The life and death of King Richard
Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.
[Act 2, Scene 1]
Enter Gaunt, sicke with Yorke.
Gau.
Will the King come, that I may breath my last
In wholsome counsell to his vnstaid youth?
Yor.
Vex not your selfe, nor striue not with your breth,
For all in vaine comes counsell to his eare.
Gau.
Oh but (they say) the tongues of dying men
Inforce attention like deepe harmony;
Where words are scarse, they are seldome spent in vaine,
For they breath truth, that breath their words in paine.
He that no more must say, is listen'd more,
Then they whom youth and ease haue taught to glose,
More are mens ends markt, then their liues before,
The setting Sun, and Musicke is the close
As the last taste of sweetes, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance, more then things long past;
Though Richard my liues counsell would not heare,
My deaths sad tale, may yet vndeafe his eare.
Yor.
No, it is stopt with other flatt'ring sounds
As praises of his state: then there are sound
Lasciuious Meeters, to whose venom sound
The open eare of youth doth alwayes listen.
Report of fashions in proud Italy,
Whose manners still our tardie apish Nation
Limpes after in base imitation.
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
So it be new, there's no respect how vile,
That is not quickly buz'd into his eares?
That all too late comes counsell to be heard,
Where will doth mutiny with wits regard:
Direct not him, whose way himselfe will choose,
Tis breath thou lackst, and that breath wilt thou loose.
Gaunt.
Me thinkes I am a Prophet new inspir'd,
And thus expiring, do foretell of him,
His rash fierce blaze of Ryot cannot last,
For violent fires soone burne out themselues,
Small showres last long, but sodaine stormes are short,
He tyres betimes, that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding, food doth choake the feeder:
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
Consuming meanes soone preyes vpon it selfe.
This royall Throne of Kings, this sceptred Isle,
This earth of Maiesty, this seate of Mars,
This other Eden, demy paradise,
This Fortresse built by Nature for her selfe,
Against infection, and the hand of warre:
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone, set in the siluer sea,
Which serues it in the office of a wall,
Or as a Moate defensiue to a house,
Against the enuy of lesse happier Lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this Realme, this England,
This Nurse, this teeming wombe of Royall Kings,
Fear'd by their breed, and famous for their birth,
Renowned for their deeds, as farre from home,
For Christian seruice, and true Chiualrie,
As is the sepulcher in stubborne Iury
Of the Worlds ransome, blessed Maries Sonne.
This Land of such deere soules, this deere‑deere Land,
Deere for her reputation through the world,
Is now Leas'd out (I dye pronouncing it)
Like to a Tenement or pelting Farme.
England bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beates backe the enuious siedge
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With Inky blottes, and rotten Parchment bonds.
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shamefull conquest of it selfe.
Ah! would the scandall vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death?
Enter King, Queene, Aumerle, Bushy, Greene,
Bagot, Ros, and Willoughby.
Yor.
The King is come, deale mildly with his youth,
For young hot Colts, being rag'd, do rage the more.
Qu.
How fares our noble Vncle Lancaster?
Ri.
What comfort man? How ist with aged Gaunt?
Ga.
Oh how that name befits my composition:
Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old:
Within me greefe hath kept a tedious fast,
And who abstaynes from meate, that is not gaunt?
For sleeping England long time haue I watcht,
Watching breeds leannesse, leannesse is all gaunt.
The pleasure that some Fathers feede vpon,
Is strict fast, I meane my Childrens lookes,
And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt:
Gaunt am I for the graue, gaunt as a graue,
Whose hollow wombe inherits naught but bones.
Ric.
Can sicke men play so nicely with their names?
Gau.
No, misery makes sport to mocke it selfe:
Since thou dost seeke to kill my name in mee,
I
The life and death of Richard the second.
I mocke my name (great King) to flatter thee.
Ric.
Should dying men flatter those that liue?
Gau.
No, no, men liuing flatter those that dye.
Rich.
Thou now a dying, sayst thou flatter'st me.
Gau.
Oh no, thou dyest, though I the sicker be.
Rich.
I am in health, I breath, I see thee ill.
Gau.
Now he that made me, knowes I see thee ill:
Ill in my selfe to see, and in thee, seeing ill,
Thy death‑bed is no lesser then the Land,
Wherein thou lyest in reputation sicke,
And thou too care‑lesse patient as thou art,
Commit'st thy'anointed body to the cure
Of those Physitians, that first wounded thee.
A thousand flatterers sit within thy Crowne,
Whose compasse is no bigger then thy head,
And yet incaged in so small a Verge,
The waste is no whit lesser then thy Land:
Oh had thy Grandsire with a Prophets eye,
Seene how his sonnes sonne, should destroy his sonnes,
From forth thy reach he would haue laid thy shame,
Deposing thee before thou wert possest,
Which art possest now to depose thy selfe.
Why (Cosine) were thou Regent of the world,
It were a shame to let his Land by lease:
But for thy world enioying but this Land,
Is it not more then shame, to shame it so?
Landlord of England art thou, and not King:
Thy state of Law, is bondslaue to the law,
And⸺
Rich.
And thou, a lunaticke leane‑witted foole,
Presuming on an Agues priuiledge,
Dar'st with thy frozen admonition
Make pale our cheeke, chafing the Royall blood
With fury, from his natiue residence?
Now by my Seates right Royall Maiestie,
Wer't thou not Brother to great Edwards sonne,
This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head,
Should run thy had from thy vnreuerent shoulders.
Gau.
Oh spare me not, my brothers Edwards sonne,
For that I was his Father Edwards sonne:
That blood already (like the Pellican)
Thou hast tapt out, and drunkenly carows'd.
My brother Gloucester, plaine well meaning soule
(Whom faire befall in heauen 'mongst happy soules)
May be a president, and witnesse good,
That thou respect'st not spilling Edwards blood:
Ioyne with the present sicknesse that I haue,
And thy vnkindnesse be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too‑long wither'd flowre.
Liue in thy shame, but dye not shame with thee,
These words heereafter, thy tormentors bee.
Conuey me to my bed, then to my graue,
Loue they to liue, that loue and honor haue.
Exit
Rich.
And let them dye, that age and sullens haue,
For both hast thou, and both become the graue.
Yor.
I do beseech your Maiestie impute his words
To wayward sicklinesse, and age in him:
He loues you on my life, and holds you deere
As Harry Duke of Herford, were he heere.
Rich.
Right, you say true: as Herfords loue, so his;
As theirs, so mine: and all be as it is.
Enter Northumberland.
Nor.
My Liege, olde Gaunt commends him to your
Maiestie.
Rich.
What sayes he?
Nor.
Nay nothing, all is said:
His tongue is now a stringlesse instrument,
Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.
Yor.
Be Yorke the next, that must be bankrupt so,
Though death be poore, it ends a mortall wo.
Rich.
The ripest fruit first fals, and so doth he,
His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be:
So much for that. Now for our Irish warres,
We must supplant those rough rug‑headed Kernes,
Which liue like venom, where no venom else
But onely they, haue priuiledge to liue.
And for these great affayres do aske some charge
Towards our assistance, we do seize to vs
The plate, coine, reuennewes, and moueables,
Whereof our Vncle Gaunt did stand possest.
Yor.
How long shall I be patient? Oh how long
Shall tender dutie make me suffer wrong?
Not Glousters death, nor Herfords banishment,
Nor Gauntes rebukes, nor Englands priuate wrongs,
Nor the preuention of poore Bullingbrooke,
About his marriage, nor my owne disgrace
Haue euer made me sowre may patient cheeke,
Or bend one wrinckle on my Soueraignes face:
I am the last of noble Edwards sonnes,
Of whom thy Father Prince of Wales was first,
In warre was neuer Lyon rag'd more fierce:
In peace, was neuer gentle Lambe more milde,
Then was that yong and Princely Gentleman,
His face thou hast, for euen so look'd he
Accomplish'd with the number of thy howrs:
But when he frown'd, it was against the French,
And not against his friends: his noble hand
Did win what he did spend: and spent not that
Which his triumphant fathers hand had won:
His hands were guilty of no kindreds blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kinne:
Oh Richard, Yorke is too farre gone with greefe,
Or else he neuer would compare betweene.
Rich.
Why Vncle,
What's the matter?
Yor.
Oh my Liege, pardon me if you please, if not
I pleas'd not to be pardon'd, am content with all:
Seeke you to seize, and gripe into your hands
The Royalties and Rights of banish'd Herford?
Is not Gaunt dead? And doth not Herford liue?
Was not Gaunt iust? and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserue o haue an heyre?
Is not his heyre a well‑deseruing sonne?
Take Herfords rights away, and take from time
His Charters, and his customarie rights:
Let not to morrow then insue to day,
Be not thy selfe. For how art thou a King
But by faire sequence and succession?
Now afore God, God forbid I say true,
If you do wrongfully seize Herfords right,
Call in his Letters Parents that he hath
By his Atturneyes generall, to sue
His Liuerie, and denie his offer'd homage,
You plucke a thousand dangers on your head,
You loose a thousand well‑disposed hearts,
And pricke my tender patience to those thoughts
Which honor and allegeance cannot thinke.
Ric.
Thinke what you will: we seise into our hands,
His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.
Yor.
Ile not be by the while: My Liege farewell,
c3
What
The life and death of Richard the second.
What will ensue heereof, there's none can tell.
But by bad couses may be vnderstood,
That their euents can neuer fall out good.
Exit.
Rich.
Go Bushie to the Earle of Wiltshire streight,
Bid him repaire to vs to Ely house,
To see this businesse: to morrow next
We will for Ireland, and 'tis time, I trow:
And we create in absence of our selfe
Our Vncle Yorke, Lord Gouernor of England:
For he is iust, and alwayes lou'd vs well.
Come on our Queene, to morrow must we part,
Be merry, for our time of stay is short.
Flourish.
Manet North. Willughby, & Ross.
Nor.
Well Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.
Ross.
And liuing too, for now his sonne is Duke.
Wil.
Barely in title, not in reuennew.
Nor.
Richly in both, if iustice had her right.
Ross.
My heart is great: but it must break with silence,
Er't be disburthen'd with a liberall tongue.
Nor.
Nay speake thy mind: & let him ne'r speak more
That speakes thy words againe to do thee harme.
Wil.
Tends that thou'dst speake to th'Du.Duke of Hereford,
If it be so, out with it boldly man,
Quicke is mine eare to heare of good towards him.
Ross.
No good at all that I can do for him,
Vnlesse you call it good to pitie him,
Bereft and gelded of his patrimonie.
Nor.
Now afore heauen, 'tis shame such wrongs are
borne,
In him a royall Prince, and many moe
Of noble blood in this declining Land;
The King is not himselfe, but basely led
By Flatterers, and what they will informe
Meerely in hate 'gainst any of vs all,
That will the King seuerely prosecute
'Gainst vs, our liues, our children, and our heires.An ink mark follows the end of this line.
Ros.
The Commons hath he pil'd with greeuous taxes
And quite lost their hearts: the Nobles hath he finde
For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.
Wil.
And daily new exactions are deuis'd,
As blankes, beneuolences, and I wo not what:
But what o'Gods name doth become of this?
Nor.
Wars hath not wasted it, for war'd he hath not.
But basely yielded vpon comprimize,
That which his Ancestors atchieu'd with blowes:
More hath he spent in peace, then they in warres.
Ros.
The Earle of Wiltshire hath the realme in Farme.
Wil.
The Kings growne bankrupt like a broken man.
Nor.
Reproach and dissolution hangeth ouer him.
Ros.
He hath not monie for these Irish warres:
(His burthenous taxations notwithstanding)
But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.
Nor.
His noble Kinsman, most degenerate King:
But Lords, we heare this fearefull tempest sing,
Yet seeke no shelter to auoid the storme:
We see the winde sit sore vpon our sailes,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish
Ros.
We see the very wracke that we must suffer,
And vnauoyded is the danger now
For suffering so the causes of our wracke.
Nor.
Not so: euen through the hollow eyes of death,
I spie life peering: but I dare not say
How neere the tidings of our comfort is.
Wil.
Nay let vs share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours
Ros.
Be confident to speake Northumberland,
We three, are but thy selfe, and speaking so,
Thy words are but as thoughts, therefore be bold.
Nor.
Then thus: I haue from Port le BlanAn ink mark follows the end of this line.
A Bay in Britaine, receiu'd intelligence,
That Harry Duke of Herford, Rainald Lord Cobham,
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
His brother Archbishop, late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir Iohn Rainston,
Sir Iohn Norberie, Sir Robert Waterton, & Francis Quoint,
All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Britaine,
With eight tall ships, three thousand men of warre
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And shortly meane to touch our Northerne shore:
Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay
The first departing of the King for Ireland.
If then we shall shake off our slauish yoake,
Impe out our drooping Countries broken wing,
Redeeme from broaking pawne the blemish'd Crowne,
Wipe off the dust that hides our Scepters gilt,
And make high Maiestie looke like it selfe,
Away with me in poste to Rauenspurgh,
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay, and be secret, and my selfe will go.
Ros.
To horse, to horse, vrge doubts to them yt feare.
Wil.
Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.
Exeunt.
Scena Secunda.
[Act 2, Scene 2]
Enter Queene, Bushy, and Bagot.
Bush.
Madam, your Maiesty is too much sad,
You promis'd when you parted with the King,
To lay aside selfe‑harming heauinesse,
And entertaine a cheerefull disposition.
Qu.
To please the King, I did: to please my selfe
I cannot do it: yet I know no cause
Why I should welcome such a guest as greefe,
Saue bidding farewell to so sweet a guest
As my sweet Richard; yet againe me thinkes,
Some vnborne sorrow, ripe in fortunes wombe
Is comming towards me, and my inward soule
With nothing trembles, at something it greeues,
More then with parting from my Lord the King.
Bush.
Each substance of a greefe hath twenty shadows
Which shewes like greefe it selfe, but is not so:
For sorrowes eye, glazed with blinding teares,
Diuides one thing intire, to many obiects,
Like perspectiues, which rightly gaz'd vpon
Shew nothing but confusion, ey'd awry,
Distinguish forme: so your sweet Maiestie
Looking awry vpon your Lords departure,
Finde shapes of greefe, more then himselfe to waile,
Which look'd on as it is, is naught burbut shadowes
Of what it is not: then thrice‑gracious Queene,
More then your Lords departure weep not, more's not
(seene;
Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrowes eie,
Which for things true, weepe things imaginary.
Qu.
It may be so: but yet my inward soule
Perswades me it is otherwise: how ere it be,
I cannot but be sad: so heauy sad,
As though on thinking on no thought I thinke,
Makes me with heauy nothing faint and shrinke.
Bush.
'Tis nothing but conceit (my gracious Lady.)
Queene.
The life and death of Richard the second.
Qu.
'Tis nothing lesse: conceit is still deriu'd
From some fore‑father greefe, mine is not so,
For nothing hath begot my something greefe,
Or something, hath the nothing that I greeue,
'Tis in reuersion that I do possesse,
But what it is, that is not yet knowne, what
I cannot name, 'tis namelesse woe I wot.
Enter Greene.
Gree.
Heauen saue your Maiesty, and wel met Gentle
(men:
I hope the King is not yet shipt for Ireland.
Qu.
Why hop'st thou so? Tis better hope he is:
For his designes craue hast, his hast good hope,
Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipt?
Gre.
That he our hope, might haue retyr'd his power,
and driuen into dispaire an enemies hope,
Who strongly hath set footing in this Land.
The banish'd Bullingbrooke repeales himselfe,
And with vp‑lifted Armes is safe arriu'd
At Rauenspurg.
Qu.
Now God in heauen forbid.
Gr.
O Madam 'tis too true: and that is worse,
The L.Lord Northumberland, his yong sonne Henrie Percie,
The Lords of Rosse, Beaumo, and Willoughby,
With all their powrefull friends are fled to him.
Bush.
Why haue you not proclaim'd Northumberland
And the rest of the reuolted faction, Traitors?
Gre.
We haue: whereupon the Earle of Worcester
Hath broke his staffe, resign'd his Stewardship,
And al the houshold seruants fled with him to Bullinbrook
Qu.
So Greene, thou art the midwife of my woe,
And Bullinbrooke my sorrowes dismall heyre:
Now hath my soule brought forth her prodegie,
And I a gasping new deliuered mother,
Haue woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow ioyn'd.
Bush.
Dispaire not Madam.
Qu.
Who shall hinder me?
I will dispaire, and be at enmitie
With couzening hope; he is a Flatterer,
A Parasite, a keeper backe of death,
Who gently would dissolue the bands of life,
Which false hopes linger in extremity.
Enter Yorke
Gre.
Heere comes the Duke of Yorke.
Qu.
With signes of warre about his aged necke,
Oh full of carefull businesse are his lookes:
Vncle, for heauens sake speake comfortable words:
Yor.
Comfort's in heauen, and we are on the earth,
Where nothing liues but crosses, care and greefe:
Your husband he is gone to saue farre off,
Whilst others come to make him loose at home:
Heere am I left to vnder‑prop his Land,
Who weake with age, cannot support my selfe:
Now comes the sicke houre that his surfet made,
Now shall he try his friends that flattered him.
Enter a seruant.
Ser.
My Lord, your sonne was gone before I came.
Yor.
He was: why so: go all which way it will:
The Nobles they are fled, the Commons they are cold,
And will I feare reuolt on Herfords side.
Sirra, get thee to Plashie to my sister Gloster,
Bid her send me presently a thousand pound,
Hold, take my Ring.
Ser.
My Lord, I had forgot
To tell your Lordship, to day I came by, and call'd there,
But I shall greeue you to report the rest.
Yor.
What is't knaue?
Ser.
An houre before I came, the Dutchesse di'de.
Yor.
Heau'n for his mercy, what a tide of woes
Come rushing on this wofull Land at once?
I know not what to do: I would to heauen
(So my vntruth had not prouok'd him to it)
The King had cut off my head with my brothers.
What, are there postes dispatcht for Ireland?
How shall we do for money for these warres?
Come sister (Cozen I would say) pray pardon me.
Go fellow, get thee home, poouide some Carts,
And bring away the Armour that is there.
Gentlemen, will you muster men?
If I know how, or which way to order these affaires
Thus disorderly thrust into my hands,
Neuer beleeue me. Both are my kinsmen,
Th'one is my Soueraigne, whom both my oath
And dutie bids defend: th'other againe
Is my kinsman, whom the King hath wrong'd,
Whom conscience, and my kindred bids to right:
Well, somewhat we must do: Come Cozen,
Ile dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster vp your men,
And meet me presently at Barkley Castle:
I should to Plashy too: but time will not permit,
All is vneuen, and euery thing is left at six and seuen.
Exit
Bush.
The winde sits faire for newes to go to Ireland,
But none returnes: For vs to leuy power
Proportionable to th'enemy, is all impossible.
Gr.
Besides our neerenesse to the King in loue,
Is neere the hate of those loue not the King.
Ba.
And that's the wauering Commons, for their loue
Lies in their purses, and who so empties them,
By so much fils their hearts with deadly hate.
Bush.
Wherein the king stands generally condemn'd
Bag.
If iudgement lye in them, then so do we,
Because we haue beene euer neere the King.
Gr.
Well: I will for refuge straight to Bristoll Castle,
The Earle of Wiltshire is alreadie there.
Bush.
Thither will I with you, for little office
Will the hatefull Commons performe for vs,
Except like Curres, to teare vs all in peeces:
Will you go along with vs?
Bag.
No, I will to Ireland to his Maistie:
Farewell, if hearts presages be not vaine,
We three here part, that neu'r shall meete againe.
Bu.
That's as Yorke thriues to beate back Bullinbroke
Gr.
Alas poore Duke, the taske he vndertakes
Is numbring sands, and drinking Oceans drie,
Where one on his side fights, thousands will flye.
Bush.
Farewell a once, for once, for all, and euer.
Well, we may meete againe.
Bag.
I feare me neuer.
Exit.
Scæna Tertia.
[Act 2, Scene 3]
Enter the Duke of Herford, and Northum
berland.
Bul.
How farre is it my Lord to Berkley now?
Nor.
Beleeue me noble Lord,
I am a stranger heere in Gloustershire,
These high wilde hilles, and rough vneeuen waies,
Drawes out our miles, and makes them wearisome:
And yet our faire discourse hath beene as sugar,
Mak in
The life and death of Richard the second.
Making the hard way sweet and delectable:
But I bethinke me, what a wearie way
From Rauenspurgh to Cottshold will be found,
In Rosse and Willoughby, wanting your companie,
Which I protest hath very much beguild
The tediousnesse, and processe of my trauell:
But theirs is sweetned with the hope to haue
The present benefit that I possesse:
And hope to ioy, is little lesse in ioy,
Then hope enioy'd: By this, the wearie Lords
Shall make their way seeme short, as mine hath done,
By sight of what I haue, your Noble Companie.
Bull.
Of much lesse value is my Companie,
Then your good words: but who comes here?
Enter H. Percie.
North.
It is my Sonne, young Harry Percie,
Sent from my Brother Worcester: Whence soeuer.
Harry, how fares your Vnckle?
Percie.
I had thought, my Lord, to haue learn'd his
health of you.
North.
Why, is he not with the Queene?
Percie.
No, my good Lord, he hath forsook the Court,
Broken his Staffe of Office, and disperst
The Household of the King.
North.
What was his reason?
He was not so resolu'd, when we last spake together.
Percie.
Because your Lordship was proclaimed Traitor.
But hee, my Lord, is gone to Rauenspurgh,
To offer seruice to the Duke of Hereford,
And sent me ouer by Barkely, to discouer
What power the Duke of Yorke had leuied there,
Then with direction to repaire to Rauenspurgh.
North.
Haue you forgot the Duke of Hereford (Boy.)
Percie.
No, my good Lord; for that is not forgot
Which ne're I did remember: to my knowledge,
I neuer in my life did looke on him.
North.
Then learne to know him now: this is the
Duke.
Percie.
My gracious Lord, I tender you my seruice,
Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young,
Which elder dayes shall ripen, and confirme
To more approued seruice, and desert.
Bull.
I thanke thee gentle Percie, and be sure
I count my selfe in nothing else so happy,
As in a Soule remembring my good Friends:
And as my Fortune ripens with thy Loue,
It shall be still thy true Loues recompence,
My Heart this Couenant makes, my Hand thus seales it.
North.
How farre is it to Barkely? and what stirre
Keepes good old Yorke there, with his Men of Warre?
Percie.
There stands the Castle, by yond tuft of Trees,
Mann'd with three hundred men, as I haue heard,
And in it are the Lords of Yorke, Barkely, and Seymor,
None else of Name, and noble estimate.
Enter Rosse and Willoughby.
North.
Here come the Lords of Rosse and Willoughby,
Bloody with spurring, fierie red with haste.
Bull.
Welcome my Lords, I wot your loue pursues
A banisht Traytor; all my Treasurie
Is yet but vnfelt thankes, which more enrich'd,
Shall be your loue, and labours recompence.
Ross.
Your presence makes vs rich, most Noble Lord.
Willo.
And farre surmounts our labour to attaine it.
Bull.
Euermore thankes, th'Exchequer of the poore,
Which till my infant‑fortune comes to yeeres,
Stands for my Bountie: but who comes here?
Enter Barkely.
North.
It is my Lord of Barkely, as I ghesse.
Bark.
My Lord of Hereford, my Message is to you.
Bull.
My Lord, my Answere is to Lancaster,
And I am come to seeke that Name in England,
And I must finde that Title in your Tongue,
Before I make reply to aught you say.
Bark.
Mistake me not, my Lord, 'tis not my meaning
To raze one Title of your Honor out.
To you, my Lord, I come (what Lord you will)
From the most glorious of this Land,
The Duke of Yorke, to know what pricks you on
To take aduantage of the absent time,
And fright our Natiue Peace with selfe‑borne Armes.
Enter Yorke.
Bull.
I shall not need transport my words by you,
Here comes his Grace in Person. My Noble Vnckle.
York.
Shew me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,
Whose dutie is deceiuable, and false.
Bull.
My gracious Vnckle.
York.
Tut, tut, Grace me no Grace, nor Vnckle me,
I am no Traytors Vnckle, and that word Grace,
In an vngracious mouth, is but prophane.
Why haue these banish'd, and forbidden Legges,
Dar'd once to touch a Dust of Englands Ground?
But more then why, why haue they dar'd to march
So many miles vpon her peacefull Bosome,
Frighting her pale‑fac'd Villages with Warre,
And ostentation of despised Armes?
Com'st thou because th'anoynted King is hence?
Why foolish Boy, the King is left behind,
And in my loyall Bosome lyes his power.
Were I but now the Lord of such hot youth,
As when braue Gaunt, thy Father, and my selfe
Rescued the Black Prince, that yong Mars of men,
From forth the Rankes of many thousand French:
Oh then, how quickly should this Arme of mine,
Now Prisoner to the Palsie, chastise thee,
And minister correction to thy Fault.
Bull.
My gracious Vnckle, let me know my Fault,
On what Condition stands it, and wherein?
York.
Euen in Condition of the worst degree,
In grosse Rebellion, and detested Treason:
Thou art a banish'd man, and here art come
Before th'expiration of thy time,
In brauing AtmesArmes against thy Soueraigne.
Bull.
As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford,
But as I come, I come for Lancaster.
And Noble Vnckle, I beseech your Grace
Looke on my Wrongs with an indifferent eye:
You are my Father, for me thinkes in you
I see old Gaunt aliue. Oh then my Father,
Will you permit, that I shall stand condemn'd
A wandring Vagabond; my Rights and Royalties
Pluckt from my armes perforce, and giuen away
To vpstart Vnthrifts? Wherefore was I borne?
If that my Cousin King, be King of England,
It must be graunted, I am Duke of Lancaster.
You haue a Sonne, Aumerle, my Noble Kinsman,
Had you first died, and he beene thus trod downe,
He should haue found his Vnckle Gaunt a Father,
To rowze his Wrongs, and chase them to the bay.
I am denyde to sue my Liuerie here,
And yet my Letters Patents giue me leaue:
My Fathers goods are all distraynd, and sold,
And these, and all, are all amisse imployd.
What
The life and death of Richard the second.
What would you haue me doe? I am a Subiect,
And challenge Law: Attorneyes are deny'd me:
And therefore personally I lay my claime
To my Inheritance of free Discent.
North.
The Noble Duke hath been too much abus'd.
Ross.
It stands your Grace vpon, to doe him right.
Willo.
Base men by his endowments are made great.
York.
My Lords of England, let me tell you this,
I haue had feeling of my Cosens Wrongs,
And labour'd all I could to doe him right:
But in this kind, to come in brauing Armes,
Be his owne Caruer, and cut out his way,
To find out Right with Wrongs, it may not be;
And you that doe abett him in this kind,
Cherish Rebellion, and are Rebels all.
North.
The Noble Duke hath sworne his comming is
But for his owne: and for the right of that,
Wee all haue strongly sworne to giue him ayd,
And let him neu'r see Ioy, that breakes that Oath.
York.
Well, well, I see the issue of these Armes,
I cannot mend it, I must needs confesse,
Because my power is weake, and all ill left:
But if I could, by him that gaue me life,
I would attach you all, and make you stoope
Vnto the Soueraigne Mercy of the King.
But since I cannot, be it knowne to you,
I doe remaine as Neuter. So fare you well,
Vnlesse you please to enter in the Castle,
And there repose you for this Night.
Bull.
An offer Vnckle, that wee will accept:
But wee must winne your Grace to goe with vs
To Bristow Castle, which they say is held
By Bushie, Bagot, and ther Complices,
The Caterpillers of the Commonwealth,
Which I haue sworne to weed, and plucke away.
York.
It may be I will go with you: but yet Ile pawse,
For I am loth to breake our Countries Lawes:
Nor Friends, nor Foes, to me welcome you are,
Things past redresse, are now with me past care.
Exeunt.
Scœna Quarta.
[Act 2, Scene 4]
Enter Salisbury, and a Captaine.
Capt.
My Lord of Salisbury, we haue stayd ten dayes,
And hardly kept our Countreymen together,
And yet we heare no tidings from the King;
Therefore we will disperse our selues: farewell.
Sal.
Stay yet another day, thou trustie Welchman,
The King reposeth all his confidence in thee.
Capt.
'Tis thought the King is dead, we will not stay;
And Meteors fright the fixed Starres of Heauen;
The pale‑fac'd Moone lookes bloody on the Earth,
And leane‑look'd Prophets whisper fearefull change;
Rich men looke sad, and Ruffians dance and leape,
The one in feare, to loose what they enioy,
The other to enioy by Rage, and Warre:
These signes fore‑run the death of Kings.
Farewell, our Countreymen are gone and fled,
As well assur'd Richard their King is dead.
Exit.
Sal.
Ah Richard, with eyes of heauie mind,
I see thy Glory, like a shooting Starre,
Fall to the base Earth, from the Firmament:
Thy Sunne sets weeping in the lowly West,
Witnessing Stormes to come, Woe, and Vnrest:
Thy Friends are fled, to wait vpon thy Foes,
And crossely to thy good, all fortune goes.
Exit.
Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.
[Act 5, Scene 1]
Enter Queene, and Ladies.
Qu.
This way the King will come: this is the way
To Iulius Cæsars ill‑erected Tower:
To whose flint Bosome, my condemned Lord
Is doom'd a Prisoner, by prowd Bullingbrooke.
Here let vs rest, if this rebellious Earth
Haue any resting for her true Kings Queene.
Enter Richard, and Guard.
But soft, but see, or rather doe not see,
My faire Rose wither: yet looke vp; behold,
That you in pittie may dissolue to dew,
And wash him fresh againe with true‑loue Teares.
Ah thou, the Modell where old Troy did stand,
Thou Mappe of Honor, thou King Richards Tombe,
And not King Richard: thou most beauteous Inne,
When Triumph is become an Ale‑house Guest.
Rich.
Ioyne not with griefe, faire Woman, do not so,
To make my end too sudden: learne good Soule,
To thinke our former State a happie Dreame,
From which awak'd, the truth of what we are,
Shewes vs but this. I am sworne Brother (Sweet)
To grim Necessitie; and hee and I
Will keepe a League till Death. High thee to France,
And Cloyster thee in some Religious House:
Our holy liues must winne a new Worlds Crowne,
Which our prophane houres here haue stricken downe.
Qu.
What, is my Richard both in shape and minde
Transform'd, and weaken'd? Hath Bullingbrooke
Depos'd thine Intellect? hath he beene in thy Heart?
The Lyon dying, thrusteth forth his Paw,
And wounds the Earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o're‑powr'd: and wilt thou, Pupill‑like,
Take thy Correction mildly, kisse the Rodde,
And fawne on Rage with base Humilitie,
Which art a Lyon, and a King of Beasts?
Rich.
A King of Beasts indeed: if aught but Beasts,
I had beene still a happy King of Men.
Good (sometime Queene) prepare thee hence for France:
Thinke I am dead, and that euen here thou tak'st,
As from my Death‑bed, my last liuing leaue.
In Winters tedious Nights sit by the fire
With good old folkes, and let them tell thee Tales
Of wofull Ages, long agoe betide:
And ere thou bid good‑night, to quit their griefe,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their Beds:
For why? the sencelesse Brands will sympathize
The heauie accent of thy mouing Tongue,
And in compassion, weepe the fire out:
And some will mourne in ashes, some coale‑black,
For the deposing of a rightfull King.
Enter Northumberland.
North.
My Lord, the mind of Bullingbrooke is chang'd.
You must to Pomfret, not vnto the Tower.
And Madame, there is order ta'ne for you:
With all swift speed, you must away to France.
Rich.
Northumberland, thou Ladder wherewithall
The mounting Bullingbrooke ascends my Throne,
The time shall not be many houres of age,
More then it is, ere foule sinne, gathering head,
Shall breake into corruption: thou shalt thinke,
Though he diuide the Realme, and giue thee halfe,
It is too little, helping him to all:
He shall thinke, that thou which know'st the way
To plant vnrightfully Kings, wilt know againe,
Being ne're so little vrg'd another way,
To pluck him headlong from the vsurped Throne.
The Loue of wicked friends conuerts to Feare;
That Feare, to Hate; and Hate turnes one, or both,
To worthie Danger, and deserued Death.
North.
My guilt be on my Head, and there an end:
Take leaue, and part, for you must part forthwith.
Rich.
Doubly diuorc'd? (bad men) ye violate
A two‑fold Marriage; 'twixt my Crowne, and me,
And then betwixt me, and my marryed Wife.
Let me vn‑kisse the Oath 'twixt thee, and me;
And yet not so, for with a Kisse 'twas made.
Part vs, Northumerland: I, towards the North,
Where shiuering Cold and Sicknesse pines the Clyme:
My Queene to France: from whence, set forth in pompe,
She came adorned hither like sweet May;
Sent back like Hollowmas, or short'st of day.
Qu.
And must we be diuided? must we part?
Rich.
I, hand from hand (my Loue) and heart frōfrom heart.
Qu.
Banish vs both, and send the King with me.
North.
That were some Loue, but little Pollicy.
Qu.
Then whither he goes, thither let me goe.
Rich.
So two together weeping, make one Woe.
Weepe thou for me in France; I, for thee heere:
Better farre off, then neere, be ne're the neere.
Goe, count thy Way with Sighes; I, mine with Groanes.
Qu.
So longest Way shall haue the longest Moanes.
Rich.
Twice for one step Ile groane, yͤ Way being short,
And peece the Way out with a heauie heart.
Come, come, in wooing Sorrow let's be briefe,
Since wedding it, there is such length in Griefe:
One Kisse shall stop our mouthes, and dumbely part;
Thus giue I mine, and thus take I thy heart.
Qu.
Giue me mine owne againe: 'twere no good part,
To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart.
So, now I haue mine owne againe, be gone,
That I may striue to kill it with a groane.
Rich.
We make Woe wanton with this fond delay:
Once more adieu; the rest, let Sorrow say.
Exeunt.
Scœna Secunda.
[Act 5, Scene 2]
Enter Yorke, and his Duchesse.
Duch.
My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest,
When weeping made you breake the story off,
Of our two Cousins comming into London.
Yorke.
Where did I leaue?
Duch.
At that sad stoppe, my Lord,
Where rude mis‑gouern'd hands, from Windowes tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on King Richards head.
d3
Yorke. Then
The Life and Death of Richard the Second.
Yorke.
Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bullingbrooke,
Mounted vpon a hot and fierie Steed,
Which his aspiring Rider seem'd to know,
With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course:
While all tongues cride, God saue thee Bullingbrooke.
You would haue thought the very windowes spake,
So many greedy lookes of yong and old,
Through Casements darted their desiring eyes
Vpon his visage: and that all the walles,
With painted Imagery had said at once,
Iesu preserue thee, welcom Bullingbrooke.
Whil'st he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare‑headed, lower then his proud Steeds necke,
Bespake them thus: I thanke you Countrimen:
And thus still doing, thus he past along.
Dutch.
Alas poore Richard, where rides he the whilst?
Yorke.
As in a Theater, the eyes of men
After a well grac'd actor leaues the Stage,
Are idlely bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:
Euen so, or with much more contempt, mens eyes
Did scowle on Richard: no man cride, God saue him:
No ioyfull tongue gaue him his welcome home,
But dust was throwne vpon his Sacred head,
Which with such gentle sorrow he shooke off,
His face still combating with teares and smiles
(The badges of his greefe and patience)
That had not God (for some strong purpose) steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce haue melted,
And Barbarisme it selfe haue pittied him.
But heauen hath a hand in these euents,
To whose high will we bound our calme contents.
To Bullingbrooke, are we sworne Subiects now,
Whose State, and Honor, I for aye allow.
Enter Aumerle.
Dut.
Heere comes my sonne Aumerle.
Yor.
Aumerle that was,
But that is lost, for being Richards Friend.
And Madam, you must call him Rutland now:
I am in Parliament pledge for his truth,
And lasting fealtie to the new‑made King.
Dut.
Welcome my sonne: who are the Violets now,
That strew the greene lap of the new‑come Spring?
Aum.
Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not,
God knowes, I had as liefe be none, as one.
Yorke.
Well, beare you well in this new‑spring of time
Least you be cropt before you come to prime.
What newes from Oxford? Hold those Iusts & Triumphs?
Aum.
For ought I know my Lord, they do.
Yorks.
You will be there I know.
Aum.
If God preuent not, I purpose so.
Yor.
What Seale is that that hangs without thy bosom?
Yea, look'st thou pale? Let me see the Writing.
Aum.
My Lord, 'tis nothing.
Yorke.
No matter then who sees it,
I will be satisfied, let me see the Writing.
Aum.
I do beseech your Grace to pardon me,
It is a matter of small consequence,
Which for some reasons I would not haue seene.
Yorke.
Which for some reasons sir, I meane to see:
I feare, I feare.
Dut.
What should you feare?
'Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter'd into
For gay apparrell, against the Triumph.
Yorke.
Bound to himselfe? What doth he with a Bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a foole.
Boy, let me see the Writing.
Aum.
I do beseech you pardon me, I may not shew it.
Yor.
I will be satisfied: let me see it I say.
Snatches it
Treason, foule Treason, Villaine, Traitor, Slaue.
Dut.
What's the matter, my Lord?
Yorke.
Hoa, who's within there? Saddle my horse.
Heauen for his mercy: what treachery is heere?
Dut.
Why, what is't my Lord?
Yorke.
Giue me my boots, I say: Saddle my horse:
Now by my Honor, my life, my troth,
I will appeach the Villaine.
Dut.
What is the matter?
Yorke.
Peace foolish Woman.
Dut.
I will not peace. What is the matter Sonne?
Aum.
Good Mother be content, it is no more
Then my poore life must answer.
Dut.
Thy life answer?
Enter Seruant with Boots.
Yor.
Bring me my Boots, I will vnto the King.
Dutt.
Strike him Aumerle. Poore boy, yu rt aamaz'd,
Hence Villaine, neuer more come in my sight.
Yor.
Giue me my Boots, I say.
Dut.
Why Yorke, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the Trespasse of thine owne?
Haue we more Sonnes? Or are we like to haue?
Is not my teeming date drunke vp with time?
And wilt thou plucke my faire Sonne from mine Age,
And rob me of a happy Mothers name?
Is he not like thee? Is he not thine owne?
Yor.
Thou fond mad woman:
Wilt thou conceale this darke Conspiracy?
A dozen of them heere haue tane the Sacrament,
And interchangeably set downe their hands
To kill the King at Oxford.
Dut.
He shall be none:
Wee'l keepe him heere: then what is that to him?
Yor.
Away fond woman: were hee twenty times my
Son, I would appeach him.
Dut.
Hadst thou groan'd for him as I haue done,
Thou wouldest be more pittifull:
But now I know thy minde; thou do'st suspect
That I haue bene disloyall to thy bed,
And that he is a Bastard, not thy Sonne:
Sweet Yorke, sweet husband, be not of that minde:
He is as like thee, as a man may bee,
Not like to me, nor any of my Kin,
And yet I loue him.
Yorke.
Make way, vnruly Woman.
Exit
Dut.
After Aumerle. Mount thee vpon his horse,
Spurre post, and get before him to the King,
And begge thy pardon, ere he do accuse thee,
Ile not be long behind: though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as Yorke:
And neuer will I rise vp from the ground,
Till Bullingbrooke haue pardon'd thee: Away be gone.
Exit
Scœna Tertia.
[Act 5, Scene 3]
Enter Bullingbrooke, Percie, and other Lords.
Bul.
Can no man tell of my vnthriftie Sonne?
'Tis full three monthes since I did see him last.
If any plague hang ouer vs, 'tis he,
I would to heauen (my Lords) he might be found:
Enquire at London, 'mongst the Tauernes there:
For
The Life and Death of Richard the Second.
For there (they say) he dayly doth frequent,
With vnrestrained loose Companions,
Euen such (they say) as stand in narrow Lanes,
And rob our Watch, and beate our passengers,
Which he, yong wanton, and effeminate Boy
Takes on the point of Honor, to support
So dissolute a crew.
Per.
My Lord, some two dayes since I saw the Prince,
And told him of these Triumphes held at Oxford.
Bul.
And what said the Gallant?
Per.
His answer was: he would vnto the Stewes,
And from the common'st creature plucke a Gloue
And weare it as a fauour, and with that
He would vnhorse the lustiest Challenger.
Bul.
As dissolute as desp'rate, yet through both,
I see some sparkes of better hope: which elder dayes
May happily bring forth. But who comes heere?
Enter Aumerle.
Aum.
Where is the King?
Bul.
What meanes our Cosin, that hee stares
And lookes so wildely?
Aum.
God saue your Grace. I do beseech your Maiesty
To haue some conference with your Grace alone.
Bul.
Withdraw your selues, and leaue vs here alone:
What is the matter with our Cosin now?
Aum.
For euer may my knees grow to the earth,
My tongue cleaue to my roofe within my mouth,
Vnlesse a Pardon, ere I rise, or speake.
Bul.
Intended, or committed was this fault?
If on the first, how heynous ere it bee,
To win thy after loue, I pardon thee.
Aum.
Then giue me leaue, that I may turne the key,
That no man enter, till my tale me done.
Bul.
Haue thy desire.
Yorke within.
Yor.
My Liege beware, looke to thy selfe,
Thou hast a Traitor in thy presence there.
Bul.
Villaine, Ile make thee safe.
Aum.
Stay thy reuengefull hand, thou hast no cause
to feare.
Yorke.
Open the doore, secure foole‑hardy King:
Shall I for loue speake treason to thy face?
Open the doore, or I will breake it open.
Enter Yorke.
Bul.
What is the matter (Vnkle) speak, recouer breath,
Tell vs how neere is danger,
That we many arme vs to encounter it.
Yor.
Peruse this writing heere, and thou shalt know
The reason that my haste forbids me show.
Aum.
Remember as thou read'st, thy promise past:
I do repent me, reade not my name there,
My heart is not confederate with my hand.
Yor.
It was (villaine) ere thy hand did set it downe.
I tore it from the Traitors bosome, King.
Feare, and not Loue, begets his penitence;
Forget to pitty him, least thy pitty proue
A Serpent, that will sting thee to the heart.
Bul.
Oh heinous, strong, and bold Conspiracie,
O loyall Father of a treacherous Sonne:
Thou sheere, immaculate, and siluer fountaine,
From whence this streame, through muddy passages
Hath had his current, and defil'd himselfe.
Thy ouerflow of good, conuerts to bad,
And thy abundant goodnesse shall excuse
This deadly blot, in thy digressing sonne.
Yorke.
So shall my Vertue be his Vices bawd,
And he shall spend mine Honour, with his Shame;
As thriftlesse Sonnes, their scraping Fathers Gold.
Mine honor liues, when his dishonor dies,
Or my sham'd life, in his dishonor lies:
Thou kill'st me in his life, giuing him breath,
The Traitor liues, the true man's put to death.
Dutchesse within.
Dut.
What hoa (my Liege) for heauens sake let me in.
Bul.
What shrill‑voic'd Suppliant, makes this eager cry?
Dut.
A woman, and thine Aunt (great King) 'tis I.
Speake with me, pitty me, open the dore,
A Begger begs, that neuer begg'd before.
Bul.
Our Scene is alter'd from a serious thing,
And now chang'd to the Begger, and the King.
My dangerous Cosin, let your Mother in,
I know she's come, to pray for your foule sin.
Yorke.
If thou do pardon, whosoeuer pray,
More sinnes for this forgiuenesse, prosper may.
This fester'd ioynt cut off, the rest rests sound,
This let alone, will all the rest confound.
Enter Dutchesse.
Dut.
O King, beleeue not this hard‑hearted man,
Loue, louing not it selfe, none other can.
Yor.
Thou franticke woman, what dost yu make here,
Shall thy old dugges, once more a Traitor reare?
Dut.
Sweet Yorke be patient, heare me gentle Liege.
Bul.
Rise vp good Aunt.
Dut.
Not yet, I thee beseech.
For euer will I kneele vpon my knees,
And neuer see day, that the happy sees,
Till thou giue ioy: vntill thou bid me ioy.
By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing Boy.
Aum.
Vnto my mothers prayres, I bend my knee.
Yorke.
Against them both, my true ioynts bended be.
Dut.
Pleades he in earnest? Looke vpon his Face,
His eyes do drop no teares: his prayres are in iest:
His words come from his mouth, ours from our brest.
He prayes but faintly, and would be denide,
We pray with heart, and soule, and all beside:
His weary ioynts would gladly rise, I know,
Our knees shall kneele, till to the ground they grow:
His prayers are full of false hypocrisie,
Ours of true zeale, and deepe integritie:
Our prayers do out‑pray his, then let them haue
That mercy, which true prayers ought to haue.
Bul.
Good Aunt stand vp.
Dut.
Nay, do not say stand vp.
But Pardon first, and afterwards stand vp.
And if I were thy Nurse, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon should be the first word of thy speach.
I neuer long'd to heare a word till now:
Say Pardon (King,) let pitty teach thee how.
The word is short: but not so short as sweet,
No word like Pardon, for Kings mouth's so meet.
York.
Speake it in French (King) say Pardon'ne moy.
Dut.
Dost thou teach pardon, Pardon to destroy?
Ah my sowre husband, my hard‑hearted Lord,
That set's the word it selfe, against the word.
Speake Pardon, as 'tis currant in our Land,
The chopping French we do not vnderstand.
Thine eye begins to speake, set thy tongue there,
Or in thy pitteous heart, plant thou thine eare,
That hearing how our plaints and prayres do pearce,
Pitty may moue thee, Pardon to rehearse.
Bul.
Good Aunt, stand vp.
Dut.
I do not sue to stand,
Pardon is all the suite I haue in hand.
Bul.
The Life and Death of Richard the Second.
Bul.
I pardon him, as heauen shall pardon mee.
Dut.
O happy vantage of a kneeling knee:
Yet am I sicke for feare: Speake it againe,
Twice saying Pardon, doth not pardon twaine,
But makes one pardon strong.
Bul.
I pardon him with all my hart.
Dut.
A God on earth thou art.
Bul.
But for our trusty brother‑in‑Law, the Abbot,
With all the rest of that consorted crew,
Destruction straight shall dogge them at the heeles:
Good Vnckle helpe order seuerall powres
To Oxford, or where ere these Traitors are:
They shall not liue within this world I sweare,
But I will haue them, if I once know where.
Vnckle farewell, and Cosin adieu:
Your mother well hath praid, and proue you true.
Dut.
Come my old son, I pray heauen make thee new.
Exeunt.
[Act 5, Scene 4]
Enter Exton and Seruants.
Ext.
Didst thou not marke the King what words hee
spake?
Haue I no friend will rid me of this liuing feare:
Was it not so?
Ser.
Those were his very words.
Ex.
Haue I no Friend? (quoth he:) he spake it twice,
And vrg'd it twice together, did he not?
Ser.
He did.
Ex.
And speaking it, he wistly look'd on me,
As who should say, I would thou wer't the man
That would diuorce this terror from my heart,
Meaning the King at Pomfret: Come, let's goe;
I am the Kings Friend, and will rid his Foe.
Exit.
Scæna Quarta.
[Act 5, Scene 4]
Enter Richard.
Rich.
I haue bin studying, how to compare
This Prison where I liue, vnto the World:
And for because the world is populous,
And heere is not a Creature, but my selfe,
I cannot do it: yet Ile hammer't out.
My Braine, Ile proue the Female to my Soule,
My Soule, the Father: and these two beget
A generation of still breeding Thoughts;
And these same Thoughts, people this Little World
In humors, like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented. The better sort,
As thoughts of things Diuine, are intermixt
With scruples, and do set the Faith it selfe
Against the Faith: as thus: Come litle ones: & then again,
It is as hard to come, as for a Camell
To thred the posterne of a Needles eye.
Thoughts tending to Ambition, they do plot
Vnlikely wonders; how these vaine weake nailes
May teare a passage through the Flinty ribbes
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walles:
And for they cannot, dye in their owne pride.
Thoughts tending to Content, flatter themselues,
That they are not the first of Fortunes slaues,
Nor shall not be the last. Like silly Beggars,
Who sitting in the Stockes, refuge their shame
That many haue, and others must sit there;
And in this Thought, they finde a kind of ease,
Bearing their owne misfortune on the backe
Of such as haue before indur'd the like.
Thus play I in one Prison, many people,
And none contented. Sometimes am I King;
Then Treason makes me wish my selfe a Beggar,
And so I am. Then crushing penurie,
Perswades me, I was better when a King:
Then am I king'd againe: and by and by,
Thinke that I am vn‑king'd by Bullingbrooke,
And straight am nothing. But what ere I am,
Musick
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
With being nothing. Musicke do I heare?
Ha, ha? keepe time: How sowre sweet Musicke is,
When Time is broke, and no Proportion kept?
So is it in the Musicke of mens liues:
And heere haue I the daintinesse of eare,
To heare time broke in a disorder'd string:
But for the Concord of my State and Time,
Had not an eare to heare my true Time broke.
I wasted Time, and now doth Time waste me:
For now hath Time made me his numbring clocke;
My Thoughts, are minutes; and with Sighes they iarre,
Their watches on vnto mine eyes, the outward Watch,
Whereto my finger, like a Dialls point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from teares.
Now sir, the sound that tels what houre it is,
Are clamorous groanes, that strike vpon my heart,
Which is the bell: so Sighes, and Teares, and Grones,
Shew Minutes, Houres, and Times: but my Time
Runs poasting on, in Bullingbrookes proud ioy,
While I stand fooling heere, his iacke o'th'Clocke.
This Musicke mads me, let it sound no more,
For though it haue holpe madmen to their wits,
In me it seemes, it will make wise‑men mad:
Yet blessing on his heart that giues it me;
For 'tis a signe of loue, and loue to Richard,
Is a strange Brooch, in this all‑hating world.
Enter Groome.
Groo.
Haile Royall Prince.
Rich.
Thankes Noble Peere,
The cheapest of vs, is ten groates too deere.
What are thou? And how com'st thou hither?
Where no man euer comes, but that sad dogge
That brings me food, to make misfortune liue?
Groo.
I was poore Groome of thy Stable (King)
When thou wer't King: who trauelling towards Yorke,
With much adoo, at length haue gotten leaue
To looke vpon my (sometimes Royall) masters face.
O how it yern'd my heart, when I beheld
In London streets, that Coronation day,
When Bullingbrooke rode on Roane Barbary,
that horse, that thou so often hast bestrid,
That horse, that I so carefully haue drest.
Rich.
Rode he on Barbary? Tell me gentle Friend,
How went he vnder him?
Groo.
So proudly, as if he had disdain'd the ground.
Rich.
So proud, that Bullingbrooke was on his backe;
That Iade hath eate bread from my Royall hand.
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Would he not stumble? Would he not fall downe
(Since Pride must haue a fall) and breake the necke
Of that proud man, that did vsurpe his backe?
Forgiuenesse horse: Why do I raile on thee,
Since thou created to be aw'd by man
Was't borne to beare? I was not made a horse,
And
The Life and Death of Richard the Second.
And yet I beare a burthen like an Asse,
Spur‑gall'd, and tyrd by iauncing Bullingbrooke.
Enter Keeper with a Dish.
Keep.
Fellow, giue place, heere is no longer stay.
Rich.
If thou loue me, 'tis time thou wer't away.
Groo.
What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall
say.
Exit.
Keep.
My Lord, wilt please you to fall too?
Rich.
Taste of it first, as thou wer't wont to doo.
Keep.
My Lord I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton,
Who lately came from th'King, commands the contrary.
Rich.
The diuell take Henrie of Lancaster, and thee;
Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.
Keep.
Helpe, helpe, helpe.
Enter Exton and Seruants.
Ri.
How now? what meanes Death in this rude assalt?
Villaine, thine owne hand yeelds thy deaths instrument,
Go thou and fill another roome in hell.
Exton strikes him downe.
That hand shall burne in neuer‑quenching fire,
That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand,
Hath with the Kings blood, stain'd the Kings own land.
Mount, mount my soule, thy seate is vp on high,
Whil'st my grosse flesh sinkes downward, heere to dye.
Exton.
As full of Valor, as of Royall blood,
Both haue I spilt: Oh would the deed were good.
For now the diuell, that told me I did well,
Sayes, that this deede is chronicled in hell.
This dead King to the liuing King Ile beare,
Take hence the rest, and giue them buriall heere.
Exit.
Scœna Quinta.
[Act 5, Scene 6]
Flourish. Enter Bullingbrooke, Yorke, with
other Lords & attendants.
Bul.
Kinde Vnkle Yorke, the latest newes we heare,
Is that the Rebels haue consum'd with fire
Our Towne of Ciceter in Gloucestershire,
But whether they be tane or slaine, we heare not.
Enter Northumberland.
Welcome my Lord: What is the newes?
Nor.
First to thy Sacred State, wish I all happinesse:
The next newes is, I haue to London sent
The heads of Salsbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent:
The manner of their taking may appeare
At large discoursed in this paper heere.
Bul.
We thank thee gentle Percy for thy paines,
And to thy worth will adde right worthy gaines.
Enter Fitz‑waters.
Fitz.
My Lord, I haue from Oxford sent to London,
The heads of Broccas, and Sir Bennet Seely,
Two of the dangerous consorted Traitors,
That sought at Oxford, thy dire ouerthrow.
Bul.
Thy paines Fitzwaters shall not be forgot,
Right Noble is thy merit, well I wot.
Enter Percy and Carlile.
Per.
The grand Conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,
With clog of Conscience, and sowre Melancholly,
Hath yeelded vp his body to the graue:
But heere is Carlile, liuing to abide
Thy Kingly doome, and sentence of his pride.
Bul.
Carlile, this is your doome:
Choose out some secret place, some reuerend roome
More then thou hast, and with it ioy thy life:
So as thou liu'st in peace, dye free from strife:
For though mine enemy thou hast euer beene,
High sparkes of Honor in thee haue I seene.
Enter Exton with a Coffin.
Exton.
Great King, within this Coffin I present
Thy buried feare. Heerein all breathlesse lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies
Richard of Burdeaux, by me hither brought.
Bul.
Exton, I thanke thee not, for thou hast wrought
A deede of Slaughter, with thy fatall hand,
Vpon my head, and all this famous Land.
Ex.
From your owne mouth my Lord, did I this deed.
Bul.
They loue not poyson, that do poyson neede,
Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,
I hate the Murtherer, loue him murthered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word, nor Princely fauour.
With Caine go wander through the shade of night,
And neuer shew thy head by day, nor light.
Lords, I protest my soule is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me, to make me grow.
Come mourne with me, for that I do lament,
And put on sullen Blacke incontinent:
Ile make a voyage to the Holy‑land,
to wash this blood off from my guilty hand.
March sadly after, grace my mourning heere,
In weeping after this vntimely Beere.
Exeunt