Stay and be secret, and myself will go. Ross. To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them that fear.
Willo. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there. [Exeunt. An Apartment in the
SCENE II.-The Same.
Palace.
Enter QUEEN, BUSHY, and BAGOT.
Bushy. Madam, your majesty is too much sad:
You promis'd, when you parted with the king,
To lay aside life-harming heaviness,
And entertain a cheerful disposition.
Queen. To please the king, I did; to please myself,
I cannot do it; yet I know no cause
Why I should welcome such a guest as grief,
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest
As my sweet Richard. Yet, again, methinks,
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb,
Is coming towards me; and my inward soul
With nothing trembles: at some thing it grieves,
More than with parting from my lord, the king.
Bushy. Each substance of a grief hath twenty sha-
dows,
Which show like grief itself, but are not so:
For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects;
Like perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon,
Show nothing but confusion: ey'd awry,
Distinguish form: so your sweet majesty,
Looking awry upon your lord's departure,
Finds shapes of grief more than himself to wail;
Which, look'd on as it is, is nought but shadows
Of what it is not. Then, thrice gracious queen,
More than your lord's departure weep not: more's
Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye,
Which for things true weeps things imaginary.
Queen. It may be so; but yet my inward soul
Persuades me, it is otherwise: howe'er it be,
I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad,
As, though unthinking on no thought I think,
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.
Bushy. "Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.
Queen. 'Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv'd
From some forefather grief; mine is not so,
For nothing hath begot my something woe;
Or something hath the nothing that I guess :
"Tis in reversion that I do possess,
But what it is, that is not yet known, what
I cannot name: 'tis nameless woe, I wot.
Bushy. Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland,
And all the rest of the revolted faction, traitors?
Green. We have: whereupon the earl of Worcester
Hath broken his staff, resign'd his stewardship,
And all the household servants fled with him
To Bolingbroke.
Queen. So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,
And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir:
Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy,
And I, a gasping new-deliver'd mother,
Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join'd.
Bushy. Despair not, madam.
Queen.
Who shall hinder me?
I will despair, and be at enmity
With cozening hope: he is a flatterer,
A parasite, a keeper-back of death,
Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,
Which false hope lingers in extremity.
Enter the Duke of YORK, part-armed.
Green. Here comes the duke of York.
Queen. With signs of war about his aged neck.
O! full of careful business are his looks.-
Uncle, for God's sake, speak comfortable words.
York. Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts:
Comfort's in heaven; and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but crosses, care, and grief.
Your husband, he is gone to save far off,
Whilst others come to make him lose at home:
Here am I left to underprop his land,
Who, weak with age, cannot support myself.
Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made;
Now shall he try his friends that flatter'd him.
Enter a Servant.
Serv. My lord, your son was gone before I came. York. He was?-Why, so :-go all which way it will.
The nobles they are fled, the commons cold,
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.-
Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloster;
Bid her send me presently a thousand pound.
Hold; take my ring.
Serv. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship :
To-day, as I came by, I called there;
But I shall grieve you to report the rest.
Serv. An hour before I came the duchess died. York. God for his mercy! what a tide of woes Comes rushing on this woeful land at once!
I know not what to do:-I would to God,
(So my untruth had not provok'd him to it) The king had cut off my head with my brother's.
Green. God save your majesty:—and well met, What! are there no posts dispatch'd for Ireland?— gentlemen.
I hope, the king is not yet shipp'd for Ireland.
Queen. Why hop'st thou so? 'tis better hope he is, For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope; Then, wherefore dost thou hope, he is not shipp'd? Green. That he, our hope, might have retir'd his power,
And driven into despair an enemy's hope,
Who strongly hath set footing in this land.
The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself,
And with uplifted arms is safe arriv'd
At Ravenspurg.
Now, God in heaven forbid !
Green. Ah! madam, 'tis too true: and what is worse, The lord Northumberland, his son young Henry Percy, The lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.
How shall we do for money for these wars?—
Come, sister,-cousin, I would say: pray, pardon me.-
Go, fellow, [To the Servant.] get thee home; provide
Gentlemen, will you go muster men?
If I know how, or which way, to order these affairs,
Thus disorderly thrust into my hands,
Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen :
Th' one is my sovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bids defend; th' other again,
Is my near kinsman, whom the king hath wrong'd,
Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.
Well, somewhat we must do.-Come, cousin,
I'll dispose of you.-Gentlemen, go muster up your men,
And meet me presently at Berkley.
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.be/books/content?id=_iMVAAAAYAAJ&hl=nl&output=html_text&pg=PA326&img=1&zoom=3&q=York&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U2UZgiu-3Wgh9IxadFOQTAZ84V9pA&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=75,121,455,149)
Green. Besides, our nearness to the king in love Is near the hate of those love not the king.
Bagot. And that's the wavering commons; for their love
Lies in their purses, and whoso empties them,
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.
Bushy. Wherein the king stands generally con-
demn'd.
Bagot. If judgment lie in them, then so do we,
Because we ever have been near the king.
Green. Well, I'll for refuge straight to Bristol castle: The earl of Wiltshire is already there.
Bushy. Thither will I with you; for little office
Will the hateful commons perforin for us,
Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.-
Will you go along with us?
Bagot. No; I will to Ireland to his majesty.
Farewell: if heart's presages be not vain,
We three here part, that ne'er shall meet again.
Bushy. That's as York thrives to beat back Boling-
broke.
Green. Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes
Is numbering sands, and drinking oceans dry:
Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.
Farewell at once; for once, for all, and ever.
Bushy. Well, we may meet again.
Bagot.
I fear me, never. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.-The Wilds in Glostershire.
Enter BOLINGBROKE and NORTHUMBERLAND,
with Forces.
Boling. How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now?
North. Believe me, noble lord,
I am a stranger here in Glostershire.
These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome;
And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,
Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
But, I bethink me, what a weary way
From Ravenspurg to Cotswold will be found
In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company,
Which, I protest, hath very much beguil'd
The tediousness and process of my travel:
But theirs is sweeten'd with the hope to have
The present benefit which I
possess;
And hope to joy is little less in joy,
Than hope enjoy'd: by this the weary lords
Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath been
By sight of what I have, your company.
Boling. Of much less value is my company,
Than your good words. But who comes here?
Enter HARRY PERCY.
North. It is my son, young Harry Percy,
Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.-
Harry, how fares your uncle?
Percy. I had thought, my lord, to have learn'd his
North. Why, is he not with the queen?
What was his reason? He was not so resolv'd, when last we spake Together.
Percy. Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor. But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurg, To offer service to the duke of Hereford; And sent me over by Berkley, to discover What power the duke of York had levied there; Then, with directions to repair to Ravenspurg.
North. Have you forgot the duke of Hereford, boy? Percy. No, my good lord; for that is not forgot, Which ne'er I did remember: to my knowledge, I never in my life did look on him.
North. Then learn to know him now: this is the duke. Percy. My gracious lord, I tender you my service, Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young, Which elder days shall ripen, and confirm To more approved service and desert.
Boling. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure, I count myself in nothing else so happy, As in a soul remembering my good friends; And as my fortune ripens with thy love, It shall be still thy true love's recompense: My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it. North. How far is it to Berkley? And what stir Keeps good old York there, with his men of war?
Percy. There stands the castle, by yond' tuft of trees, Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard; And in it are the lords of York, Berkley, and Seymour; None else of name, and noble estimate.
Enter Ross and WILLOUGHBY.
North. Here come the lords of Ross and Willoughby,
Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.
Boling. Welcome, my lords. I wot, your love pursues A banish'd traitor: all my treasury
Is but yet unfelt thanks, which, more enrich'd,
Shall be your love and labour's recompense.
Ross. Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.
Willo. And far surmounts our labour to attain it.
Boling. Evermore thanks, th' exchequer of the poor;
Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,
Stands for my bounty. But who comes here?
Enter BERKLEY.
North. It is my lord of Berkley, as I guess.
Berk. My lord of Hereford, my message is to you.
Boling. My lord, my answer is—to Lancaster,
And I am come to seek that name in England;
And I must find that title in your tongue,
Before I make reply to aught you say.
Berk. Mistake me not, my lord: 'tis not my meaning, To raze one title of your honour out.
To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will,
From the most gracious regent of this land,
The duke of York, to know what pricks you on
To take advantage of the absent time,
And fright our native peace, with self-borne arms.
Enter YORK attended.
Boling. I shall not need transport my words by you: Here comes his grace in person.-My noble uncle.
York. Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,
Whose duty is deceivable and false.
Boling. My gracious uncle-
York. Tut, tut! Grace me no grace, nor uncle me
no uncle:
Percy. No, my good lord: he hath forsook the I am no traitor's uncle; and that word "grace,"
Broken his staff of office, and dispers'd
The household of the king.
In an ungracious mouth, is but profane.
Why have those banish'd and forbidden legs
Dar'd once to touch a dust of England's ground?
But then, more why,-why have they dar'd to march
So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,
Frighting her pale-fac'd villages with war,
And ostentation of despoiling arms?
Com'st thou because th' anointed king is hence?
Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind,
And in my loyal bosom lies his power.
Were I but now the lord of such hot youth,
As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself,
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,
From forth the ranks of many thousand French,
O! then, how quickly should this arm of mine,
Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee,
And minister correction to thy fault!
Boling. My gracious uncle, let me know my fault:
On what condition stands it, and wherein ?
York. Even in condition of the worst degree;
In gross rebellion, and detested treason:
Thou art a banish'd man, and here art come
Before the expiration of thy time,
In braving arins against thy sovereign.
And you, that do abet him in this kind,
Cherish rebellion, and are rebels all.
North. The noble duke hath sworn, his coming is
But for his own; and for the right of that,
We all have strongly sworn to give him aid,
And let him ne'er see joy that breaks that oath.
York. Well, well, I see the issue of these arms.
I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,
Because my power is weak, and all ill left;
But if I could, by him that gave me life,
I would attach you all, and make you stoop
Unto the sovereign mercy of the king:
But, since I cannot, be it known unto you,
I do remain as neuter. So, farewell;
Unless you please to enter in the castle,
And there, my lords, repose you for this night.
Boling. An offer, uncle, that we will accept:
But we must win your grace, to go with us
To Bristol castle; which, they say, is held
By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices,
The caterpillars of the commonwealth,
Boling. As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford; Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.
But as I come, I come for Lancaster.
And, noble uncle, I beseech your grace,
Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye:
You are my father, for, methinks, in you
I see old Gaunt alive: O! then, my father,
Will you permit that I shall stand condemn'd
A wandering vagabond, my rights and royalties
Pluck'd from my arms perforce, and given away
To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?
If that my cousin king be king of England,
It must be granted I am duke of Lancaster.
You have a son, Aumerle, my noble kinsman;
Had you first died, and he been thus trod down,
He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father,
To rouse his wrongers, chase them to the bay.
I am denied to sue my livery here,
And yet my letters patent give me leave:
My father's goods are all distrain'd, and sold;
And these, and all, are all amiss employ'd.
What would you have me do? I am a subject,
And challenge law: attornies are denied me,
And therefore personally I lay my claim
To my inheritance of free descent.
North. The noble duke hath been too much abused.
Ross. It stands your grace upon to do him right.
Willo. Base men by his endowments are made great.
York. My lords of England, let me tell you this:
I have had feeling of my cousin's wrongs,
And labour'd all I could to do him right;
But in this kind to come; in braving arms,
Be his own carver, and cut out his way,
To find out right with wrong,-it may not be :
York. It may be, I will go with you;-but yet I'll
pause,
For I am loath to break our country's laws.
Nor friends, nor foes, to me welcome you are:
Things past redress are now with me past care. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.-A Camp in Wales.
Enter SALISBURY, and a Welsh Captain.
Cap. My lord of Salisbury, we have stay'd ten days,
And hardly kept our countrymen together,
And yet we hear no tidings from the king;
Therefore, we will disperse ourselves. Farewell.
Sal. Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman :
The king reposeth all his confidence in thee.
Cap. 'Tis thought, the king is dead: we will not stay.
The bay-trees in our country are all wither'd,
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;
The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth,
And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change:
Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap,
The one in fear to lose what they enjoy,
The other to enjoy by rage and war:
These signs forerun the death or fall of kings.
Farewell: our countrymen are gone and fled,
As well assur'd Richard, their king, is dead.
Sal. Ah, Richard! with the eyes of heavy mind,
I see thy glory, like a shooting star,
Fall to the base earth from the firmament.
Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,
Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest:
Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes,
And crossly to thy good all fortune goes.
SCENE I.-BOLINGBROKE's Camp at Bristol.
Enter BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY,
WILLOUGHBY, Ross: BUSHY and GREEN, prisoners.
Boling. Bring forth these men.-
[BUSHY and GREEN stand forward.
Bushy, and Green, I will not vex your souls,
Since presently your souls must part your bodies,
With too much urging your pernicious lives,
For 'twere no charity; yet, to wash your blood
From off my hands, here in the view of men
I will unfold some causes of your deaths.
You have misled a prince, a royal king,
A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,
By you unhappied and disfigur'd clean:
You have, in manner, with your sinful hours,
Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him,
Broke the possession of a royal bed,
And stain'd the beauty of a fair queen's cheeks
With tears, drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs.
Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth,
Near to the king in blood, and near in love,
Till you did make him misinterpret me,
Have stoop'd my neck under your injuries,
And sigh'd my English breath in foreign clouds,
Eating the bitter bread of banishment,
Whilst you have fed upon my signories,
Dispark'd my parks, and fell'd my forest woods,
From mine own windows torn my household coat,
Raz'd out my impress, leaving me no sign,
Save men's opinions, and my living blood,
To show the world I am a gentleman.
This and much more, much more than twice all this,
Condemns you to the death. See them deliver'd over
To execution, and the hand of death.
Bushy. More welcome is the stroke of death to me,
Than Bolingbroke to England.-Lords, farewell.
Green. My comfort is, that heaven will take our souls,
And plague injustice with the pains of hell.
Boling. My lord Northumberland, see them dis-
patch'd.
[Exeunt NORTHUMBERLAND and Others, with BUSHY
and GREEN.
Uncle, you say the queen is at your house;
For God's sake, fairly let her be entreated:
Tell her I send to her my kind commends;
Take special care my greetings be deliver'd.
York. A gentleman of mine I have dispatch'd
With letters of your love to her at large.
Boling. Thanks, gentle uncle.-Come, my lords,
away,
To fight with Glendower and his complices:
Awhile to work, and after holiday.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.-The Coast of Wales. A Castle in view.
Flourish: Drums and Trumpets. Enter King RICHARD,
Bishop of CARLISLE, AUMERLE, and Soldiers.
K. Rich. Barkloughly castle call they this at hand? Aum. Yea, my good lord. How brooks your grace the air,
After late tossing on the breaking seas?
Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,
Grows strong and great in substance, and in power.
K. Rich. Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not,
That when the searching eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders and in outrage, bloody here;
But when from under this terrestrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?
So when this thief, this traitor Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilst we were wandering with the antipodes,
Shall see us rising in our throne, the east,
His treasons will sit blushing in his face,
Not able to endure the sight of day,
But, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm from an anointed king:
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord.
For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd,
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,
God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right.
Enter SALISBURY.
Welcome, my lord. How far off lies your power?
Sal. Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious lord,
Than this weak arm. Discomfort guides my tongue,
And bids me speak of nothing but despair.
One day too late, I fear, my noble lord,
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.
O! call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men:
To-day, to-day, unhappy day too late,
K. Rich. Needs must I like it well: I weep for joy, O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state;
To stand upon my kingdom once again.-
Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,
Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs:
As a long parted mother with her child
Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting,
So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth,
And do thee favour with my royal hand.
Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth,
Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense;
But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom,
And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way,
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet,
Which with usurping steps do trample thee.
Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies;
And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,
Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder,
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies.-
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords:
This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king
Shall falter under foul rebellion's arms.
Bishop. Fear not, my lord: that power that made
you king,
Hath power to keep you king, in spite of all.
The means that heavens yield must be embrac'd,
And not neglected; else, if heaven would,
And we will not, heaven's offer we refuse,
The proffer'd means of succour and redress.
Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;
For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers'd, or fled.
Aum. Comfort, my liege! why looks your grace so pale?
K. Rich. But now, the blood of twenty thousand men
Did triumph in my face, and they are fled;
And till so much blood thither come again,
Have I not reason to look pale and dead?
All souls that will be safe, fly from my side;
For time hath set a blot upon my pride.
Aum. Comfort, my liege! remember who you are.
K. Rich. I had forgot myself. Am I not king?
Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleepest.
Is not the king's name twenty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes
At thy great glory.-Look not to the ground,
Ye favourites of a king: are we not high?
High be our thoughts. I know, my uncle York
Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes
here!
Scroop. More health and happiness betide my liege,
Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him.
K. Rich. Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar'd:
The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold.
Say, is my kingdom lost? why, 'twas my care;
And what loss is it to be rid of care?
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?
Greater he shall not be if he serve God,
We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so.
Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend;
They break their faith to God, as well as us.
Cry woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay.
The worst is death, and death will have his day.
Scroop. Glad am I, that your highness is so arm'd
To bear the tidings of calamity.
Like an unseasonable stormy day,
Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,
As if the world were all dissolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits swells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land
With hard bright steel, and hearts harder than steel.
White-beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy majesty; and boys, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clasp their feeble joints
In stiff unwieldy armour 'gainst thy crown:
Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal yew against thy state;
Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills
Against thy seat: both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have power to tell.
K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'st a tale so ill.
Where is the earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
What is become of Bushy? where is Green?
That they have let the dangerous enemy
Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?
If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.
I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke. Scroop. Peace have they made with him, indeed, my lord.
K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption !
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!
Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart! Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas! Would they make peace? terrible hell make war Upon their spotted souls for this offence!
Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his property, Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate. Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made With heads and not with hands: those whom you curse Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound, And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.
Aum. Is Bushy, Green, and the earl of Wiltshire, dead? Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads. Aum. Where is the duke, my father, with his power? K. Rich. No matter where. Of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills: And yet not so, for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own but death, And that small model of the barren earth, Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: How some have been depos'd, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd, Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd, All murder'd;-for within the hollow crown, That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Keeps death his court, and there the antick sits, Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp; Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks; Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh, which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus,
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.be/books/content?id=_iMVAAAAYAAJ&hl=nl&output=html_text&pg=PA329&img=1&zoom=3&q=York&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U0arBUIR9XhKtdWHKzumuCxYATjrw&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=463,122,430,200)
But presently prevent the ways to wail.
To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength,
Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe,
And so your follies fight against yourself.
Fear, and be slain; no worse can come to fight:
And fight and die is death destroying death;
Where fearing dying pays death servile breath.
Aum. My father hath a power, enquire of him,
And learn to make a body of a limb.
K. Rich. Thou chid'st me well.-Proud Bolingbroke,
I come
To change blows with thee for our day of doom.
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown:
An easy task it is, to win our own.—
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power?
Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour.
Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the sky
The state and inclination of the day;
So may you by my dull and heavy eye,
My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.
I play the torturer, by small and small,
To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken.
Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke;
And all your northern castles yielded up,
And all your southern gentlemen in arms
Upon his party.
K. Rich. Thou hast said enough.Beshrew thee, cousin, [To AUMERLE.] which didst lead me forth
Of that sweet way I was in to despair!
What say you now? What comfort have we now?
By heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly,
That bids me be of comfort any more.
Go to Flint castle: there I'll pine away;
A king, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey.
That power I have, discharge; and let them go
To ear the land that hath some hope to grow,
For I have none.-Let no man speak again
To alter this, for counsel is but vain.
Aum. My liege, one word.
K. Rich.
He does me double wrong,
That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.
Discharge my followers: let them hence away,
From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day.
SCENE III.-Wales. A Plain before Flint Castle.
Enter, with Drum and Colours, BOLINGBROKE and
Forces; YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, and Others.
Boling. So that by this intelligence we learn,
The Welshmen are dispers'd; and Salisbury
Is gone to meet the king, who lately landed
With some few private friends upon this coast.
North. The news is very fair and good, my lord: Richard, not far from hence, hath hid his head.
York. It would beseem the lord Northumberland, To say, king Richard:-Alack, the heavy day, When such a sacred king should hide his head!
North. Your grace mistakes me; only to be brief,
|