thee."
Aum. Then give me leave that I may turn
That no man enter till my tale be done.
[AUMERLE locks the door. York. [Within.] My liege, beware; look to
Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.
Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand;
York. [Within.] Open the door, secure, fool-
Shall I, for love, speak treason to thy face?
Boling. What is the matter, uncle? speak;
York. Peruse this writing here, and thou
The treason that my haste forbids me show.
I do repent me; read not my name there,
I tore it from the traitor's bosom, king:
O .oyal father of a treacherous son!
And thy abundant goodness shall excuse
As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold.
Boling. What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes
Duch. A woman, and thine aunt, great king,
Speak with me, pity me, open the door;
And now chang'd to The Beggar and the King.†
Duch. O king, believe not this hard-hearted
Love, loving not itself, none other can.
York. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou maket here?
Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear? Duch. Sweet York, be patient: Hear me, [Kneels.
Boling. Rise up, good aunt,
Duch. Not yet, I thee beseech:
For ever will I kneel upon my knees,
[Kneels. York. Against them both, my true joints [Kneels.
Ill may'st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!
He prays but faintly, and would be denied;
His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;
His prayers are full of false hypocrisy ;
Duch. Nay, do not say-stand up;
I never long'd to hear a word till now;
† An old ballad.
York. Speak it in French, king; say, pardonnez moy.*
Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?
Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord, That set'st the word itself against the word!— Speak, pardon, as 'tis current in our land; The chopping French we do not understand. Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there:
Or, in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear; That, hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,
Pity may move thee, pardon to rehearse.
Duch. I do not sue to stand,
Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.
A generation of still-breeding thoughts, And these same thoughts people this little world;*
In humours, like the people of this world, For no thought is contented. The better sort,
As thoughts of things divine,-are intermix'd
As thus,-Come little ones; and then again,-
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
That many have, and others must sit there:
[Music. Ha, ha! keep time:-How sour sweet mu
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
My thoughts are minutes; and, with sighs, they jars
Their watches on to mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Which is the bell: So sighs, and tears, and groans,
Show minutes, times, and hours--but my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy, While I stand fooling here, his Jack o'the clock.
This music mads me, let it sound no more; For, though it have holpe madmen to their wits,
In me, it seems it will make wise men mad. Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me! For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard Is a strange brooch¶ in this all-hating world.
Groom. Hail, royal prince!
K. Rich. Thanks, noble peer; The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear. What art thou? and how comest thou hither, Where no man never comes, but that sad dog That brings me food, to make misfortune live? Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
How went he under him?
Groom. So proudly, as if he disdain'd the ground.
K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand; This hand hath made him proud with clapping
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?
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.
[Dies. Both have I spilt; 0, would the deed were Exton. As full of valour, as of royal blood: good!
Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.
SCENE VI.-Windsor.-A Room in the Castle.
Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear
Is-that the rebels have consum'd with fire
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 manner of their taking may appear
[Presenting a paper.
Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for
Spur-gall'd, and tir'd, by jauncingt Boling- And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to
The heads of Brocas, and Sir Bennet Seely;
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.
Enter PERCY, with the Bishop of CARLISLE.
Percy. The grand conspirator, abbot of Westminster,
With clog of conscience, and sour melancholy.
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
Exton. Great king, within this coffin I present
Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies