May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to content, flatter themselves,-
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,
Who, sitting in the stocks, refuse their shame,
That many have, and others must sit there:
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of such as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play I, in one person, many people,
And none contented: Sometimes am I king;
Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar;
And so I am: Then crushing penury
Persuades me I was better when a king;
Then am I king'd again: and, by-and-by,
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing:-but whate'er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, but that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd till he be eas'd
With being nothing.-Musick do I hear? [Musick
Ha, ha! keep time:-How sour sweet musick is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the musick of men's lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To check time broke in a disorder'd string;
But, for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
For now hath time made me his numb'ring clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and, with sighs, they jar
Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, sir, the sounds that tell what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
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.
This musick 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!
King Richard. 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
To look upon my sometime master's face.
O, how it yearn'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.
King Richard. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,
Groom. So proudly, as if he disdain'd the ground. King Richard. So proud that Bolingbroke was on
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.
Enter KEEPER, with a Dish.
Keeper. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay. [To the GROOM. King Richard. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert
Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart
[Exit. Keeper. My lord, will 't please you to fall to? King Richard. Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do. Keeper. My lord, I dare not; sir Pierce of Exton, who Lately came from the king, commands the contrary. King Richard. The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and thee!
Fatience is stale, and I am weary of it.
Keeper. Help, help, help!
Enter EXTON, and SERVANTS armed.
King Richard. 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 land. Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.
Exton. As full of valour, as of royal blood:
Both have I spilt; O, 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.
SCENE VI.-WINDSOR.. A Room in the Castle.
Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE, and YORK, with LORDS and ATTENDANTS.
Bolingbroke. 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?
Northumberland. 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. Bolingbroke. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
Fitzwater. 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.
Bolingbroke. 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 Westminster 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.
Bolingbroke. 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.
Bolingbroke. 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. Bolingbroke. 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; 5
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.
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