William Shakespear

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
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ACT V. SCENE I.
Cyprus. A street.

Enter Iago and Roderigo:

  IAGO. Here, stand behind this bulk; straight will he come.
    Wear thy good rapier bare, and put it home.
    Quick, quick; fear nothing; I'll be at thy elbow.
    It makes us, or it mars us; think on that,
    And fix most firm thy resolution.
  RODERIGO. Be near at hand; I may miscarry in't.
  IAGO. Here, at thy hand, be bold, and take thy stand.
  Retires.
  RODERIGO. I have no great devotion to the deed;
    And yet he hath given me satisfying reasons.
    'Tis but a man gone. Forth, my sword; he dies.
  IAGO. I have rubb'd this young quat almost to the sense,
    And he grows angry. Now, whether he kill Cassio,
    Or Cassio him, or each do kill the other,
    Every way makes my gain. Live Roderigo,
    He calls me to a restitution large
    Of gold and jewels that I bobb'd from him,  
    As gifts to Desdemona;
    It must not be. If Cassio do remain,
    He hath a daily beauty in his life
    That makes me ugly; and besides, the Moor
    May unfold me to him; there stand I in much peril.
    No, he must die. Be't so. I hear him coming.

                            Enter Cassio.

  RODERIGO. I know his gait; 'tis he. Villain, thou diest!
                                              Makes a pass at Cassio.
  CASSIO. That thrust had been mine enemy indeed,
    But that my coat is better than thou know'st;
    I will make proof of thine.           Draws, and wounds Roderigo.
  RODERIGO.                     O, I am slain!
            Iago from behind wounds Cassio in the leg, and exit.
  CASSIO. I am maim'd forever. Help, ho! Murther! Murther!
    Falls.

                            Enter Othello.  

  OTHELLO. The voice of Cassio; Iago keeps his word.
  RODERIGO. O, villain that I am!
  OTHELLO.                        It is even so.
  CASSIO. O, help, ho! Light! A surgeon!
  OTHELLO. 'Tis he. O brave Iago, honest and just,
    That hast such noble sense of thy friend's wrong!
    Thou teachest me. Minion, your dear lies dead,
    And your unblest fate hies. Strumpet, I come!
    Forth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, are blotted;
    Thy bed lust-stain'd shall with lust's blood be spotted.
     Exit.

                     Enter Lodovico and Gratiano.

  CASSIO. What, ho! No watch? No passage? Murther! Murther!
  GRATIANO. 'Tis some mischance; the cry is very direful.
  CASSIO. O, help!
  LODOVICO. Hark!
  RODERIGO. O wretched villain!  
  LODOVICO. Two or three groan; it is a heavy night.
    These may be counterfeits; let's think't unsafe
    To come in to the cry without more help.
  RODERIGO. Nobody come? Then shall I bleed to death.
  LODOVICO. Hark!

                     Re-enter Iago, with a light.

  GRATIANO. Here's one comes in his shirt, with light and weapons.
  IAGO. Who's there? Whose noise is this that cries on murther?
  LODOVICO. We do not know.
  IAGO.                     Did not you hear a cry?
  CASSIO. Here, here! for heaven's sake, help me!
  IAGO.                                       What's the matter?
  GRATIANO. This is Othello's ancient, as I take it.
  LODOVICO. The same indeed; a very valiant fellow.
  IAGO. What are you here that cry so grievously?
  CASSIO. Iago? O, I am spoil'd, undone by villains!
    Give me some help.
  IAGO. O me, lieutenant! What villains have done this?  
  CASSIO. I think that one of them is hereabout,
    And cannot make away.
  IAGO.                   O treacherous villains!
    [To Lodovico and Gratiano.] What are you there?
    Come in and give some help.
  RODERIGO. O, help me here!
  CASSIO. That's one of them.
  IAGO.                       O murtherous slave! O villain!
                                                      Stabs Roderigo.
  RODERIGO. O damn'd Iago! O inhuman dog!
  IAGO. Kill men i' the dark! Where be these bloody thieves?
    How silent is this town! Ho! Murther! Murther!
    What may you be? Are you of good or evil?
  LODOVICO. As you shall prove us, praise us.
  IAGO. Signior Lodovico?
  LODOVICO. He, sir.
  IAGO. I cry you mercy. Here's Cassio hurt by villains.
  GRATIANO. Cassio?
  IAGO. How is't, brother?
  CASSIO. My leg is cut in two.  
  IAGO.                         Marry, heaven forbid!
    Light, gentlemen; I'll bind it with my shirt.

                            Enter Bianca.

  BIANCA. What is the matter, ho? Who is't that cried?
  IAGO. Who is't that cried?
  BIANCA. O my dear Cassio, my sweet Cassio! O Cassio, Cassio,
     Cassio!
  IAGO. O notable strumpet! Cassio, may you suspect
    Who they should be that have thus mangled you?
  CASSIO. No.
  GRATIANO. I am sorry to find you thus; I have been to seek you.
  IAGO. Lend me a garter. So. O, for a chair,
    To bear him easily hence!
  BIANCA. Alas, he faints! O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio!
  IAGO. Gentlemen all, I do suspect this trash
    To be a party in this injury.
    Patience awhile, good Cassio. Come, come;
    Lend me a light. Know we this face or no?  
    Alas, my friend and my dear countryman
    Roderigo? No- yes, sure. O heaven! Roderigo.
  GRATIANO. What, of Venice?
  IAGO. Even he, sir. Did you know him?
  GRATIANO.                             Know him! ay.
  IAGO. Signior Gratiano? I cry you gentle pardon;
    These bloody accidents must excuse my manners,
    That so neglected you.
  GRATIANO.                I am glad to see you.
  IAGO. How do you, Cassio? O, a chair, a chair!
  GRATIANO. Roderigo!
  IAGO. He, he, 'tis he. [A chair brought in.] O, that's well said:
      the chair.
    Some good man bear him carefully from hence;
    I'll fetch the general's surgeon. [To Bianca.] For you, mistress,
    Save you your labor. He that lies slain here, Cassio,
    Was my dear friend; what malice was between you?
  CASSIO. None in the world; nor do I know the man.
  IAGO. [To Bianca.] What, look you pale? O, bear him out o' the air.
                                   Cassio and Roderigo are borne off.  
    Stay you, good gentlemen. Look you pale, mistress?
    Do you perceive the gastness of her eye?
    Nay, if you stare, we shall hear more anon.
    Behold her well; I pray you, look upon her.
    Do you see, gentlemen? Nay, guiltiness will speak,
    Though tongues were out of use.

                            Enter Emilia.

  EMILIA. 'Las, what's the matter? What's the matter, husband?
  IAGO. Cassio hath here been set on in the dark
    By Roderigo, and fellows that are 'scaped;
    He's almost slain, and Roderigo dead.
  EMILIA. Alas, good gentleman! alas, good Cassio!
  IAGO. This is the fruit of whoring. Prithee, Emilia,
    Go know of Cassio where he supp'd tonight.
    What, do you shake at that?
  BIANCA. He supp'd at my house; but I therefore shake not.
  IAGO. O, did he so? I charge you, go with me.
  EMILIA. Fie, fie upon thee, strumpet!  
  BIANCA. I am no strumpet, but of life as honest
    As you that thus abuse me.
  EMILIA.                      As I! foh! fie upon thee!
  IAGO. Kind gentlemen, let's go see poor Cassio dress'd.
    Come, mistress, you must tell's another tale.
    Emilia, run you to the citadel,
    And tell my lord and lady what hath happ'd!
    Will you go on? [Aside.] This is the night
    That either makes me or fordoes me quite.                 Exeunt.




SCENE II.
A bedchamber in the castle. Desdemona in bed asleep; a light burning.

Enter Othello.

  OTHELLO. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul.
    Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!
    It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood,
    Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow
    And smooth as monumental alabaster.
    Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
    Put out the light, and then put out the light.
    If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
    I can again thy former light restore,
    Should I repent me; but once put out thy light,
    Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
    I know not where is that Promethean heat
    That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd the rose,
    I cannot give it vital growth again,
    It must needs wither; I'll smell it on the tree.      Kisses her.
    O, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
    Justice to break her sword! One more, one more;  
    Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
    And love thee after. One more, and this the last;
    So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,
    But they are cruel tears; this sorrow's heavenly,
    It strikes where it doth love. She wakes.
  DESDEMONA. Who's there? Othello?
  OTHELLO.                         Ay, Desdemona.
  DESDEMONA. Will you come to bed, my lord?
  OTHELLO. Have you pray'd tonight, Desdemona?
  DESDEMONA. Ay, my lord.
  OTHELLO. If you bethink yourself of any crime
    Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace,
    Solicit for it straight.
  DESDEMONA. Alas, my lord, what may you mean by that?
  OTHELLO. Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by.
    I would not kill thy unprepared spirit.
    No, heaven forfend! I would not kill thy soul.
  DESDEMONA. Talk you of killing?
  OTHELLO. Ay, I do.
  DESDEMONA. Then heaven have mercy on me!  
  OTHELLO. Amen, with all my heart!
  DESDEMONA. If you say so, I hope you will not kill me.
  OTHELLO. Hum!
  DESDEMONA. And yet I fear you, for you are fatal then
    When your eyes roll so. Why I should fear I know not,
    Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear.
  OTHELLO. Think on thy sins.
  DESDEMONA.                  They are loves I bear to you.
  OTHELLO. Ay, and for that thou diest.
  DESDEMONA. That death's unnatural that kills for loving.
    Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip?
    Some bloody passion shakes your very frame.
    These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope,
    They do not point on me.
  OTHELLO.                   Peace, and be still!
  DESDEMONA. I will so. What's the matter?
  OTHELLO. That handkerchief which I so loved and gave thee
    Thou gavest to Cassio.
  DESDEMONA.               No, by my life and soul!
    Send for the man, and ask him.  
  OTHELLO.                         Sweet soul, take heed,
    Take heed of perjury; thou are on thy deathbed.
  DESDEMONA. Ay, but not yet to die.
  OTHELLO.                           Yes, presently:
    Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin,
    For to deny each article with oath
    Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception
    That I do groan withal. Thou art to die.
  DESDEMONA. Then Lord have mercy on me!
  OTHELLO.                               I say, amen.
  DESDEMONA. And have you mercy too! I never did
    Offend you in my life; never loved Cassio
    But with such general warranty of heaven
    As I might love. I never gave him token.
  OTHELLO. By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in 's hand.
    O perjured woman! Thou dost stone my heart,
    And makest me call what I intend to do
    A murther, which I thought a sacrifice.
    I saw the handkerchief.
  DESDEMONA.                He found it then;  
    I never gave it him. Send for him hither;
    Let him confess a truth.
  OTHELLO.                   He hath confess'd.
  DESDEMONA. What, my lord?
  OTHELLO. That he hath used thee.
  DESDEMONA.                       How? unlawfully?
  OTHELLO. Ay.
  DESDEMONA. He will not say so.
  OTHELLO.                       No, his mouth is stopp'd;
    Honest Iago hath ta'en order for't.
  DESDEMONA. O, my fear interprets! What, is he dead?
  OTHELLO. Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge
    Had stomach for them all.
  DESDEMONA. Alas, he is betray'd, and I undone!
  OTHELLO. Out, strumpet! Weep'st thou for him to my face?
  DESDEMONA. O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not!
  OTHELLO. Down, strumpet!
  DESDEMONA. Kill me tomorrow; let me live tonight!
  OTHELLO. Nay, if you strive-
  DESDEMONA. But half an hour!  
  OTHELLO.                     Being done, there is no pause.
  DESDEMONA. But while I say one prayer!
  OTHELLO.                        It is too late.     He stifles her.
  EMILIA. [Within.] My lord, my lord! What, ho! my lord, my lord!
  OTHELLO. What noise is this? Not dead? not yet quite dead?
    I that am cruel am yet merciful;
    I would not have thee linger in thy pain.
    So, so.
  EMILIA. [Within.] What, ho! my lord, my lord!
  OTHELLO.                                      Who's there?
  EMILIA. [Within.] O, good my lord, I would speak a word with you!
  OTHELLO. Yes, 'tis Emilia. By and by. She's dead.
    'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death.
    The noise was here. Ha! no more moving?
    Still as the grave. Shall she come in? were't good?
    I think she stirs again. No. What's best to do?
    If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife.
    My wife! My wife! What wife? I have no wife.
    O, insupportable! O heavy hour!
    Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse  
    Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe
    Should yawn at alteration.
  EMILIA. [Within.] I do beseech you
    That I may speak with you, O, good my lord!
  OTHELLO. I had forgot thee. O, come in, Emilia.
    Soft, by and by. Let me the curtains draw.
    Where art thou?                                 Unlocks the door.

                            Enter Emilia.

                    What's the matter with thee now?
  EMILIA. O, my good lord, yonder's foul murthers done!
  OTHELLO. What, now?
  EMILIA. But now, my lord.
  OTHELLO. It is the very error of the moon;
    She comes more nearer earth than she was wont
    And makes men mad.
  EMILIA. Cassio, my lord, hath kill'd a young Venetian
    Call'd Roderigo.
  OTHELLO.           Roderigo kill'd?  
    And Cassio kill'd?
  EMILIA.              No, Cassio is not kill'd.
  OTHELLO. Not Cassio kill'd! Then murther's out of tune,
    And sweet revenge grows harsh.
  DESDEMONA. O, falsely, falsely murther'd!
  EMILIA.                                   Alas, what cry is that?
  OTHELLO. That? what?
  EMILIA. Out, and alas! That was my lady's voice.
    Help! help, ho! help! O lady, speak again!
    Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak!
  DESDEMONA. A guiltless death I die.
  EMILIA. O, who hath done this deed?
  DESDEMONA. Nobody; I myself. Farewell;
    Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell!                    Dies.
  OTHELLO. Why, how should she be murther'd?
  EMILIA.                                    Alas, who knows?
  OTHELLO. You heard her say herself, it was not I.
  EMILIA. She said so; I must needs report the truth.
  OTHELLO. She's like a liar gone to burning hell;
    'Twas I that kill'd her.  
  EMILIA.                    O, the more angel she,
    And you the blacker devil!
  OTHELLO. She turn'd to folly, and she was a whore.
  EMILIA. Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil.
  OTHELLO. She was false as water.
  EMILIA.                          Thou art rash as fire, to say
    That she was false. O, she was heavenly true!
  OTHELLO. Cassio did top her; ask thy husband else.
    O, I were damn'd beneath all depth in hell,
    But that I did proceed upon just grounds
    To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all.
  EMILIA. My husband?
  OTHELLO. Thy husband.
  EMILIA. That she was false to wedlock?
  OTHELLO. Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true,
    If heaven would make me such another world
    Of one entire and perfect chrysolite,
    I'ld not have sold her for it.
  EMILIA.                          My husband?
  OTHELLO. Ay, 'twas he that told me first.  
    An honest man he is, and hates the slime
    That sticks on filthy deeds.
  EMILIA.                        My husband?
  OTHELLO. What needs this iteration, woman? I say thy husband.
  EMILIA. O mistress, villainy hath made mocks with love!
    My husband say that she was false!
  OTHELLO.                             He, woman;
    I say thy husband. Dost understand the word?
    My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago.
  EMILIA. If he say so, may his pernicious soul
    Rot half a grain a day! He lies to the heart.
    She was too fond of her most filthy bargain.
  OTHELLO. Ha!
  EMILIA. Do thy worst;
    This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven
    Than thou wast worthy her.
  OTHELLO.                     Peace, you were best.
  EMILIA. Thou hast not half that power to do me harm
    As I have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt!
    As ignorant as dirt! Thou hast done a deed-  
    I care not for thy sword; I'll make thee known,
    Though I lost twenty lives. Help! help, ho! help!
    The Moor hath kill'd my mistress! Murther, murther!

              Enter Montano, Gratiano, Iago, and others.

  MONTANO. What is the matter? How now, general?
  EMILIA. O, are you come, Iago? You have done well,
    That men must lay their murthers on your neck.
  GRATIANO. What is the matter?
  EMILIA. Disprove this villain, if thou be'st a man.
    He says thou told'st him that his wife was false;
    I know thou didst not, thou'rt not such a villain.
    Speak, for my heart is full.
  IAGO. I told him what I thought, and told no more
    Than what he found himself was apt and true.
  EMILIA. But did you ever tell him she was false?
  IAGO. I did.
  EMILIA. You told a lie, an odious, damned lie;
    Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie!  
    She false with Cassio? Did you say with Cassio?
  IAGO. With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm your tongue.
  EMILIA. I will not charm my tongue; I am bound to speak.
    My mistress here lies murther'd in her bed-
  ALL. O heavens forfend!
  EMILIA. And your reports have set the murther on.
  OTHELLO. Nay, stare not, masters; it is true indeed.
  GRATIANO. 'Tis a strange truth.
  MONTANO. O monstrous act!
  EMILIA.                   Villainy, villainy, villainy!
    I think upon't, I think, I smell't, O villainy!
    I thought so then. I'll kill myself for grief.
    O villainy, villainy!
  IAGO. What, are you mad? I charge you, get you home.
  EMILIA. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak;
    'Tis proper I obey him, but not now.
    Perchance, Iago, I will ne'er go home.
  OTHELLO. O! O! O!                                 Falls on the bed.
  EMILIA.           Nay, lay thee down and roar;
    For thou hast kill'd the sweetest innocent  
    That e'er did lift up eye.
  OTHELLO.            [Rises.] O, she was foul!
    I scarce did know you, uncle; there lies your niece,
    Whose breath indeed these hands have newly stopp'd.
    I know this act shows horrible and grim.
  GRATIANO. Poor Desdemon! I am glad thy father's dead.
    Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief
    Shore his old thread in twain; did he live now,
    This sight would make him do a desperate turn,
    Yea, curse his better angel from his side,
    And fall to reprobation.
  OTHELLO. 'Tis pitiful, but yet Iago knows
    That she with Cassio hath the act of shame
    A thousand times committed. Cassio confess'd it,
    And she did gratify his amorous works
    With that recognizance and pledge of love
    Which I first gave her. I saw it in his hand,
    It was a handkerchief, an antique token
    My father gave my mother.
  EMILIA. O heaven! O heavenly powers!  
  IAGO. 'Zounds! Hold your peace.
  EMILIA.                         'Twill out, 'twill. I peace?
    No, I will speak as liberal as the north;
    Let heaven and men and devils, let them all,
    All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.
  IAGO. Be wise, and get you home.
  EMILIA.                          I will not.
                                          Iago offers to stab Emilia.
  GRATIANO.                                    Fie!
    Your sword upon a woman?
  EMILIA. O thou dull Moor! That handkerchief thou speak'st of
    I found by fortune and did give my husband,
    For often with a solemn earnestness,
    More than indeed belong'd to such a trifle,
    He begg'd of me to steal it.
  IAGO.                          Villainous whore!
  EMILIA. She give it Cassio? No, alas, I found it,
    And I did give't my husband.
  IAGO.                          Filth, thou liest!
  EMILIA. By heaven, I do not, I do not, gentlemen.  
    O murtherous coxcomb! What should such a fool
    Do with so good a wife?
  OTHELLO.                  Are there not stones in heaven
    But what serve for thunder? Precious villain!
                                         He runs at Iago, but Montano
                                      disarms him. Iago stabs Emilia.
  GRATIANO. The woman falls; sure, he hath kill'd his wife.
  EMILIA. Ay, ay! O, lay me by my mistress' side.          Exit Iago.
  GRATIANO. He's gone, but his wife's kill'd.
  MONTANO. 'Tis a notorious villain. Take you this weapon,
    Which I have here recover'd from the Moor.
    Come, guard the door without; let him not pass,
    But kill him rather. I'll after that same villain,
    For 'tis a damned slave.       Exeunt all but Othello and Emilia.
  OTHELLO.                   I am not valiant neither,
    But every puny whipster gets my sword.
    But why should honor outlive honesty?
    Let it go all.
  EMILIA.          What did thy song bode, lady?
    Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan,  
    And die in music. [Sings.] "Willow, willow, willow."
    Moor, she was chaste; she loved thee, cruel Moor;
    So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true;
    So speaking as I think, I die, I die.                       Dies.
  OTHELLO. I have another weapon in this chamber;
    It is a sword of Spain, the ice-brook's temper-
    O, here it is. Uncle, I must come forth.
  GRATIANO. [Within.] If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear.
    Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer.
  OTHELLO. Look in upon me then, and speak with me,
    Or, naked as I am, I will assault thee.

                          Re-enter Gratiano.

  GRATIANO. What is the matter?
  OTHELLO.                      Behold, I have a weapon;
    A better never did itself sustain
    Upon a soldier's thigh. I have seen the day
    That with this little arm and this good sword
    I have made my way through more impediments  
    Than twenty times your stop. But, O vain boast!
    Who can control his fate? 'Tis not so now.
    Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon'd;
    Here is my journey's end, here is my butt
    And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.
    Do you go back dismay'd? 'Tis a lost fear.
    Man but a rush against Othello's breast,
    And he retires. Where should Othello go?
    Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starr'd wench!
    Pale as thy smock! When we shall meet at compt,
    This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,
    And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl?
    Even like thy chastity. O cursed, cursed slave!
    Whip me, ye devils,
    From the possession of this heavenly sight!
    Blow me about in winds! Roast me in sulphur!
    Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!
    O Desdemon! dead, Desdemon! dead!
    O! O! O!
  
         Enter Lodovico, Montano, Cassio carried in a chair,
                  and Officers with Iago, prisoner.

  LODOVICO. Where is this rash and most unfortunate man?
  OTHELLO. That's he that was Othello. Here I am.
  LODOVICO. Where is that viper? Bring the villain forth.
  OTHELLO. I look down towards his feet; but that's a fable.
    If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee.      Wounds Iago.
  LODOVICO. Wrench his sword from him.
  IAGO.                                I bleed, sir, but not kill'd.
  OTHELLO. I am not sorry neither. I'ld have thee live,
    For, in my sense, 'tis happiness to die.
  LODOVICO. O thou Othello, that wert once so good,
    Fall'n in the practice of a damned slave,
    What shall be said to thee?
  OTHELLO.                      Why, anything;
    An honorable murtherer, if you will,
    For nought did I in hate, but all in honor.
  LODOVICO. This wretch hath part confess'd his villainy.
    Did you and he consent in Cassio's death?  
  OTHELLO. Ay.
  CASSIO. Dear general, I never gave you cause.
  OTHELLO. I do believe it, and I ask your pardon.
    Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil
    Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body?
  IAGO. Demand me nothing; what you know, you know.
    From this time forth I never will speak word.
  LODOVICO. What, not to pray?
  GRATIANO.                    Torments will ope your lips.
  OTHELLO. Well, thou dost best.
  LODOVICO. Sir, you shall understand what hath befall'n,
    Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter
    Found in the pocket of the slain Roderigo,
    And here another. The one of them imports
    The death of Cassio to be undertook
    By Roderigo.
  OTHELLO. O villain!
  CASSIO.             Most heathenish and most gross!
  LODOVICO. Now here's another discontented paper,
    Found in his pocket too; and this, it seems,  
    Roderigo meant to have sent this damned villain;
    But that, belike, Iago in the interim
    Came in and satisfied him.
  OTHELLO.                     O the pernicious caitiff!
    How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief
    That was my wife's?
  CASSIO.               I found it in my chamber;
    And he himself confess'd but even now
    That there he dropp'd it for a special purpose
    Which wrought to his desire.
  OTHELLO.                       O fool! fool! fool!
  CASSIO. There is besides in Roderigo's letter,
    How he upbraids Iago, that he made him
    Brave me upon the watch, whereon it came
    That I was cast. And even but now he spake
    After long seeming dead, Iago hurt him,
    Iago set him on.
  LODOVICO. You must forsake this room, and go with us.
    Your power and your command is taken off,
    And Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave,  
    If there be any cunning cruelty
    That can torment him much and hold him long,
    It shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest,
    Till that the nature of your fault be known
    To the Venetian state. Come, bring away.
  OTHELLO. Soft you; a word or two before you go.
    I have done the state some service, and they know't.
    No more of that. I pray you, in your letters,
    When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
    Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
    Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak
    Of one that loved not wisely but too well;
    Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
    Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand,
    Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away
    Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes,
    Albeit unused to the melting mood,
    Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees
    Their medicinal gum. Set you down this;
    And say besides, that in Aleppo once,  
    Where a malignant and a turban'd Turk
    Beat a Venetian and traduced the state,
    I took by the throat the circumcised dog
    And smote him, thus.                               Stabs himself.
  LODOVICO. O bloody period!
  GRATIANO.                  All that's spoke is marr'd.
  OTHELLO. I kiss'd thee ere I kill'd thee. No way but this,
    Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.
                                          Falls on the bed, and dies.
  CASSIO. This did I fear, but thought he had no weapon;
    For he was great of heart.
  LODOVICO.         [To Iago.] O Spartan dog,
    More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea!
    Look on the tragic loading of this bed;
    This is thy work. The object poisons sight;
    Let it be hid. Gratiano, keep the house,
    And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor,
    For they succeed on you. To you, Lord Governor,
    Remains the censure of this hellish villain,
    The time, the place, the torture. O, enforce it!  
    Myself will straight aboard, and to the state
    This heavy act with heavy heart relate.                   Exeunt.


THE END



<>





1596


KING RICHARD THE SECOND


by William Shakespeare



DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  KING RICHARD THE SECOND
  JOHN OF GAUNT, Duke of Lancaster - uncle to the King
  EDMUND LANGLEY, Duke of York - uncle to the King
  HENRY, surnamed BOLINGBROKE, Duke of Hereford, son of
    John of Gaunt, afterwards King Henry IV
  DUKE OF AUMERLE, son of the Duke of York
  THOMAS MOWBRAY, Duke of Norfolk
  DUKE OF SURREY
  EARL OF SALISBURY
  EARL BERKELEY
  BUSHY - favourites of King Richard
  BAGOT -     "      "   "     "
  GREEN -     "      "   "     "
  EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND
  HENRY PERCY, surnamed HOTSPUR, his son
  LORD Ross                             LORD WILLOUGHBY
  LORD FITZWATER                        BISHOP OF CARLISLE
  ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER                  LORD MARSHAL
  SIR STEPHEN SCROOP                    SIR PIERCE OF EXTON
  CAPTAIN of a band of Welshmen         TWO GARDENERS  

  QUEEN to King Richard
  DUCHESS OF YORK
  DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER, widow of Thomas of Woodstock,
    Duke of Gloucester
  LADY attending on the Queen

  Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Keeper, Messenger,
    Groom, and other Attendants




<>



SCENE:
England and Wales


ACT I. SCENE I.
London. The palace

Enter RICHARD, JOHN OF GAUNT, with other NOBLES and attendants

  KING RICHARD. Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,
    Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,
    Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son,
    Here to make good the boist'rous late appeal,
    Which then our leisure would not let us hear,
    Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?
  GAUNT. I have, my liege.
  KING RICHARD. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him
    If he appeal the Duke on ancient malice,
    Or worthily, as a good subject should,
    On some known ground of treachery in him?
  GAUNT. As near as I could sift him on that argument,
    On some apparent danger seen in him
    Aim'd at your Highness-no inveterate malice.
  KING RICHARD. Then call them to our presence: face to face
    And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear  
    The accuser and the accused freely speak.
    High-stomach'd are they both and full of ire,
    In rage, deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.

         Enter BOLINGBROKE and MOWBRAY

  BOLINGBROKE. Many years of happy days befall
    My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!
  MOWBRAY. Each day still better other's happiness
    Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap,
    Add an immortal title to your crown!
  KING RICHARD. We thank you both; yet one but flatters us,
    As well appeareth by the cause you come;
    Namely, to appeal each other of high treason.
    Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
    Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?
  BOLINGBROKE. First-heaven be the record to my speech!
    In the devotion of a subject's love,
    Tend'ring the precious safety of my prince,
    And free from other misbegotten hate,  
    Come I appellant to this princely presence.
    Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,
    And mark my greeting well; for what I speak
    My body shall make good upon this earth,
    Or my divine soul answer it in heaven-
    Thou art a traitor and a miscreant,
    Too good to be so, and too bad to live,
    Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,
    The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.
    Once more, the more to aggravate the note,
    With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat;
    And wish-so please my sovereign-ere I move,
    What my tongue speaks, my right drawn sword may prove.
  MOWBRAY. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal.
    'Tis not the trial of a woman's war,
    The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,
    Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;
    The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this.
    Yet can I not of such tame patience boast
    As to be hush'd and nought at an to say.  
    First, the fair reverence of your Highness curbs me
    From giving reins and spurs to my free speech;
    Which else would post until it had return'd
    These terms of treason doubled down his throat.
    Setting aside his high blood's royalty,
    And let him be no kinsman to my liege,
    I do defy him, and I spit at him,
    Call him a slanderous coward and a villain;
    Which to maintain, I would allow him odds
    And meet him, were I tied to run afoot
    Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
    Or any other ground inhabitable
    Where ever Englishman durst set his foot.
    Meantime let this defend my loyalty-
    By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie
  BOLINGBROKE. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage,
    Disclaiming here the kindred of the King;
    And lay aside my high blood's royalty,
    Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except.
    If guilty dread have left thee so much strength  
    As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop.
    By that and all the rites of knighthood else
    Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
    What I have spoke or thou canst worst devise.
  MOWBRAY. I take it up; and by that sword I swear
    Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder
    I'll answer thee in any fair degree
    Or chivalrous design of knightly trial;
    And when I mount, alive may I not light
    If I be traitor or unjustly fight!
  KING RICHARD. What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge?
    It must be great that can inherit us
    So much as of a thought of ill in him.
  BOLINGBROKE. Look what I speak, my life shall prove it true-
    That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles
    In name of lendings for your Highness' soldiers,
    The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments
    Like a false traitor and injurious villain.
    Besides, I say and will in battle prove-
    Or here, or elsewhere to the furthest verge  
    That ever was survey'd by English eye-
    That all the treasons for these eighteen years
    Complotted and contrived in this land
    Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.
    Further I say, and further will maintain
    Upon his bad life to make all this good,
    That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death,
    Suggest his soon-believing adversaries,
    And consequently, like a traitor coward,
    Sluic'd out his innocent soul through streams of blood;
    Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries,
    Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,
    To me for justice and rough chastisement;
    And, by the glorious worth of my descent,
    This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.
  KING RICHARD. How high a pitch his resolution soars!
    Thomas of Norfolk, what say'st thou to this?
  MOWBRAY. O, let my sovereign turn away his face
    And bid his ears a little while be deaf,
    Till I have told this slander of his blood  
    How God and good men hate so foul a liar.
  KING RICHARD. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and cars.
    Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom's heir,
    As he is but my father's brother's son,
    Now by my sceptre's awe I make a vow,
    Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood
    Should nothing privilege him nor partialize
    The unstooping firmness of my upright soul.
    He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou:
    Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.
  MOWBRAY. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,
    Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest.
    Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais
    Disburs'd I duly to his Highness' soldiers;
    The other part reserv'd I by consent,
    For that my sovereign liege was in my debt
    Upon remainder of a dear account
    Since last I went to France to fetch his queen:
    Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester's death-
    I slew him not, but to my own disgrace  
    Neglected my sworn duty in that case.
    For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,
    The honourable father to my foe,
    Once did I lay an ambush for your life,
    A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul;
    But ere I last receiv'd the sacrament
    I did confess it, and exactly begg'd
    Your Grace's pardon; and I hope I had it.
    This is my fault. As for the rest appeal'd,
    It issues from the rancour of a villain,
    A recreant and most degenerate traitor;
    Which in myself I boldly will defend,
    And interchangeably hurl down my gage
    Upon this overweening traitor's foot
    To prove myself a loyal gentleman
    Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom.
    In haste whereof, most heartily I pray
    Your Highness to assign our trial day.
  KING RICHARD. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul'd by me;
    Let's purge this choler without letting blood-  
    This we prescribe, though no physician;
    Deep malice makes too deep incision.
    Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed:
    Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.
    Good uncle, let this end where it begun;
    We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.
  GAUNT. To be a make-peace shall become my age.
    Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk's gage.
  KING RICHARD. And, Norfolk, throw down his.
  GAUNT. When, Harry, when?
    Obedience bids I should not bid again.
  KING RICHARD. Norfolk, throw down; we bid.
    There is no boot.
  MOWBRAY. Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot;
    My life thou shalt command, but not my shame:
    The one my duty owes; but my fair name,
    Despite of death, that lives upon my grave
    To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have.
    I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffl'd here;
    Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear,  
    The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood
    Which breath'd this poison.
  KING RICHARD. Rage must be withstood:
    Give me his gage-lions make leopards tame.
  MOWBRAY. Yea, but not change his spots. Take but my shame,
    And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord,
    The purest treasure mortal times afford
    Is spotless reputation; that away,
    Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.
    A jewel in a ten-times barr'd-up chest
    Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.
    Mine honour is my life; both grow in one;
    Take honour from me, and my life is done:
    Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try;
    In that I live, and for that will I die.
  KING RICHARD. Cousin, throw up your gage; do you begin.
  BOLINGBROKE. O, God defend my soul from such deep sin!
    Shall I seem crest-fallen in my father's sight?
    Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height
    Before this outdar'd dastard? Ere my tongue  
    Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong
    Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear
    The slavish motive of recanting fear,
    And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,
    Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face.
                                                      Exit GAUNT
  KING RICHARD. We were not born to sue, but to command;
    Which since we cannot do to make you friends,
    Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,
    At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day.
    There shall your swords and lances arbitrate
    The swelling difference of your settled hate;
    Since we can not atone you, we shall see
    Justice design the victor's chivalry.
    Lord Marshal, command our officers-at-arms
    Be ready to direct these home alarms.                 Exeunt




SCENE 2.
London. The DUKE OF LANCASTER'S palace

Enter JOHN OF GAUNT with the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER

  GAUNT. Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's blood
    Doth more solicit me than your exclaims
    To stir against the butchers of his life!
    But since correction lieth in those hands
    Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
    Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;
    Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth,
    Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.
  DUCHESS. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
    Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
    Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
    Were as seven vials of his sacred blood,
    Or seven fair branches springing from one root.
    Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,
    Some of those branches by the Destinies cut;
    But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester,
    One vial full of Edward's sacred blood,  
    One flourishing branch of his most royal root,
    Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;
    Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all faded,
    By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe.
    Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! That bed, that womb,
    That mettle, that self mould, that fashion'd thee,
    Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest,
    Yet art thou slain in him. Thou dost consent
    In some large measure to thy father's death
    In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,
    Who was the model of thy father's life.
    Call it not patience, Gaunt-it is despair;
    In suff'ring thus thy brother to be slaught'red,
    Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life,
    Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee.
    That which in mean men we entitle patience
    Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
    What shall I say? To safeguard thine own life
    The best way is to venge my Gloucester's death.
  GAUNT. God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute,  
    His deputy anointed in His sight,
    Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully,
    Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift
    An angry arm against His minister.
  DUCHESS. Where then, alas, may I complain myself?
  GAUNT. To God, the widow's champion and defence.
  DUCHESS. Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.
    Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold
    Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
    O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear,
    That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast!
    Or, if misfortune miss the first career,
    Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom
    That they may break his foaming courser's back
    And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
    A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!
    Farewell, old Gaunt; thy sometimes brother's wife,
    With her companion, Grief, must end her life.
  GAUNT. Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry.
    As much good stay with thee as go with me!  
  DUCHESS. Yet one word more- grief boundeth where it falls,
    Not with the empty hollowness, but weight.
    I take my leave before I have begun,
    For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.
    Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York.
    Lo, this is all- nay, yet depart not so;
    Though this be all, do not so quickly go;
    I shall remember more. Bid him- ah, what?-
    With all good speed at Plashy visit me.
    Alack, and what shall good old York there see
    But empty lodgings and unfurnish'd walls,
    Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?
    And what hear there for welcome but my groans?
    Therefore commend me; let him not come there
    To seek out sorrow that dwells every where.
    Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die;
    The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.          Exeunt




SCENE 3.
The lists at Coventry

Enter the LORD MARSHAL and the DUKE OF AUMERLE

  MARSHAL. My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd?
  AUMERLE. Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in.
  MARSHAL. The Duke of Norfolk, spightfully and bold,
    Stays but the summons of the appelant's trumpet.
  AUMERLE. Why then, the champions are prepar'd, and stay
    For nothing but his Majesty's approach.

     The trumpets sound, and the KING enters with his nobles,
     GAUNT, BUSHY, BAGOT, GREEN, and others. When they are set,
     enter MOWBRAY, Duke of Nor folk, in arms, defendant, and
     a HERALD

  KING RICHARD. Marshal, demand of yonder champion
    The cause of his arrival here in arms;
    Ask him his name; and orderly proceed
    To swear him in the justice of his cause.
  MARSHAL. In God's name and the King's, say who thou art,  
    And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms;
    Against what man thou com'st, and what thy quarrel.
    Speak truly on thy knighthood and thy oath;
    As so defend thee heaven and thy valour!
  MOWBRAY. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk;
    Who hither come engaged by my oath-
    Which God defend a knight should violate!-
    Both to defend my loyalty and truth
    To God, my King, and my succeeding issue,
    Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me;
    And, by the grace of God and this mine arm,
    To prove him, in defending of myself,
    A traitor to my God, my King, and me.
    And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

   The trumpets sound. Enter BOLINGBROKE, Duke of Hereford,
            appellant, in armour, and a HERALD

  KING RICHARD. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms,
    Both who he is and why he cometh hither  
    Thus plated in habiliments of war;
    And formally, according to our law,
    Depose him in the justice of his cause.
  MARSHAL. What is thy name? and wherefore com'st thou hither
    Before King Richard in his royal lists?
    Against whom comest thou? and what's thy quarrel?
    Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!
  BOLINGBROKE. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
    Am I; who ready here do stand in arms
    To prove, by God's grace and my body's valour,
    In lists on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
    That he is a traitor, foul and dangerous,
    To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me.
    And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!
  MARSHAL. On pain of death, no person be so bold
    Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists,
    Except the Marshal and such officers
    Appointed to direct these fair designs.
  BOLINGBROKE. Lord Marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's hand,
    And bow my knee before his Majesty;  
    For Mowbray and myself are like two men
    That vow a long and weary pilgrimage.
    Then let us take a ceremonious leave
    And loving farewell of our several friends.
  MARSHAL. The appellant in all duty greets your Highness,
    And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave.
  KING RICHARD. We will descend and fold him in our arms.
    Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right,
    So be thy fortune in this royal fight!
    Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,
    Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.
  BOLINGBROKE. O, let no noble eye profane a tear
    For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear.
    As confident as is the falcon's flight
    Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.
    My loving lord, I take my leave of you;
    Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle;
    Not sick, although I have to do with death,
    But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.
    Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet  
    The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.
    O thou, the earthly author of my blood,
    Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,
    Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up
    To reach at victory above my head,
    Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers,
    And with thy blessings steel my lance's point,
    That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat
    And furbish new the name of John o' Gaunt,
    Even in the lusty haviour of his son.
  GAUNT. God in thy good cause make thee prosperous!
    Be swift like lightning in the execution,
    And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
    Fall like amazing thunder on the casque
    Of thy adverse pernicious enemy.
    Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant, and live.
  BOLINGBROKE. Mine innocence and Saint George to thrive!
  MOWBRAY. However God or fortune cast my lot,
    There lives or dies, true to King Richard's throne,
    A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.  
    Never did captive with a freer heart
    Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace
    His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement,
    More than my dancing soul doth celebrate
    This feast of battle with mine adversary.
    Most mighty liege, and my companion peers,
    Take from my mouth the wish of happy years.
    As gentle and as jocund as to jest
    Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breast.
  KING RICHARD. Farewell, my lord, securely I espy
    Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.
    Order the trial, Marshal, and begin.
  MARSHAL. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
    Receive thy lance; and God defend the right!
  BOLINGBROKE. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen.
  MARSHAL. [To an officer] Go bear this lance to Thomas,
      Duke of Norfolk.
  FIRST HERALD. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
    Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself,
    On pain to be found false and recreant,  
    To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
    A traitor to his God, his King, and him;
    And dares him to set forward to the fight.
  SECOND HERALD. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
    On pain to be found false and recreant,
    Both to defend himself, and to approve
    Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
    To God, his sovereign, and to him disloyal,
    Courageously and with a free desire
    Attending but the signal to begin.
  MARSHAL. Sound trumpets; and set forward, combatants.
                                           [A charge sounded]
    Stay, the King hath thrown his warder down.
  KING RICHARD. Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,
    And both return back to their chairs again.
    Withdraw with us; and let the trumpets sound
    While we return these dukes what we decree.

    A long flourish, while the KING consults his Council
  
    Draw near,
    And list what with our council we have done.
    For that our kingdom's earth should not be soil'd
    With that dear blood which it hath fostered;
    And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
    Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours' sword;
    And for we think the eagle-winged pride
    Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,
    With rival-hating envy, set on you
    To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle
    Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep;
    Which so rous'd up with boist'rous untun'd drums,
    With harsh-resounding trumpets' dreadful bray,
    And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,
    Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace
    And make us wade even in our kindred's blood-
    Therefore we banish you our territories.
    You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life,
    Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields
    Shall not regreet our fair dominions,  
    But tread the stranger paths of banishment.
  BOLINGBROKE. Your will be done. This must my comfort be-
    That sun that warms you here shall shine on me,
    And those his golden beams to you here lent
    Shall point on me and gild my banishment.
  KING RICHARD. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,
    Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:
    The sly slow hours shall not determinate
    The dateless limit of thy dear exile;
    The hopeless word of 'never to return'
    Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.
  MOWBRAY. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
    And all unlook'd for from your Highness' mouth.
    A dearer merit, not so deep a maim
    As to be cast forth in the common air,
    Have I deserved at your Highness' hands.
    The language I have learnt these forty years,
    My native English, now I must forgo;
    And now my tongue's use is to me no more
    Than an unstringed viol or a harp;  
    Or like a cunning instrument cas'd up
    Or, being open, put into his hands
    That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
    Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue,
    Doubly portcullis'd with my teeth and lips;
    And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance
    Is made my gaoler to attend on me.
    I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
    Too far in years to be a pupil now.
    What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death,
    Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?
  KING RICHARD. It boots thee not to be compassionate;
    After our sentence plaining comes too late.
  MOWBRAY. Then thus I turn me from my countrv's light,
    To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.
  KING RICHARD. Return again, and take an oath with thee.
    Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands;
    Swear by the duty that you owe to God,
    Our part therein we banish with yourselves,
    To keep the oath that we administer:  
    You never shall, so help you truth and God,
    Embrace each other's love in banishment;
    Nor never look upon each other's face;
    Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile
    This louring tempest of your home-bred hate;
    Nor never by advised purpose meet
    To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,
    'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.
  BOLINGBROKE. I swear.
  MOWBRAY. And I, to keep all this.
  BOLINGBROKE. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy.
    By this time, had the King permitted us,
    One of our souls had wand'red in the air,
    Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our flesh,
    As now our flesh is banish'd from this land-
    Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm;
    Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
    The clogging burden of a guilty soul.
  MOWBRAY. No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,
    My name be blotted from the book of life,  
    And I from heaven banish'd as from hence!
    But what thou art, God, thou, and I, do know;
    And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue.
    Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray:
    Save back to England, an the world's my way.            Exit
  KING RICHARD. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
    I see thy grieved heart. Thy sad aspect
    Hath from the number of his banish'd years
    Pluck'd four away. [To BOLINGBROKE] Six frozen winters spent,
    Return with welcome home from banishment.
  BOLINGBROKE. How long a time lies in one little word!
    Four lagging winters and four wanton springs
    End in a word: such is the breath of Kings.
  GAUNT. I thank my liege that in regard of me
    He shortens four years of my son's exile;
    But little vantage shall I reap thereby,
    For ere the six years that he hath to spend
    Can change their moons and bring their times about,
    My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light
    Shall be extinct with age and endless night;  
    My inch of taper will be burnt and done,
    And blindfold death not let me see my son.
  KING RICHARD. Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.
  GAUNT. But not a minute, King, that thou canst give:
    Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow
    And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;
    Thou can'st help time to furrow me with age,
    But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;
    Thy word is current with him for my death,
    But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.
  KING RICHARD. Thy son is banish'd upon good advice,
    Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave.
    Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lour?
  GAUNT. Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.
    You urg'd me as a judge; but I had rather
    You would have bid me argue like a father.
    O, had it been a stranger, not my child,
    To smooth his fault I should have been more mild.
    A partial slander sought I to avoid,
    And in the sentence my own life destroy'd.  
    Alas, I look'd when some of you should say
    I was too strict to make mine own away;
    But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue
    Against my will to do myself this wrong.
  KING RICHARD. Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him so.
    Six years we banish him, and he shall go.
                                  Flourish. Exit KING with train
  AUMERLE. Cousin, farewell; what presence must not know,
    From where you do remain let paper show.
  MARSHAL. My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride
    As far as land will let me by your side.
  GAUNT. O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
    That thou returnest no greeting to thy friends?
  BOLINGBROKE. I have too few to take my leave of you,
    When the tongue's office should be prodigal
    To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.
  GAUNT. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.
  BOLINGBROKE. Joy absent, grief is present for that time.
  GAUNT. What is six winters? They are quickly gone.
  BOLINGBROKE. To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.  
  GAUNT. Call it a travel that thou tak'st for pleasure.
  BOLINGBROKE. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,
    Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.
  GAUNT. The sullen passage of thy weary steps
    Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set
    The precious jewel of thy home return.
  BOLINGBROKE. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make
    Will but remember me what a deal of world
    I wander from the jewels that I love.
    Must I not serve a long apprenticehood
    To foreign passages; and in the end,
    Having my freedom, boast of nothing else
    But that I was a journeyman to grief?
  GAUNT. All places that the eye of heaven visits
    Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
    Teach thy necessity to reason thus:
    There is no virtue like necessity.
    Think not the King did banish thee,
    But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit
    Where it perceives it is but faintly home.  
    Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour,
    And not the King exil'd thee; or suppose
    Devouring pestilence hangs in our air
    And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
    Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
    To lie that way thou goest, not whence thou com'st.
    Suppose the singing birds musicians,
    The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew'd,
    The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more
    Than a delightful measure or a dance;
    For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite
    The man that mocks at it and sets it light.
  BOLINGBROKE. O, who can hold a fire in his hand
    By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
    Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
    By bare imagination of a feast?
    Or wallow naked in December snow
    By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
    O, no! the apprehension of the good
    Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.  
    Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
    Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore.
  GAUNT. Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way.
    Had I thy youtli and cause, I would not stay.
  BOLINGBROKE. Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu;
    My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet!
    Where'er I wander, boast of this I can:
    Though banish'd, yet a trueborn English man.          Exeunt




SCENE 4.
London. The court

Enter the KING, with BAGOT and GREEN, at one door;
and the DUKE OF AUMERLE at another

  KING RICHARD. We did observe. Cousin Aumerle,
    How far brought you high Hereford on his way?
  AUMERLE. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,
    But to the next high way, and there I left him.
  KING RICHARD. And say, what store of parting tears were shed?
  AUMERLE. Faith, none for me; except the north-east wind,
    Which then blew bitterly against our faces,
    Awak'd the sleeping rheum, and so by chance
    Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.
  KING RICHARD. What said our cousin when you parted with him?
  AUMERLE. 'Farewell.'
    And, for my heart disdained that my tongue
    Should so profane the word, that taught me craft
    To counterfeit oppression of such grief
    That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave.
    Marry, would the word 'farewell' have length'ned hours  
    And added years to his short banishment,
    He should have had a volume of farewells;
    But since it would not, he had none of me.
  KING RICHARD. He is our cousin, cousin; but 'tis doubt,
    When time shall call him home from banishment,
    Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.
    Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green,
    Observ'd his courtship to the common people;
    How he did seem to dive into their hearts
    With humble and familiar courtesy;
    What reverence he did throw away on slaves,
    Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles
    And patient underbearing of his fortune,
    As 'twere to banish their affects with him.
    Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
    A brace of draymen bid God speed him well
    And had the tribute of his supple knee,
    With 'Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends';
    As were our England in reversion his,
    And he our subjects' next degree in hope.  
  GREEN. Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts!
    Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland,
    Expedient manage must be made, my liege,
    Ere further leisure yicld them further means
    For their advantage and your Highness' loss.
  KING RICHARD. We will ourself in person to this war;
    And, for our coffers, with too great a court
    And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,
    We are enforc'd to farm our royal realm;
    The revenue whereof shall furnish us
    For our affairs in hand. If that come short,
    Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters;
    Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,
    They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold,
    And send them after to supply our wants;
    For we will make for Ireland presently.

                     Enter BUSHY

    Bushy, what news?  
  BUSHY. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord,
    Suddenly taken; and hath sent poste-haste
    To entreat your Majesty to visit him.
  KING RICHARD. Where lies he?
  BUSHY. At Ely House.
  KING RICHARD. Now put it, God, in the physician's mind
    To help him to his grave immediately!
    The lining of his coffers shall make coats
    To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.
    Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him.
    Pray God we may make haste, and come too late!
  ALL. Amen.                                              Exeunt




<>



ACT II. SCENE I.
London. Ely House

Enter JOHN OF GAUNT, sick, with the DUKE OF YORK, etc.

  GAUNT. Will the King come, that I may breathe my last
    In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?
  YORK. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;
    For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.
  GAUNT. O, but they say the tongues of dying men
    Enforce attention like deep harmony.
    Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain;
    For they breathe truth that breathe their words -in pain.
    He that no more must say is listen'd more
    Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
    More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before.
    The setting sun, and music at the close,
    As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
    Writ in remembrance more than things long past.
    Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,
    My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.
  YORK. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds,  
    As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond,
    Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound
    The open ear of youth doth always listen;
    Report of fashions in proud Italy,
    Whose manners still our tardy apish nation
    Limps 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 buzz'd into his ears?
    Then all too late comes counsel to be heard
    Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard.
    Direct not him whose way himself will choose.
    'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.
  GAUNT. Methinks I am a prophet new inspir'd,
    And thus expiring do foretell of him:
    His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,
    For violent fires soon burn out themselves;
    Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;
    He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;
    With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder;  
    Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
    Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
    This royal throne of kings, this scept'red isle,
    This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
    This other Eden, demi-paradise,
    This fortress built by Nature for herself
    Against infection and the hand of war,
    This happy breed of men, this little world,
    This precious stone set in the silver sea,
    Which serves it in the office of a wall,
    Or as a moat defensive to a house,
    Against the envy of less happier lands;
    This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
    This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
    Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,
    Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
    For Christian service and true chivalry,
    As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry
    Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son;
    This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,  
    Dear for her reputation through the world,
    Is now leas'd out-I die pronouncing it-
    Like to a tenement or pelting farm.
    England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
    Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
    Of wat'ry Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
    With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds;
    That England, that was wont to conquer others,
    Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
    Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,
    How happy then were my ensuing death!

    Enter KING and QUEEN, AUMERLE, BUSHY, GREEN, BAGOT,
                Ross, and WILLOUGHBY

  YORK. The King is come; deal mildly with his youth,
    For young hot colts being rag'd do rage the more.
  QUEEN. How fares our noble uncle Lancaster?
  KING RICHARD. What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt?
  GAUNT. O, how that name befits my composition!  
    Old Gaunt, indeed; and gaunt in being old.
    Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;
    And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt?
    For sleeping England long time have I watch'd;
    Watching breeds leanness, leanness is an gaunt.
    The pleasure that some fathers feed upon
    Is my strict fast-I mean my children's looks;
    And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt.
    Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,
    Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.
  KING RICHARD. Can sick men play so nicely with their names?
  GAUNT. No, misery makes sport to mock itself:
    Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,
    I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.
  KING RICHARD. Should dying men flatter with those that live?
  GAUNT. No, no; men living flatter those that die.
  KING RICHARD. Thou, now a-dying, sayest thou flatterest me.
  GAUNT. O, no! thou diest, though I the sicker be.
  KING RICHARD. I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill.
  GAUNT. Now He that made me knows I see thee ill;  
    Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill.
    Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land
    Wherein thou liest in reputation sick;
    And thou, too careless patient as thou art,
    Commit'st thy anointed body to the cure
    Of those physicians that first wounded thee:
    A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,
    Whose compass is no bigger than thy head;
    And yet, incaged in so small a verge,
    The waste is no whit lesser than thy land.
    O, had thy grandsire with a prophet's eye
    Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons,
    From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,
    Deposing thee before thou wert possess'd,
    Which art possess'd now to depose thyself.
    Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world,
    It were a shame to let this land by lease;
    But for thy world enjoying but this land,
    Is it not more than shame to shame it so?
    Landlord of England art thou now, not King.  
    Thy state of law is bondslave to the law;
    And thou-
  KING RICHARD. A lunatic lean-witted fool,
    Presuming on an ague's privilege,
    Darest with thy frozen admonition
    Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood
    With fury from his native residence.
    Now by my seat's right royal majesty,
    Wert thou not brother to great Edward's son,
    This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head
    Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders.
  GAUNT. O, Spare me not, my brother Edward's son,
    For that I was his father Edward's son;
    That blood already, like the pelican,
    Hast thou tapp'd out, and drunkenly carous'd.
    My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul-
    Whom fair befall in heaven 'mongst happy souls!-
    May be a precedent and witness good
    That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood.
    Join with the present sickness that I have;  
    And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
    To crop at once a too long withered flower.
    Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!
    These words hereafter thy tormentors be!
    Convey me to my bed, then to my grave.
    Love they to live that love and honour have.
                               Exit, borne out by his attendants
  KING RICHARD. And let them die that age and sullens have;
    For both hast thou, and both become the grave.
  YORK. I do beseech your Majesty impute his words
    To wayward sickliness and age in him.
    He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear
    As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.
  KING RICHARD. Right, you say true: as Hereford's love, so his;
    As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.

                Enter NORTHUMBERLAND

  NORTHUMBERLAND. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty.
  KING RICHARD. What says he?  
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Nay, nothing; all is said.
    His tongue is now a stringless instrument;
    Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.
  YORK. Be York the next that must be bankrupt so!
    Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
  KING RICHARD. The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he;
    His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be.
    So much for that. Now for our Irish wars.
    We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns,
    Which live like venom where no venom else
    But only they have privilege to live.
    And for these great affairs do ask some charge,
    Towards our assistance we do seize to us
    The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,
    Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess'd.
  YORK. How long shall I be patient? Ah, how long
    Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?
    Not Gloucester's death, nor Hereford's banishment,
    Nor Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
    Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke  
    About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,
    Have ever made me sour my patient cheek
    Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face.
    I am the last of noble Edward's sons,
    Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first.
    In war was never lion rag'd more fierce,
    In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,
    Than was that young and princely gentleman.
    His face thou hast, for even so look'd he,
    Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours;
    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 father's hand had won.
    His hands were guilty of no kindred blood,
    But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
    O Richard! York is too far gone with grief,
    Or else he never would compare between-
  KING RICHARD. Why, uncle, what's the matter?
  YORK. O my liege,  
    Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas'd
    Not to be pardoned, am content withal.
    Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands
    The royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford?
    Is not Gaunt dead? and doth not Hereford live?
    Was not Gaunt just? and is not Harry true?
    Did not the one deserve to have an heir?
    Is not his heir a well-deserving son?
    Take Hereford's rights away, and take from Time
    His charters and his customary rights;
    Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day;
    Be not thyself-for how art thou a king
    But by fair sequence and succession?
    Now, afore God-God forbid I say true!-
    If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's rights,
    Call in the letters patents that he hath
    By his attorneys-general to sue
    His livery, and deny his off'red homage,
    You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,
    You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,  
    And prick my tender patience to those thoughts
    Which honour and allegiance cannot think.
  KING RICHARD. Think what you will, we seize into our hands
    His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.
  YORK. I'll not be by the while. My liege, farewell.
    What will ensue hereof there's none can tell;
    But by bad courses may be understood
    That their events can never fall out good.              Exit
  KING RICHARD. Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight;
    Bid him repair to us to Ely House
    To see this business. To-morrow next
    We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow.
    And we create, in absence of ourself,
    Our Uncle York Lord Governor of England;
    For he is just, and always lov'd us well.
    Come on, our queen; to-morrow must we part;
    Be merry, for our time of stay is short.
                   Flourish. Exeunt KING, QUEEN, BUSHY, AUMERLE,
                                                GREEN, and BAGOT
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.  
    Ross. And living too; for now his son is Duke.
  WILLOUGHBY. Barely in title, not in revenues.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Richly in both, if justice had her right.
  ROSS. My heart is great; but it must break with silence,
    Ere't be disburdened with a liberal tongue.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more
    That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!
  WILLOUGHBY. Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford?
    If it be so, out with it boldly, man;
    Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.
  ROSS. No good at all that I can do for him;
    Unless you call it good to pity him,
    Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Now, afore God, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne
    In him, a royal prince, and many moe
    Of noble blood in this declining land.
    The King is not himself, but basely led
    By flatterers; and what they will inform,
    Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us an,
    That will the King severely prosecute  
    'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.
  ROSS. The commons hath he pill'd with grievous taxes;
    And quite lost their hearts; the nobles hath he find
    For ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts.
  WILLOUGHBY. And daily new exactions are devis'd,
    As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what;
    But what, a God's name, doth become of this?
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Wars hath not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not,
    But basely yielded upon compromise
    That which his noble ancestors achiev'd with blows.
    More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.
  ROSS. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.
  WILLOUGHBY. The King's grown bankrupt like a broken man.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.
  ROSS. He hath not money for these Irish wars,
    His burdenous taxations notwithstanding,
    But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. His noble kinsman-most degenerate king!
    But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
    Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm;  
    We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
    And yet we strike not, but securely perish.
  ROSS. We see the very wreck that we must suffer;
    And unavoided is the danger now
    For suffering so the causes of our wreck.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Not so; even through the hollow eyes of death
    I spy life peering; but I dare not say
    How near the tidings of our comfort is.
  WILLOUGHBY. Nay, let us share thy thoughts as thou dost ours.
  ROSS. Be confident to speak, Northumberland.
    We three are but thyself, and, speaking so,
    Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore be bold.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Then thus: I have from Le Port Blanc, a bay
    In Brittany, receiv'd intelligence
    That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham,
    That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
    His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,
    Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston,
    Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Quoint-
    All these, well furnish'd by the Duke of Britaine,  
    With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,
    Are making hither with all due expedience,
    And shortly mean to touch our northern 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 slavish yoke,
    Imp out our drooping country's broken wing,
    Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown,
    Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt,
    And make high majesty look like itself,
    Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh;
    But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
    Stay and be secret, and myself will go.
  ROSS. To horse, to horse! Urge doubts to them that fear.
  WILLOUGHBY. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.
                                                          Exeunt




SCENE 2.
Windsor Castle

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 shadows,
    Which shows like grief itself, but is 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,
    Find 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 is not seen;
    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, on thinking, 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 grief,
    Or something hath the nothing that I grieve;  
    '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.

                   Enter GREEN

  GREEN. God save your Majesty! and well met, gentlemen.
    I hope the King is not yet shipp'd for Ireland.
  QUEEN. Why hopest 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 Ravenspurgh.
  QUEEN. Now God in heaven forbid!
  GREEN. Ah, madam, 'tis too true; and that 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.
  BUSHY. Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland
    And all the rest 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 YORK

  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, cares, 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 SERVINGMAN

  SERVINGMAN. 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 they are cold
    And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.
    Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester;
    Bid her send me presently a thousand pound.
    Hold, take my ring.
  SERVINGMAN. 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.
  YORK. What is't, knave?
  SERVINGMAN. 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.
    What, are there no posts dispatch'd for Ireland?
    How shall we do for money for these wars?
    Come, sister-cousin, I would say-pray, pardon me.
    Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts,  
    And bring away the armour that is there.
                                                 Exit SERVINGMAN
    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.
    T'one is my sovereign, whom both my oath
    And duty bids defend; t'other again
    Is my 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 Berkeley.
    I should to Plashy too,
    But time will not permit. All is uneven,
    And everything is left at six and seven.
                                           Exeunt YORK and QUEEN
  BUSHY. The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland.
    But none returns. For us to levy power
    Proportionable to the enemy  
    Is all unpossible.
  GREEN. Besides, our nearness to the King in love
    Is near the hate of those love not the King.
  BAGOT. And that is 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 condemn'd.
  BAGOT. If judgment lie in them, then so do we,
    Because we ever have been near the King.
  GREEN. Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristow Castle.
    The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.
  BUSHY. Thither will I with you; for little office
    Will the hateful commons perform for us,
    Except Eke 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 Bolingbroke.
  GREEN. Alas, poor Duke! the task he undertakes  
    Is numb'ring 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 3.
Gloucestershire

Enter BOLINGBROKE and NORTHUMBERLAND, forces

  BOLINGBROKE. How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now?
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Believe me, noble lord,
    I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire.
    These high wild hills and rough uneven ways
    Draws out our miles, and makes 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 Ravenspurgh 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 sweet'ned 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 done  
    By sight of what I have, your noble company.
  BOLINGBROKE. Of much less value is my company
    Than your good words. But who comes here?

                 Enter HARRY PERCY

  NORTHUMBERLAND. 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 health of you.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Why, is he not with the Queen?
  PERCY. No, my good lord; he hath forsook the court,
    Broken his staff of office, and dispers'd
    The household of the King.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. 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 Ravenspurgh,
    To offer service to the Duke of Hereford;
    And sent me over by Berkeley, to discover  
    What power the Duke of York had levied there;
    Then with directions to repair to Ravenspurgh.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. 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.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. 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.
  BOLINGBROKE. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure
    I count myself in nothing else so happy
    As in a soul rememb'ring 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.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. How far is it to Berkeley? And what stir
    Keeps good old York there with his men of war?
  PERCY. There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees,  
    Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard;
    And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and Seymour-
    None else of name and noble estimate.

                  Enter Ross and WILLOUGHBY

  NORTHUMBERLAND. Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,
    Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.
  BOLINGBROKE. Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursues
    A banish'd traitor. All my treasury
    Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich'd,
    Shall be your love and labour's recompense.
  ROSS. Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.
  WILLOUGHBY. And far surmounts our labour to attain it.
  BOLINGBROKE. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor;
    Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,
    Stands for my bounty. But who comes here?

                     Enter BERKELEY
  
  NORTHUMBERLAND. It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess.
  BERKELEY. My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you.
  BOLINGBROKE. 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.
  BERKELEY. 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

  BOLINGBROKE. I shall not need transport my words by you;
    Here comes his Grace in person. My noble uncle!
                                                     [Kneels]
  YORK. Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,  
    Whose duty is deceivable and false.
  BOLINGBROKE. My gracious uncle!-
  YORK. Tut, tut!
    Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle.
    I am no traitor's uncle; and that word 'grace'
    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 despised arms?
    Com'st thou because the anointed King is hence?
    Why, foolish boy, the King is left behind,
    And in my loyal bosom lies his power.
    Were I but now 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 the
    And minister correction to thy fault!
  BOLINGBROKE 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 arms against thy sovereign.
  BOLINGBROKE. As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford;
    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 in England,  
    It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster.
    You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin;
    Had you first died, and he been thus trod down,
    He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father
    To rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay.
    I am denied to sue my livery here,
    And yet my letters patents 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 I challenge law-attorneys are denied me;
    And therefore personally I lay my claim
    To my inheritance of free descent.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. The noble Duke hath been too much abused.
  ROSS. It stands your Grace upon to do him right.
  WILLOUGHBY. 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;
    And you that do abet him in this kind
    Cherish rebellion, and are rebels all.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. 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 never 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, fare you well;
    Unless you please to enter in the castle,
    And there repose you for this night.
  BOLINGBROKE. An offer, uncle, that we will accept.
    But we must win your Grace to go with us  
    To Bristow Castle, which they say is held
    By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices,
    The caterpillars of the commonwealth,
    Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.
  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 4.
A camp in Wales

Enter EARL OF SALISBURY and a WELSH CAPTAIN

  CAPTAIN. 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.
  SALISBURY. Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman;
    The King reposeth all his confidence in thee.
  CAPTAIN. '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.             Exit  
  SALISBURY. Ah, Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind,
    I see thy glory like a shooting star
    Fall to the base earth from the firmament!
    The 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.               Exit




<>



ACT III. SCENE I.
BOLINGBROKE'S camp at Bristol

Enter BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY, ROSS, WILLOUGHBY,
BUSHY and GREEN, prisoners

  BOLINGBROKE. Bring forth these men.
    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 disfigured 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 my own windows torn my household coat,
    Raz'd out my imprese, 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 delivered 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.
  BOLINGBROKE. My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatch'd.
           Exeunt NORTHUMBERLAND, and others, with the prisoners  
    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 delivered.
  YORK. A gentleman of mine I have dispatch'd
    With letters of your love to her at large.
  BOLINGBROKE. Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords, away,
    To fight with Glendower and his complices.
    Awhile to work, and after holiday.                    Exeunt




SCENE 2.
The coast of Wales. A castle in view

Drums. Flourish and colours. Enter the KING, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE,
AUMERLE, and soldiers

  KING RICHARD. Barkloughly Castle can they this at hand?
  AUMERLE. Yea, my lord. How brooks your Grace the air
    After your late tossing on the breaking seas?
  KING RICHARD. Needs must I like it well. I weep for joy
    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 favours with my royal hands.
    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.
  CARLISLE. Fear not, my lord; that Power that made you king
    Hath power to keep you king in spite of all.
    The means that heaven yields must be embrac'd
    And not neglected; else, if heaven would,
    And we will not, heaven's offer we refuse,
    The proffered means of succour and redress.
  AUMERLE. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;
    Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,
    Grows strong and great in substance and in power.
  KING RICHARD. Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not  
    That when the searching eye of heaven is hid,
    Behind the globe, that lights the lower world,
    Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen
    In murders and in outrage boldly 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 wand'ring 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 off 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?
  SALISBURY. 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 me, 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,
    O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state;
    For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,  
    Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers'd, and fled.
  AUMERLE. Comfort, my liege, why looks your Grace so pale?
  KING RICHARD. 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.
  AUMERLE. Comfort, my liege; remember who you are.
  KING RICHARD. 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?

                   Enter SCROOP
  
  SCROOP. More health and happiness betide my liege
    Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him.
  KING RICHARD. 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, and 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; boys, with women's voices,
    Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints
    In stiff unwieldy arms against 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.
  KING RICHARD. Too well, too well thou tell'st a tale so in.
    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.
  KING RICHARD. 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.
  AUMERLE. Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?
  SCROOP. Ay, all of them at Bristow lost their heads.
  AUMERLE. Where is the Duke my father with his power?
  KING RICHARD. 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 an, are Bolingbroke's.
    And nothing can we can 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 antic 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,
    Comes at the last, and with a little pin
    Bores through his castle wall, and farewell, king!  
    Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
    With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
    Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty;
    For you have but mistook me all this while.
    I live with bread like you, feel want,
    Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,
    How can you say to me I am a king?
  CARLISLE. My lord, wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes,
    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.
  AUMERLE. My father hath a power; inquire of him,
    And learn to make a body of a limb.
  KING RICHARD. 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 in 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.
  KING RICHARD. Thou hast said enough.
      [To AUMERLE] Beshrew thee, cousin, 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.
  AUMERLE. My liege, one word.
  KING RICHARD. 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.       Exeunt




SCENE 3.
Wales. Before Flint Castle

Enter, with drum and colours, BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND,
and forces

  BOLINGBROKE. 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.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. 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!
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Your Grace mistakes; only to be brief,
    Left I his title out.
  YORK. The time hath been,
    Would you have been so brief with him, he would
    Have been so brief with you to shorten you,
    For taking so the head, your whole head's length.
  BOLINGBROKE. Mistake not, uncle, further than you should.  
  YORK. Take not, good cousin, further than you should,
    Lest you mistake. The heavens are over our heads.
  BOLINGBROKE. I know it, uncle; and oppose not myself
    Against their will. But who comes here?

                    Enter PERCY

    Welcome, Harry. What, will not this castle yield?
  PIERCY. The castle royally is mann'd, my lord,
    Against thy entrance.
  BOLINGBROKE. Royally!
    Why, it contains no king?
  PERCY. Yes, my good lord,
    It doth contain a king; King Richard lies
    Within the limits of yon lime and stone;
    And with him are the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury,
    Sir Stephen Scroop, besides a clergyman
    Of holy reverence; who, I cannot learn.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. O, belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle.
  BOLINGBROKE. [To NORTHUMBERLAND] Noble lord,  
    Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle;
    Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley
    Into his ruin'd ears, and thus deliver:
    Henry Bolingbroke
    On both his knees doth kiss King Richard's hand,
    And sends allegiance and true faith of heart
    To his most royal person; hither come
    Even at his feet to lay my arms and power,
    Provided that my banishment repeal'd
    And lands restor'd again be freely granted;
    If not, I'll use the advantage of my power
    And lay the summer's dust with showers of blood
    Rain'd from the wounds of slaughtered Englishmen;
    The which how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke
    It is such crimson tempest should bedrench
    The fresh green lap of fair King Richard's land,
    My stooping duty tenderly shall show.
    Go, signify as much, while here we march
    Upon the grassy carpet of this plain.
           [NORTHUMBERLAND advances to the Castle, with a trumpet]  
    Let's march without the noise of threat'ning drum,
    That from this castle's tottered battlements
    Our fair appointments may be well perus'd.
    Methinks King Richard and myself should meet
    With no less terror than the elements
    Of fire and water, when their thund'ring shock
    At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven.
    Be he the fire, I'll be the yielding water;
    The rage be his, whilst on the earth I rain
    My waters-on the earth, and not on him.
    March on, and mark King Richard how he looks.

      Parle without, and answer within; then a flourish.
      Enter on the walls, the KING, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE,
      AUMERLE, SCROOP, and SALISBURY

    See, see, King Richard doth himself appear,
    As doth the blushing discontented sun
    From out the fiery portal of the east,
    When he perceives the envious clouds are bent  
    To dim his glory and to stain the track
    Of his bright passage to the occident.
  YORK. Yet he looks like a king. Behold, his eye,
    As bright as is the eagle's, lightens forth
    Controlling majesty. Alack, alack, for woe,
    That any harm should stain so fair a show!
  KING RICHARD. [To NORTHUMBERLAND] We are amaz'd; and thus long
      have we stood
    To watch the fearful bending of thy knee,
    Because we thought ourself thy lawful King;
    And if we be, how dare thy joints forget
    To pay their awful duty to our presence?
    If we be not, show us the hand of God
    That hath dismiss'd us from our stewardship;
    For well we know no hand of blood and bone
    Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre,
    Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp.
    And though you think that all, as you have done,
    Have torn their souls by turning them from us,
    And we are barren and bereft of friends,  
    Yet know-my master, God omnipotent,
    Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf
    Armies of pestilence; and they shall strike
    Your children yet unborn and unbegot,
    That lift your vassal hands against my head
    And threat the glory of my precious crown.
    Tell Bolingbroke, for yon methinks he stands,
    That every stride he makes upon my land
    Is dangerous treason; he is come to open
    The purple testament of bleeding war;
    But ere the crown he looks for live in peace,
    Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers' sons
    Shall ill become the flower of England's face,
    Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace
    To scarlet indignation, and bedew
    Her pastures' grass with faithful English blood.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. The King of Heaven forbid our lord the King
    Should so with civil and uncivil arms
    Be rush'd upon! Thy thrice noble cousin,
    Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy hand;  
    And by the honourable tomb he swears
    That stands upon your royal grandsire's bones,
    And by the royalties of both your bloods,
    Currents that spring from one most gracious head,
    And by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt,
    And by the worth and honour of himself,
    Comprising all that may be sworn or said,
    His coming hither hath no further scope
    Than for his lineal royalties, and to beg
    Enfranchisement immediate on his knees;
    Which on thy royal party granted once,
    His glittering arms he will commend to rust,
    His barbed steeds to stables, and his heart
    To faithful service of your Majesty.
    This swears he, as he is a prince, is just;
    And as I am a gentleman I credit him.
  KING RICHARD. Northumberland, say thus the King returns:
    His noble cousin is right welcome hither;
    And all the number of his fair demands
    Shall be accomplish'd without contradiction.  
    With all the gracious utterance thou hast
    Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends.
    [To AUMERLE] We do debase ourselves, cousin, do we not,
    To look so poorly and to speak so fair?
    Shall we call back Northumberland, and send
    Defiance to the traitor, and so die?
  AUMERLE. No, good my lord; let's fight with gentle words
    Till time lend friends, and friends their helpful swords.
  KING RICHARD. O God, O God! that e'er this tongue of mine
    That laid the sentence of dread banishment
    On yon proud man should take it off again
    With words of sooth! O that I were as great
    As is my grief, or lesser than my name!
    Or that I could forget what I have been!
    Or not remember what I must be now!
    Swell'st thou, proud heart? I'll give thee scope to beat,
    Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me.
  AUMERLE. Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke.
  KING RICHARD. What must the King do now? Must he submit?
    The King shall do it. Must he be depos'd?  
    The King shall be contented. Must he lose
    The name of king? A God's name, let it go.
    I'll give my jewels for a set of beads,
    My gorgeous palace for a hermitage,
    My gay apparel for an almsman's gown,
    My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood,
    My sceptre for a palmer's walking staff,
    My subjects for a pair of carved saints,
    And my large kingdom for a little grave,
    A little little grave, an obscure grave-
    Or I'll be buried in the king's high way,
    Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet
    May hourly trample on their sovereign's head;
    For on my heart they tread now whilst I live,
    And buried once, why not upon my head?
    Aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender-hearted cousin!
    We'll make foul weather with despised tears;
    Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn
    And make a dearth in this revolting land.
    Or shall we play the wantons with our woes  
    And make some pretty match with shedding tears?
    As thus: to drop them still upon one place
    Till they have fretted us a pair of graves
    Within the earth; and, therein laid-there lies
    Two kinsmen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes.
    Would not this ill do well? Well, well, I see
    I talk but idly, and you laugh at me.
    Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland,
    What says King Bolingbroke? Will his Majesty
    Give Richard leave to live till Richard die?
    You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, in the base court he doth attend
    To speak with you; may it please you to come down?
  KING RICHARD. Down, down I come, like glist'ring Phaethon,
    Wanting the manage of unruly jades.
    In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base,
    To come at traitors' calls, and do them grace.
    In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down, king!
    For night-owls shriek where mounting larks should sing.
                                               Exeunt from above  
  BOLINGBROKE. What says his Majesty?
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Sorrow and grief of heart
    Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man;
    Yet he is come.

          Enter the KING, and his attendants, below

  BOLINGBROKE. Stand all apart,
    And show fair duty to his Majesty.   [He kneels down]
    My gracious lord-
  KING RICHARD. Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee
    To make the base earth proud with kissing it.
    Me rather had my heart might feel your love
    Than my unpleas'd eye see your courtesy.
    Up, cousin, up; your heart is up, I know,
    [Touching his own head] Thus high at least, although your
      knee be low.
  BOLINGBROKE. My gracious lord, I come but for mine own.
  KING RICHARD. Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all.
  BOLINGBROKE. So far be mine, my most redoubted lord,  
    As my true service shall deserve your love.
  KING RICHARD. Well you deserve. They well deserve to have
    That know the strong'st and surest way to get.
    Uncle, give me your hands; nay, dry your eyes:
    Tears show their love, but want their remedies.
    Cousin, I am too young to be your father,
    Though you are old enough to be my heir.
    What you will have, I'll give, and willing too;
    For do we must what force will have us do.
    Set on towards London. Cousin, is it so?
  BOLINGBROKE. Yea, my good lord.
  KING RICHARD. Then I must not say no.         Flourish. Exeunt




SCENE 4.
The DUKE OF YORK's garden

Enter the QUEEN and two LADIES

  QUEEN. What sport shall we devise here in this garden
    To drive away the heavy thought of care?
  LADY. Madam, we'll play at bowls.
  QUEEN. 'Twill make me think the world is full of rubs
    And that my fortune runs against the bias.
  LADY. Madam, we'll dance.
  QUEEN. My legs can keep no measure in delight,
    When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief;
    Therefore no dancing, girl; some other sport.
  LADY. Madam, we'll tell tales.
  QUEEN. Of sorrow or of joy?
  LADY. Of either, madam.
  QUEEN. Of neither, girl;
    For if of joy, being altogether wanting,
    It doth remember me the more of sorrow;
    Or if of grief, being altogether had,
    It adds more sorrow to my want of joy;  
    For what I have I need not to repeat,
    And what I want it boots not to complain.
  LADY. Madam, I'll sing.
  QUEEN. 'Tis well' that thou hast cause;
    But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep.
  LADY. I could weep, madam, would it do you good.
  QUEEN. And I could sing, would weeping do me good,
    And never borrow any tear of thee.

           Enter a GARDENER and two SERVANTS

    But stay, here come the gardeners.
    Let's step into the shadow of these trees.
    My wretchedness unto a row of pins,
    They will talk of state, for every one doth so
    Against a change: woe is forerun with woe.
                                       [QUEEN and LADIES retire]
  GARDENER. Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks,
    Which, like unruly children, make their sire
    Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight;  
    Give some supportance to the bending twigs.
    Go thou, and Eke an executioner
    Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays
    That look too lofty in our commonwealth:
    All must be even in our government.
    You thus employ'd, I will go root away
    The noisome weeds which without profit suck
    The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers.
  SERVANT. Why should we, in the compass of a pale,
    Keep law and form and due proportion,
    Showing, as in a model, our firm estate,
    When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,
    Is full of weeds; her fairest flowers chok'd up,
    Her fruit trees all unprun'd, her hedges ruin'd,
    Her knots disordered, and her wholesome herbs
    Swarming with caterpillars?
  GARDENER. Hold thy peace.
    He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring
    Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf;
    The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter,  
    That seem'd in eating him to hold him up,
    Are pluck'd up root and all by Bolingbroke-
    I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.
  SERVANT. What, are they dead?
  GARDENER. They are; and Bolingbroke
    Hath seiz'd the wasteful King. O, what pity is it
    That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land
    As we this garden! We at time of year
    Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit trees,
    Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood,
    With too much riches it confound itself;
    Had he done so to great and growing men,
    They might have Ev'd to bear, and he to taste
    Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches
    We lop away, that bearing boughs may live;
    Had he done so, himself had home the crown,
    Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.
  SERVANT. What, think you the King shall be deposed?
  GARDENER. Depress'd he is already, and depos'd
    'Tis doubt he will be. Letters came last night  
    To a dear friend of the good Duke of York's
    That tell black tidings.
  QUEEN. O, I am press'd to death through want of speaking!
                                                [Coming forward]
    Thou, old Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden,
    How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news?
    What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested the
    To make a second fall of cursed man?
    Why dost thou say King Richard is depos'd?
    Dar'st thou, thou little better thing than earth,
    Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how,
    Cam'st thou by this ill tidings? Speak, thou wretch.
  GARDENER. Pardon me, madam; little joy have
    To breathe this news; yet what I say is true.
    King Richard, he is in the mighty hold
    Of Bolingbroke. Their fortunes both are weigh'd.
    In your lord's scale is nothing but himself,
    And some few vanities that make him light;
    But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,
    Besides himself, are all the English peers,  
    And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.
    Post you to London, and you will find it so;
    I speak no more than every one doth know.
  QUEEN. Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot,
    Doth not thy embassage belong to me,
    And am I last that knows it? O, thou thinkest
    To serve me last, that I may longest keep
    Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go
    To meet at London London's King in woe.
    What, was I born to this, that my sad look
    Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?
    Gard'ner, for telling me these news of woe,
    Pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow!
                                         Exeunt QUEEN and LADIES
  GARDENER. Poor Queen, so that thy state might be no worse,
    I would my skill were subject to thy curse.
    Here did she fall a tear; here in this place
    I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace.
    Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,
    In the remembrance of a weeping queen.                Exeunt




<>



ACT IV. SCENE 1.
Westminster Hall

Enter, as to the Parliament, BOLINGBROKE, AUMERLE, NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY,
FITZWATER, SURREY, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, the ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER,
and others; HERALD, OFFICERS, and BAGOT

  BOLINGBROKE. Call forth Bagot.
    Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind-
    What thou dost know of noble Gloucester's death;
    Who wrought it with the King, and who perform'd
    The bloody office of his timeless end.
  BAGOT. Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle.
  BOLINGBROKE. Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man.
  BAGOT. My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue
    Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver'd.
    In that dead time when Gloucester's death was plotted
    I heard you say 'Is not my arm of length,
    That reacheth from the restful English Court
    As far as Calais, to mine uncle's head?'
    Amongst much other talk that very time  
    I heard you say that you had rather refuse
    The offer of an hundred thousand crowns
    Than Bolingbroke's return to England;
    Adding withal, how blest this land would be
    In this your cousin's death.
  AUMERLE. Princes, and noble lords,
    What answer shall I make to this base man?
    Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars
    On equal terms to give him chastisement?
    Either I must, or have mine honour soil'd
    With the attainder of his slanderous lips.
    There is my gage, the manual seal of death
    That marks thee out for hell. I say thou liest,
    And will maintain what thou hast said is false
    In thy heart-blood, through being all too base
    To stain the temper of my knightly sword.
  BOLINGBROKE. Bagot, forbear; thou shalt not take it up.
  AUMERLE. Excepting one, I would he were the best
    In all this presence that hath mov'd me so.
  FITZWATER. If that thy valour stand on sympathy,  
    There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine.
    By that fair sun which shows me where thou stand'st,
    I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak'st it,
    That thou wert cause of noble Gloucester's death.
    If thou deniest it twenty times, thou liest;
    And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart,
    Where it was forged, with my rapier's point.
  AUMERLE. Thou dar'st not, coward, live to see that day.
  FITZWATER. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour.
  AUMERLE. Fitzwater, thou art damn'd to hell for this.
  PERCY. Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true
    In this appeal as thou art an unjust;
    And that thou art so, there I throw my gage,
    To prove it on thee to the extremest point
    Of mortal breathing. Seize it, if thou dar'st.
  AUMERLE. An if I do not, may my hands rot of
    And never brandish more revengeful steel
    Over the glittering helmet of my foe!
  ANOTHER LORD. I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle;
    And spur thee on with fun as many lies  
    As may be halloa'd in thy treacherous ear
    From sun to sun. There is my honour's pawn;
    Engage it to the trial, if thou darest.
  AUMERLE. Who sets me else? By heaven, I'll throw at all!
    I have a thousand spirits in one breast
    To answer twenty thousand such as you.
  SURREY. My Lord Fitzwater, I do remember well
    The very time Aumerle and you did talk.
  FITZWATER. 'Tis very true; you were in presence then,
    And you can witness with me this is true.
  SURREY. As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true.
  FITZWATER. Surrey, thou liest.
  SURREY. Dishonourable boy!
    That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword
    That it shall render vengeance and revenge
    Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do he
    In earth as quiet as thy father's skull.
    In proof whereof, there is my honour's pawn;
    Engage it to the trial, if thou dar'st.
  FITZWATER. How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse!  
    If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live,
    I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness,
    And spit upon him whilst I say he lies,
    And lies, and lies. There is my bond of faith,
    To tie thee to my strong correction.
    As I intend to thrive in this new world,
    Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal.
    Besides, I heard the banish'd Norfolk say
    That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men
    To execute the noble Duke at Calais.
  AUMERLE. Some honest Christian trust me with a gage
    That Norfolk lies. Here do I throw down this,
    If he may be repeal'd to try his honour.
  BOLINGBROKE. These differences shall all rest under gage
    Till Norfolk be repeal'd-repeal'd he shall be
    And, though mine enemy, restor'd again
    To all his lands and signories. When he is return'd,
    Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial.
  CARLISLE. That honourable day shall never be seen.
    Many a time hath banish'd Norfolk fought  
    For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field,
    Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross
    Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens;
    And, toil'd with works of war, retir'd himself
    To Italy; and there, at Venice, gave
    His body to that pleasant country's earth,
    And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ,
    Under whose colours he had fought so long.
  BOLINGBROKE. Why, Bishop, is Norfolk dead?
  CARLISLE. As surely as I live, my lord.
  BOLINGBROKE. Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom
    Of good old Abraham! Lords appellants,
    Your differences shall all rest under gage
    Till we assign you to your days of trial

                 Enter YORK, attended

  YORK. Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to the
    From plume-pluck'd Richard, who with willing soul
    Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields  
    To the possession of thy royal hand.
    Ascend his throne, descending now from him-
    And long live Henry, fourth of that name!
  BOLINGBROKE. In God's name, I'll ascend the regal throne.
  CARLISLE. Marry, God forbid!
    Worst in this royal presence may I speak,
    Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth.
    Would God that any in this noble presence
    Were enough noble to be upright judge
    Of noble Richard! Then true noblesse would
    Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong.
    What subject can give sentence on his king?
    And who sits here that is not Richard's subject?
    Thieves are not judg'd but they are by to hear,
    Although apparent guilt be seen in them;
    And shall the figure of God's majesty,
    His captain, steward, deputy elect,
    Anointed, crowned, planted many years,
    Be judg'd by subject and inferior breath,
    And he himself not present? O, forfend it, God,  
    That in a Christian climate souls refin'd
    Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed!
    I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks,
    Stirr'd up by God, thus boldly for his king.
    My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,
    Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king;
    And if you crown him, let me prophesy-
    The blood of English shall manure the ground,
    And future ages groan for this foul act;
    Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,
    And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars
    Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound;
    Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny,
    Shall here inhabit, and this land be call'd
    The field of Golgotha and dead men's skulls.
    O, if you raise this house against this house,
    It will the woefullest division prove
    That ever fell upon this cursed earth.
    Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so,
    Lest child, child's children, cry against you woe.  
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Well have you argued, sir; and, for your pains,
    Of capital treason we arrest you here.
    My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge
    To keep him safely till his day of trial.
    May it please you, lords, to grant the commons' suit?
  BOLINGBROKE. Fetch hither Richard, that in common view
    He may surrender; so we shall proceed
    Without suspicion.
  YORK. I will be his conduct.                              Exit
  BOLINGBROKE. Lords, you that here are under our arrest,
    Procure your sureties for your days of answer.
    Little are we beholding to your love,
    And little look'd for at your helping hands.

      Re-enter YORK, with KING RICHARD, and OFFICERS
                bearing the regalia

  KING RICHARD. Alack, why am I sent for to a king,
    Before I have shook off the regal thoughts
    Wherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd  
    To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee.
    Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me
    To this submission. Yet I well remember
    The favours of these men. Were they not mine?
    Did they not sometime cry 'All hail!' to me?
    So Judas did to Christ; but he, in twelve,
    Found truth in all but one; I, in twelve thousand, none.
    God save the King! Will no man say amen?
    Am I both priest and clerk? Well then, amen.
    God save the King! although I be not he;
    And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me.
    To do what service am I sent for hither?
  YORK. To do that office of thine own good will
    Which tired majesty did make thee offer-
    The resignation of thy state and crown
    To Henry Bolingbroke.
  KING RICHARD. Give me the crown. Here, cousin, seize the crown.
    Here, cousin,
    On this side my hand, and on that side thine.
    Now is this golden crown like a deep well  
    That owes two buckets, filling one another;
    The emptier ever dancing in the air,
    The other down, unseen, and full of water.
    That bucket down and fun of tears am I,
    Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.
  BOLINGBROKE. I thought you had been willing to resign.
  KING RICHARD. My crown I am; but still my griefs are mine.
    You may my glories and my state depose,
    But not my griefs; still am I king of those.
  BOLINGBROKE. Part of your cares you give me with your crown.
  KING RICHARD. Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down.
    My care is loss of care, by old care done;
    Your care is gain of care, by new care won.
    The cares I give I have, though given away;
    They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.
  BOLINGBROKE. Are you contented to resign the crown?
  KING RICHARD. Ay, no; no, ay; for I must nothing be;
    Therefore no no, for I resign to thee.
    Now mark me how I will undo myself:
    I give this heavy weight from off my head,  
    And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand,
    The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;
    With mine own tears I wash away my balm,
    With mine own hands I give away my crown,
    With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,
    With mine own breath release all duteous oaths;
    All pomp and majesty I do forswear;
    My manors, rents, revenues, I forgo;
    My acts, decrees, and statutes, I deny.
    God pardon all oaths that are broke to me!
    God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee!
    Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd,
    And thou with all pleas'd, that hast an achiev'd.
    Long mayst thou live in Richard's seat to sit,
    And soon lie Richard in an earthly pit.
    God save King Henry, unking'd Richard says,
    And send him many years of sunshine days!
    What more remains?
  NORTHUMBERLAND. No more; but that you read
    These accusations, and these grievous crimes  
    Committed by your person and your followers
    Against the state and profit of this land;
    That, by confessing them, the souls of men
    May deem that you are worthily depos'd.
  KING RICHARD. Must I do so? And must I ravel out
    My weav'd-up follies? Gentle Northumberland,
    If thy offences were upon record,
    Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop
    To read a lecture of them? If thou wouldst,
    There shouldst thou find one heinous article,
    Containing the deposing of a king
    And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,
    Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heaven.
    Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me
    Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,
    Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands,
    Showing an outward pity-yet you Pilates
    Have here deliver'd me to my sour cross,
    And water cannot wash away your sin.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, dispatch; read o'er these  
    articles.
  KING RICHARD. Mine eyes are full of tears; I cannot see.
    And yet salt water blinds them not so much
    But they can see a sort of traitors here.
    Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,
    I find myself a traitor with the rest;
    For I have given here my soul's consent
    T'undeck the pompous body of a king;
    Made glory base, and sovereignty a slave,
    Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord-
  KING RICHARD. No lord of thine, thou haught insulting man,
    Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no tide-
    No, not that name was given me at the font-
    But 'tis usurp'd. Alack the heavy day,
    That I have worn so many winters out,
    And know not now what name to call myself!
    O that I were a mockery king of snow,
    Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke
    To melt myself away in water drops!  
    Good king, great king, and yet not greatly good,
    An if my word be sterling yet in England,
    Let it command a mirror hither straight,
    That it may show me what a face I have
    Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.
  BOLINGBROKE. Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass.
                                               Exit an attendant
  NORTHUMBERLAND. Read o'er this paper while the glass doth come.
  KING RICHARD. Fiend, thou torments me ere I come to hell.
  BOLINGBROKE. Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. The Commons will not, then, be satisfied.
  KING RICHARD. They shall be satisfied. I'll read enough,
    When I do see the very book indeed
    Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.

                Re-enter attendant with glass

    Give me that glass, and therein will I read.
    No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
    So many blows upon this face of mine  
    And made no deeper wounds? O flatt'ring glass,
    Like to my followers in prosperity,
    Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face
    That every day under his household roof
    Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face
    That like the sun did make beholders wink?
    Is this the face which fac'd so many follies
    That was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
    A brittle glory shineth in this face;
    As brittle as the glory is the face;
                        [Dashes the glass against the ground]
    For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.
    Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport-
    How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.
  BOLINGBROKE. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd
    The shadow of your face.
  KING RICHARD. Say that again.
    The shadow of my sorrow? Ha! let's see.
    'Tis very true: my grief lies all within;
    And these external manner of laments  
    Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
    That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul.
    There lies the substance; and I thank thee, king,
    For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st
    Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way
    How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,
    And then be gone and trouble you no more.
    Shall I obtain it?
  BOLINGBROKE. Name it, fair cousin.
  KING RICHARD. Fair cousin! I am greater than a king;
    For when I was a king, my flatterers
    Were then but subjects; being now a subject,
    I have a king here to my flatterer.
    Being so great, I have no need to beg.
  BOLINGBROKE. Yet ask.
  KING RICHARD. And shall I have?
  BOLINGBROKE. You shall.
  KING RICHARD. Then give me leave to go.
  BOLINGBROKE. Whither?
  KING RICHARD. Whither you will, so I were from your sights.  
  BOLINGBROKE. Go, some of you convey him to the Tower.
  KING RICHARD. O, good! Convey! Conveyers are you all,
    That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall.
                     Exeunt KING RICHARD, some Lords and a Guard
  BOLINGBROKE. On Wednesday next we solemnly set down
    Our coronation. Lords, prepare yourselves.
                    Exeunt all but the ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER, the
                                 BISHOP OF CARLISLE, and AUMERLE
  ABBOT. A woeful pageant have we here beheld.
  CARLISLE. The woe's to come; the children yet unborn
    Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.
  AUMERLE. You holy clergymen, is there no plot
    To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?
  ABBOT. My lord,
    Before I freely speak my mind herein,
    You shall not only take the sacrament
    To bury mine intents, but also to effect
    Whatever I shall happen to devise.
    I see your brows are full of discontent,
    Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears.  
    Come home with me to supper; I will lay
    A plot shall show us all a merry day.                 Exeunt




<>



ACT V. SCENE 1.
London. A street leading to the Tower

Enter the QUEEN, with her attendants

  QUEEN. This way the King will come; this is the way
    To Julius Caesar's ill-erected tower,
    To whose flint bosom my condemned lord
    Is doom'd a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke.
    Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth
    Have any resting for her true King's queen.

            Enter KING RICHARD and Guard

    But soft, but see, or rather do not see,
    My fair rose wither. Yet look up, behold,
    That you in pity may dissolve to dew,
    And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.
    Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand;
    Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb,
    And not King Richard; thou most beauteous inn,
    Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee,  
    When triumph is become an alehouse guest?
  KING RICHARD. 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
    Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France,
    And cloister thee in some religious house.
    Our holy lives must win a new world's crown,
    Which our profane hours here have thrown down.
  QUEEN. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind
    Transform'd and weak'ned? Hath Bolingbroke depos'd
    Thine intellect? Hath he been in thy heart?
    The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw
    And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage
    To be o'erpow'r'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like,
    Take the correction mildly, kiss the rod,
    And fawn on rage with base humility,
    Which art a lion and the king of beasts?  
  KING RICHARD. A king of beasts, indeed! If aught but beasts,
    I had been still a happy king of men.
    Good sometimes queen, prepare thee hence for France.
    Think I am dead, and that even here thou takest,
    As from my death-bed, thy last living leave.
    In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire
    With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales
    Of woeful ages long ago betid;
    And ere thou bid good night, to quit their griefs
    Tell thou the lamentable tale of me,
    And send the hearers weeping to their beds;
    For why, the senseless brands will sympathize
    The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,
    And in compassion weep the fire out;
    And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,
    For the deposing of a rightful king.

             Enter NORTHUMBERLAND attended

  NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd;  
    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.
  KING RICHARD. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
    The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,
    The time shall not be many hours of age
    More than it is, ere foul sin gathering head
    Shall break into corruption. Thou shalt think
    Though he divide the realm and give thee half
    It is too little, helping him to all;
    And he shall think that thou, which knowest the way
    To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,
    Being ne'er so little urg'd, another way
    To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.
    The love of wicked men converts to fear;
    That fear to hate; and hate turns one or both
    To worthy danger and deserved death.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. My guilt be on my head, and there an end.
    Take leave, and part; for you must part forthwith.
  KING RICHARD. Doubly divorc'd! Bad men, you violate  
    A twofold marriage-'twixt my crown and me,
    And then betwixt me and my married wife.
    Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me;
    And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made.
    Part us, Northumberland; I towards the north,
    Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime;
    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?
  KING RICHARD. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.
  QUEEN. Banish us both, and send the King with me.
  NORTHUMBERLAND. That were some love, but little policy.
  QUEEN. Then whither he goes thither let me go.
  KING RICHARD. So two, together weeping, make one woe.
    Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here;
    Better far off than near, be ne'er the near.
    Go, count thy way with sighs; I mine with groans.
  QUEEN. So longest way shall have the longest moans.
  KING RICHARD. 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 take I thy heart.
  QUEEN. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good part
    To take on me to keep and kill thy heart.
    So, now I have mine own again, be gone.
    That I may strive to kill it with a groan.
  KING RICHARD. We make woe wanton with this fond delay.
    Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say.            Exeunt




SCENE 2.
The DUKE OF YORK's palace

Enter the DUKE OF YORK and the DUCHESS

  DUCHESS. My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest,
    When weeping made you break the story off,
    Of our two cousins' coming into London.
  YORK. Where did I leave?
  DUCHESS. At that sad stop, my lord,
    Where rude misgoverned hands from windows' tops
    Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head.
  YORK. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,
    Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed
    Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,
    With slow but stately pace kept on his course,
    Whilst all tongues cried 'God save thee, Bolingbroke!'
    You would have thought the very windows spake,
    So many greedy looks of young and old
    Through casements darted their desiring eyes
    Upon his visage; and that all the walls
    With painted imagery had said at once  
    'Jesu preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke!'
    Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning,
    Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed's neck,
    Bespake them thus, 'I thank you, countrymen.'
    And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.
  DUCHESS. Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst?
  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 eyes
    Did scowl on gentle Richard; no man cried 'God save him!'
    No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;
    But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
    Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
    His face still combating with tears and smiles,
    The badges of his grief and patience,
    That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
    The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
    And barbarism itself have pitied him.  
    But heaven hath a hand in these events,
    To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
    To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
    Whose state and honour I for aye allow.
  DUCHESS. Here comes my son Aumerle.
  YORK. Aumerle that was
    But that is lost for being Richard's friend,
    And madam, you must call him Rudand now.
    I am in Parliament pledge for his truth
    And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

                  Enter AUMERLE

  DUCHESS. Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now
    That strew the green lap of the new come spring?
  AUMERLE. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not.
    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? Do these justs and triumphs hold?  
  AUMERLE. For aught I know, my lord, they do.
  YORK. You will be there, I know.
  AUMERLE. If God prevent not, I purpose so.
  YORK. What seal is that that without thy bosom?
    Yea, look'st thou pale? Let me see the writing.
  AUMERLE. My lord, 'tis nothing.
  YORK. No matter, then, who see it.
    I will be satisfied; let me see the writing.
  AUMERLE. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me;
    It is a matter of small consequence
    Which for some reasons I would not have seen.
  YORK. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
    I fear, I fear-
  DUCHESS. What should you fear?
    'Tis nothing but some bond that he is ent'red into
    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.
  AUMERLE. I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not show it.  
  YORK. I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say.
                [He plucks it out of his bosom, and reads it]
    Treason, foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave!
  DUCHESS. 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!
  DUCHESS. Why, York, what is it, my lord?
  YORK. Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse.
                                                    Exit servant
    Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth,
    I will appeach the villain.
  DUCHESS. What is the matter?
  YORK. Peace, foolish woman.
  DUCHESS. I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?
  AUMERLE. Good mother, be content; it is no more
    Than my poor life must answer.  
  DUCHESS. Thy life answer!
  YORK. Bring me my boots. I will unto the King.

              His man enters with his boots

  DUCHESS. Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amaz'd.
    Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.
  YORK. Give me my boots, I say.
  DUCHESS. Why, York, what wilt thou do?
    Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
    Have we more sons? or are we like to have?
    Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
    And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age
    And rob me of a happy mother's name?
    Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own?
  YORK. Thou fond mad woman,
    Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
    A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
    And interchangeably set down their hands
    To kill the King at Oxford.  
  DUCHESS. He shall be none;
    We'll keep him here. Then what is that to him?
  YORK. Away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son
    I would appeach him.
  DUCHESS. Hadst thou groan'd for him
    As I have done, thou wouldst 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.
    Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind.
    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!                             Exit
  DUCHESS. After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse;
    Spur post, and get before him to the King,
    And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
    I'll not be long behind; though I be old,
    I doubt not but to ride as fast as York;
    And never will I rise up from the ground  
    Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away, be gone.
                                                          Exeunt




SCENE 3.
Windsor Castle

Enter BOLINGBROKE as King, PERCY, and other LORDS

  BOLINGBROKE. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son?
    'Tis full three months since I did see him last.
    If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.
    I would to God, my lords, he might be found.
    Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there,
    For there, they say, he daily doth frequent
    With unrestrained loose companions,
    Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes
    And beat our watch and rob our passengers,
    Which he, young wanton and effeminate boy,
    Takes on the point of honour to support
    So dissolute a crew.
  PERCY. My lord, some two days since I saw the Prince,
    And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford.
  BOLINGBROKE. And what said the gallant?
  PERCY. His answer was, he would unto the stews,
    And from the common'st creature pluck a glove  
    And wear it as a favour; and with that
    He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.
  BOLINGBROKE. As dissolute as desperate; yet through both
    I see some sparks of better hope, which elder years
    May happily bring forth. But who comes here?

                Enter AUMERLE amazed

  AUMERLE. Where is the King?
  BOLINGBROKE. What means our cousin that he stares and looks
    So wildly?
  AUMERLE. God save your Grace! I do beseech your Majesty,
    To have some conference with your Grace alone.
  BOLINGBROKE. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.
                                          Exeunt PERCY and LORDS
    What is the matter with our cousin now?
  AUMERLE. 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.  
  BOLINGBROKE. Intended or committed was this fault?
    If on the first, how heinous e'er it be,
    To win thy after-love I pardon thee.
  AUMERLE. Then give me leave that I may turn the key,
    That no man enter till my tale be done.
  BOLINGBROKE. Have thy desire.
            [The DUKE OF YORK knocks at the door and crieth]
  YORK. [Within] My liege, beware; look to thyself;
    Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.
  BOLINGBROKE. [Drawing] Villain, I'll make thee safe.
  AUMERLE. Stay thy revengeful hand; thou hast no cause to fear.
  YORK. [Within] Open the door, secure, foolhardy King.
    Shall I, for love, speak treason to thy face?
    Open the door, or I will break it open.

                    Enter YORK

  BOLINGBROKE. What is the matter, uncle? Speak;
    Recover breath; tell us how near is danger,
    That we may arm us to encounter it.
  YORK. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know  
    The treason that my haste forbids me show.
  AUMERLE. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise pass'd.
    I do repent me; read not my name there;
    My heart is not confederate with my hand.
  YORK. It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.
    I tore it from the traitor's bosom, King;
    Fear, and not love, begets his penitence.
    Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove
    A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.
  BOLINGBROKE. O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!
    O loyal father of a treacherous son!
    Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,
    From whence this stream through muddy passages
    Hath held his current and defil'd himself!
    Thy overflow of good converts to bad;
    And thy abundant goodness shall excuse
    This deadly blot in thy digressing son.
  YORK. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd;
    And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,
    As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold.  
    Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,
    Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies.
    Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath,
    The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.
  DUCHESS. [Within] I What ho, my liege, for God's sake, let me in.
  BOLINGBROKE. What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes this eager cry?
  DUCHESS. [Within] A woman, and thine aunt, great King; 'tis I.
    Speak with me, pity me, open the door.
    A beggar begs that never begg'd before.
  BOLINGBROKE. Our scene is alt'red from a serious thing,
    And now chang'd to 'The Beggar and the King.'
    My dangerous cousin, let your mother in.
    I know she is come to pray for your foul sin.
  YORK. If thou do pardon whosoever pray,
    More sins for this forgiveness prosper may.
    This fest'red joint cut off, the rest rest sound;
    This let alone will all the rest confound.

                 Enter DUCHESS
  
  DUCHESS. O King, believe not this hard-hearted man!
    Love loving not itself, none other can.
  YORK. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here?
    Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?
  DUCHESS. Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, gentle liege.
                                                     [Kneels]
  BOLINGBROKE. Rise up, good aunt.
  DUCHESS. Not yet, I thee beseech.
    For ever will I walk upon my knees,
    And never see day that the happy sees
    Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy
    By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.
  AUMERLE. Unto my mother's prayers I bend my knee.
                                                     [Kneels]
  YORK. Against them both, my true joints bended be.
                                                     [Kneels]
    Ill mayst thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!
  DUCHESS. Pleads he in earnest? Look upon his face;
    His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest;
    His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast.  
    He prays but faintly and would be denied;
    We pray with heart and soul, and all beside.
    His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;
    Our knees still kneel till to the ground they grow.
    His prayers are full of false hypocrisy;
    Ours of true zeal and deep integrity.
    Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have
    That mercy which true prayer ought to have.
  BOLINGBROKE. Good aunt, stand up.
  DUCHESS. do not say 'stand up';
    Say 'pardon' first, and afterwards 'stand up.'
    An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
    'Pardon' should be the first word of thy speech.
    I never long'd to hear a word till now;
    Say 'pardon,' King; let pity teach thee how.
    The word is short, but not so short as sweet;
    No word like 'pardon' for kings' mouths so meet.
  YORK. Speak it in French, King, say 'pardonne moy.'
  DUCHESS. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?
    Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,  
    That sets 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.
  BOLINGBROKE. Good aunt, stand up.
  DUCHESS. I do not sue to stand;
    Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.
  BOLINGBROKE. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.
  DUCHESS. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
    Yet am I sick for fear. Speak it again.
    Twice saying 'pardon' doth not pardon twain,
    But makes one pardon strong.
  BOLINGBROKE. With all my heart
    I pardon him.
  DUCHESS. A god on earth thou art.
  BOLINGBROKE. But for our trusty brother-in-law and the Abbot,
    With all the rest of that consorted crew,  
    Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.
    Good uncle, help to order several powers
    To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are.
    They shall not live within this world, I swear,
    But I will have them, if I once know where.
    Uncle, farewell; and, cousin, adieu;
    Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.
  DUCHESS. Come, my old son; I pray God make thee new.      Exeunt




SCENE 4.
Windsor Castle

Enter SIR PIERCE OF EXTON and a servant

  EXTON. Didst thou not mark the King, what words he spake?
    'Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?'
    Was it not so?
  SERVANT. These were his very words.
  EXTON. 'Have I no friend?' quoth he. He spake it twice
    And urg'd it twice together, did he not?
  SERVANT. He did.
  EXTON. And, speaking it, he wishtly look'd on me,
    As who should say 'I would thou wert the man
    That would divorce this terror from my heart';
    Meaning the King at Pomfret. Come, let's go.
    I am the King's friend, and will rid his foe.         Exeunt




SCENE 5.
Pomfret Castle. The dungeon of the Castle

Enter KING RICHARD

  KING RICHARD. I have been studying how I may compare
    This prison where I live unto the world
    And, for because the world is populous
    And here is not a creature but myself,
    I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.
    My brain I'll prove the female to my soul,
    My soul the father; and these two beget
    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
    With scruples, and do set the word itself
    Against the word,
    As thus: 'Come, little ones'; and then again,
    'It is as hard to come as for a camel
    To thread the postern of a small needle's eye.'  
    Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot
    Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails
    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, refuge their shame,
    That many have and others must sit there;
    And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
    Bearing their own misfortunes 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 treasons make 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 be,
    Nor I, nor any man that but man is,
    With nothing shall be pleas'd till he be eas'd
    With being nothing.                    [The music plays]
    Music do I hear?
    Ha, ha! keep time. How sour sweet music is
    When time is broke and no proportion kept!
    So is it in the music 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 sound that tells what hour it is
    Are clamorous groans which 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,
    While I stand fooling here, his Jack of the clock.
    This music mads me. Let it sound no more;
    For though it have holp 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.

              Enter a GROOM of the stable

  GROOM. Hail, royal Prince!
  KING RICHARD. 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
    To look upon my sometimes royal master's face.
    O, how it ern'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,
    How went he under him?
  GROOM. So proudly as if he disdain'd the ground.
  KING RICHARD. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!
    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,
    Spurr'd, gall'd, and tir'd, by jauncing Bolingbroke.

              Enter KEEPER with meat

  KEEPER. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.
  KING RICHARD. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away.
  GROOM. my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say.
 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!
    Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.
                                           [Beats the KEEPER]
  KEEPER. Help, help, help!
    The murderers, EXTON and servants, rush in, 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.
                                                       [Dies]
  EXTON. As full of valour as of royal blood.
    Both have I spill'd. 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.       Exeunt




SCENE 6.
Windsor Castle

Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE, the DUKE OF YORK, With other LORDS
and attendants

  BOLINGBROKE. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear
    Is that the rebels have consum'd with fire
    Our town of Ciceter in Gloucestershire;
    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.
  BOLINGBROKE. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;
    And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
  
                  Enter FITZWATER

  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, hearing 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 Bordeaux, 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 thorough shades 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.
    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.                  Exeunt

THE END



<>





1593

KING RICHARD III

by William Shakespeare


Dramatis Personae

  EDWARD THE FOURTH

    Sons to the King
  EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES afterwards KING EDWARD V
  RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK,

    Brothers to the King
  GEORGE, DUKE OF CLARENCE,
  RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, afterwards KING RICHARD III

  A YOUNG SON OF CLARENCE (Edward, Earl of Warwick)
  HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND, afterwards KING HENRY VII
  CARDINAL BOURCHIER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY
  THOMAS ROTHERHAM, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
  JOHN MORTON, BISHOP OF ELY
  DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM
  DUKE OF NORFOLK
  EARL OF SURREY, his son
  EARL RIVERS, brother to King Edward's Queen
  MARQUIS OF DORSET and LORD GREY, her sons
  EARL OF OXFORD  
  LORD HASTINGS
  LORD LOVEL
  LORD STANLEY, called also EARL OF DERBY
  SIR THOMAS VAUGHAN
  SIR RICHARD RATCLIFF
  SIR WILLIAM CATESBY
  SIR JAMES TYRREL
  SIR JAMES BLOUNT
  SIR WALTER HERBERT
  SIR WILLIAM BRANDON
  SIR ROBERT BRAKENBURY, Lieutenant of the Tower
  CHRISTOPHER URSWICK, a priest
  LORD MAYOR OF LONDON
  SHERIFF OF WILTSHIRE
  HASTINGS, a pursuivant
  TRESSEL and BERKELEY, gentlemen attending on Lady Anne
  ELIZABETH, Queen to King Edward IV
  MARGARET, widow of King Henry VI
  DUCHESS OF YORK, mother to King Edward IV
  LADY ANNE, widow of Edward, Prince of Wales, son to King  
    Henry VI; afterwards married to the Duke of Gloucester
  A YOUNG DAUGHTER OF CLARENCE (Margaret Plantagenet,
    Countess of Salisbury)
  Ghosts, of Richard's victims
  Lords, Gentlemen, and Attendants; Priest, Scrivener, Page, Bishops,
    Aldermen, Citizens, Soldiers, Messengers, Murderers, Keeper




<>



SCENE: England

King Richard the Third



ACT I. SCENE 1.

London. A street

Enter RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, solus

  GLOUCESTER. Now is the winter of our discontent
    Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
    And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
    In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
    Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
    Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
    Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings,
    Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
    Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front,
    And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
    To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
    He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
    To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
    But I-that am not shap'd for sportive tricks,
    Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass-
    I-that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
    To strut before a wanton ambling nymph-  
    I-that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
    Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
    Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time
    Into this breathing world scarce half made up,
    And that so lamely and unfashionable
    That dogs bark at me as I halt by them-
    Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
    Have no delight to pass away the time,
    Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
    And descant on mine own deformity.
    And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover
    To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
    I am determined to prove a villain
    And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
    Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
    By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,
    To set my brother Clarence and the King
    In deadly hate the one against the other;
    And if King Edward be as true and just
    As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,  
    This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up-
    About a prophecy which says that G
    Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.
    Dive, thoughts, down to my soul. Here Clarence comes.

             Enter CLARENCE, guarded, and BRAKENBURY

    Brother, good day. What means this armed guard
    That waits upon your Grace?
  CLARENCE. His Majesty,
    Tend'ring my person's safety, hath appointed
    This conduct to convey me to th' Tower.
  GLOUCESTER. Upon what cause?
  CLARENCE. Because my name is George.
  GLOUCESTER. Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours:
    He should, for that, commit your godfathers.
    O, belike his Majesty hath some intent
    That you should be new-christ'ned in the Tower.
    But what's the matter, Clarence? May I know?
  CLARENCE. Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest  
    As yet I do not; but, as I can learn,
    He hearkens after prophecies and dreams,
    And from the cross-row plucks the letter G,
    And says a wizard told him that by G
    His issue disinherited should be;
    And, for my name of George begins with G,
    It follows in his thought that I am he.
    These, as I learn, and such like toys as these
    Hath mov'd his Highness to commit me now.
  GLOUCESTER. Why, this it is when men are rul'd by women:
    'Tis not the King that sends you to the Tower;
    My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, 'tis she
    That tempers him to this extremity.
    Was it not she and that good man of worship,
    Antony Woodville, her brother there,
    That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower,
    From whence this present day he is delivered?
    We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.
  CLARENCE. By heaven, I think there is no man is secure
    But the Queen's kindred, and night-walking heralds  
    That trudge betwixt the King and Mistress Shore.
    Heard you not what an humble suppliant
    Lord Hastings was, for her delivery?
  GLOUCESTER. Humbly complaining to her deity
    Got my Lord Chamberlain his liberty.
    I'll tell you what-I think it is our way,
    If we will keep in favour with the King,
    To be her men and wear her livery:
    The jealous o'er-worn widow, and herself,
    Since that our brother dubb'd them gentlewomen,
    Are mighty gossips in our monarchy.
  BRAKENBURY. I beseech your Graces both to pardon me:
    His Majesty hath straitly given in charge
    That no man shall have private conference,
    Of what degree soever, with your brother.
  GLOUCESTER. Even so; an't please your worship, Brakenbury,
    You may partake of any thing we say:
    We speak no treason, man; we say the King
    Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen
    Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous;  
    We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot,
    A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;
    And that the Queen's kindred are made gentlefolks.
    How say you, sir? Can you deny all this?
  BRAKENBURY. With this, my lord, myself have naught to do.
  GLOUCESTER. Naught to do with Mistress Shore! I tell thee,
    fellow,
    He that doth naught with her, excepting one,
    Were best to do it secretly alone.
  BRAKENBURY. What one, my lord?
  GLOUCESTER. Her husband, knave! Wouldst thou betray me?
  BRAKENBURY. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, and
    withal
    Forbear your conference with the noble Duke.
  CLARENCE. We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will
    obey.
  GLOUCESTER. We are the Queen's abjects and must obey.
    Brother, farewell; I will unto the King;
    And whatsoe'er you will employ me in-
    Were it to call King Edward's widow sister-  
    I will perform it to enfranchise you.
    Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood
    Touches me deeper than you can imagine.
  CLARENCE. I know it pleaseth neither of us well.
  GLOUCESTER. Well, your imprisonment shall not be long;
    I will deliver or else lie for you.
    Meantime, have patience.
  CLARENCE. I must perforce. Farewell.
                          Exeunt CLARENCE, BRAKENBURY, and guard
  GLOUCESTER. Go tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return.
    Simple, plain Clarence, I do love thee so
    That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,
    If heaven will take the present at our hands.
    But who comes here? The new-delivered Hastings?

                       Enter LORD HASTINGS

  HASTINGS. Good time of day unto my gracious lord!
  GLOUCESTER. As much unto my good Lord Chamberlain!
    Well are you welcome to the open air.  
    How hath your lordship brook'd imprisonment?
  HASTINGS. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must;
    But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks
    That were the cause of my imprisonment.
  GLOUCESTER. No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too;
    For they that were your enemies are his,
    And have prevail'd as much on him as you.
  HASTINGS. More pity that the eagles should be mew'd
    Whiles kites and buzzards prey at liberty.
  GLOUCESTER. What news abroad?
  HASTINGS. No news so bad abroad as this at home:
    The King is sickly, weak, and melancholy,
    And his physicians fear him mightily.
  GLOUCESTER. Now, by Saint John, that news is bad indeed.
    O, he hath kept an evil diet long
    And overmuch consum'd his royal person!
    'Tis very grievous to be thought upon.
    Where is he? In his bed?
  HASTINGS. He is.
  GLOUCESTER. Go you before, and I will follow you.  
                                                   Exit HASTINGS
    He cannot live, I hope, and must not die
    Till George be pack'd with posthorse up to heaven.
    I'll in to urge his hatred more to Clarence
    With lies well steel'd with weighty arguments;
    And, if I fail not in my deep intent,
    Clarence hath not another day to live;
    Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy,
    And leave the world for me to bustle in!
    For then I'll marry Warwick's youngest daughter.
    What though I kill'd her husband and her father?
    The readiest way to make the wench amends
    Is to become her husband and her father;
    The which will I-not all so much for love
    As for another secret close intent
    By marrying her which I must reach unto.
    But yet I run before my horse to market.
    Clarence still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns;
    When they are gone, then must I count my gains.         Exit




SCENE 2.

London. Another street

Enter corpse of KING HENRY THE SIXTH, with halberds to guard it;
LADY ANNE being the mourner, attended by TRESSEL and BERKELEY

  ANNE. Set down, set down your honourable load-
    If honour may be shrouded in a hearse;
    Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament
    Th' untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.
    Poor key-cold figure of a holy king!
    Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster!
    Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood!
    Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost
    To hear the lamentations of poor Anne,
    Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtered son,
    Stabb'd by the self-same hand that made these wounds.
    Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life
    I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.
    O, cursed be the hand that made these holes!
    Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it!  
    Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence!
    More direful hap betide that hated wretch
    That makes us wretched by the death of thee
    Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads,
    Or any creeping venom'd thing that lives!
    If ever he have child, abortive be it,
    Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,
    Whose ugly and unnatural aspect
    May fright the hopeful mother at the view,
    And that be heir to his unhappiness!
    If ever he have wife, let her be made
    More miserable by the death of him
    Than I am made by my young lord and thee!
    Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load,
    Taken from Paul's to be interred there;
    And still as you are weary of this weight
    Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry's corse.
                                [The bearers take up the coffin]

                      Enter GLOUCESTER  

  GLOUCESTER. Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.
  ANNE. What black magician conjures up this fiend
    To stop devoted charitable deeds?
  GLOUCESTER. Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul,
    I'll make a corse of him that disobeys!
  FIRST GENTLEMAN. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin
    pass.
  GLOUCESTER. Unmannerd dog! Stand thou, when I command.
    Advance thy halberd higher than my breast,
    Or, by Saint Paul, I'll strike thee to my foot
    And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.
                               [The bearers set down the coffin]
  ANNE. What, do you tremble? Are you all afraid?
    Alas, I blame you not, for you are mortal,
    And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.
    Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell!
    Thou hadst but power over his mortal body,
    His soul thou canst not have; therefore, be gone.
  GLOUCESTER. Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.  
  ANNE. Foul devil, for God's sake, hence and trouble us not;
    For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell
    Fill'd it with cursing cries and deep exclaims.
    If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,
    Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.
    O, gentlemen, see, see! Dead Henry's wounds
    Open their congeal'd mouths and bleed afresh.
    Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity,
    For 'tis thy presence that exhales this blood
    From cold and empty veins where no blood dwells;
    Thy deeds inhuman and unnatural
    Provokes this deluge most unnatural.
    O God, which this blood mad'st, revenge his death!
    O earth, which this blood drink'st, revenge his death!
    Either, heav'n, with lightning strike the murd'rer dead;
    Or, earth, gape open wide and eat him quick,
    As thou dost swallow up this good king's blood,
    Which his hell-govern'd arm hath butchered.
  GLOUCESTER. Lady, you know no rules of charity,
    Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.  
  ANNE. Villain, thou knowest nor law of God nor man:
    No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.
  GLOUCESTER. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.
  ANNE. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!
  GLOUCESTER. More wonderful when angels are so angry.
    Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,
    Of these supposed crimes to give me leave
    By circumstance but to acquit myself.
  ANNE. Vouchsafe, diffus'd infection of a man,
    Of these known evils but to give me leave
    By circumstance to accuse thy cursed self.
  GLOUCESTER. Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have
    Some patient leisure to excuse myself.
  ANNE. Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make
    No excuse current but to hang thyself.
  GLOUCESTER. By such despair I should accuse myself.
  ANNE. And by despairing shalt thou stand excused
    For doing worthy vengeance on thyself
    That didst unworthy slaughter upon others.
  GLOUCESTER. Say that I slew them not?  
  ANNE. Then say they were not slain.
    But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee.
  GLOUCESTER. I did not kill your husband.
  ANNE. Why, then he is alive.
  GLOUCESTER. Nay, he is dead, and slain by Edward's hands.
  ANNE. In thy foul throat thou liest: Queen Margaret saw
    Thy murd'rous falchion smoking in his blood;
    The which thou once didst bend against her breast,
    But that thy brothers beat aside the point.
  GLOUCESTER. I was provoked by her sland'rous tongue
    That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.
  ANNE. Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind,
    That never dream'st on aught but butcheries.
    Didst thou not kill this king?
  GLOUCESTER. I grant ye.
  ANNE. Dost grant me, hedgehog? Then, God grant me to
    Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed!
    O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous!
  GLOUCESTER. The better for the King of Heaven, that hath
    him.  
  ANNE. He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come.
  GLOUCESTER. Let him thank me that holp to send him
    thither,
    For he was fitter for that place than earth.
  ANNE. And thou unfit for any place but hell.
  GLOUCESTER. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.
  ANNE. Some dungeon.
  GLOUCESTER. Your bed-chamber.
  ANNE. Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest!
  GLOUCESTER. So will it, madam, till I lie with you.
  ANNE. I hope so.
  GLOUCESTER. I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne,
    To leave this keen encounter of our wits,
    And fall something into a slower method-
    Is not the causer of the timeless deaths
    Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward,
    As blameful as the executioner?
  ANNE. Thou wast the cause and most accurs'd effect.
  GLOUCESTER. Your beauty was the cause of that effect-
    Your beauty that did haunt me in my sleep  
    To undertake the death of all the world
    So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom.
  ANNE. If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide,
    These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.
  GLOUCESTER. These eyes could not endure that beauty's
    wreck;
    You should not blemish it if I stood by.
    As all the world is cheered by the sun,
    So I by that; it is my day, my life.
  ANNE. Black night o'ershade thy day, and death thy life!
  GLOUCESTER. Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both.
  ANNE. I would I were, to be reveng'd on thee.
  GLOUCESTER. It is a quarrel most unnatural,
    To be reveng'd on him that loveth thee.
  ANNE. It is a quarrel just and reasonable,
    To be reveng'd on him that kill'd my husband.
  GLOUCESTER. He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband
    Did it to help thee to a better husband.
  ANNE. His better doth not breathe upon the earth.
  GLOUCESTER. He lives that loves thee better than he could.  
  ANNE. Name him.
  GLOUCESTER. Plantagenet.
  ANNE. Why, that was he.
  GLOUCESTER. The self-same name, but one of better nature.
  ANNE. Where is he?
  GLOUCESTER. Here.  [She spits at him]  Why dost thou spit
    at me?
  ANNE. Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake!
  GLOUCESTER. Never came poison from so sweet a place.
  ANNE. Never hung poison on a fouler toad.
    Out of my sight! Thou dost infect mine eyes.
  GLOUCESTER. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.
  ANNE. Would they were basilisks to strike thee dead!
  GLOUCESTER. I would they were, that I might die at once;
    For now they kill me with a living death.
    Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears,
    Sham'd their aspects with store of childish drops-
    These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear,
    No, when my father York and Edward wept
    To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made  
    When black-fac'd Clifford shook his sword at him;
    Nor when thy warlike father, like a child,
    Told the sad story of my father's death,
    And twenty times made pause to sob and weep
    That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks
    Like trees bedash'd with rain-in that sad time
    My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear;
    And what these sorrows could not thence exhale
    Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.
    I never sued to friend nor enemy;
    My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word;
    But, now thy beauty is propos'd my fee,
    My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.
                                   [She looks scornfully at him]
    Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made
    For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.
    If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,
    Lo here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword;
    Which if thou please to hide in this true breast
    And let the soul forth that adoreth thee,  
    I lay it naked to the deadly stroke,
    And humbly beg the death upon my knee.
      [He lays his breast open; she offers at it with his sword]
    Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry-
    But 'twas thy beauty that provoked me.
    Nay, now dispatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward-
    But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on.
                                           [She falls the sword]
    Take up the sword again, or take up me.
  ANNE. Arise, dissembler; though I wish thy death,
    I will not be thy executioner.
  GLOUCESTER. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it;
  ANNE. I have already.
  GLOUCESTER. That was in thy rage.
    Speak it again, and even with the word
    This hand, which for thy love did kill thy love,
    Shall for thy love kill a far truer love;
    To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary.
  ANNE. I would I knew thy heart.
  GLOUCESTER. 'Tis figur'd in my tongue.  
  ANNE. I fear me both are false.
  GLOUCESTER. Then never was man true.
  ANNE. well put up your sword.
  GLOUCESTER. Say, then, my peace is made.
  ANNE. That shalt thou know hereafter.
  GLOUCESTER. But shall I live in hope?
  ANNE. All men, I hope, live so.
  GLOUCESTER. Vouchsafe to wear this ring.
  ANNE. To take is not to give.               [Puts on the ring]
  GLOUCESTER. Look how my ring encompasseth thy finger,
    Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart;
    Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.
    And if thy poor devoted servant may
    But beg one favour at thy gracious hand,
    Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.
  ANNE. What is it?
  GLOUCESTER. That it may please you leave these sad designs
    To him that hath most cause to be a mourner,
    And presently repair to Crosby House;
    Where-after I have solemnly interr'd  
    At Chertsey monast'ry this noble king,
    And wet his grave with my repentant tears-
    I will with all expedient duty see you.
    For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you,
    Grant me this boon.
  ANNE. With all my heart; and much it joys me too
    To see you are become so penitent.
    Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me.
  GLOUCESTER. Bid me farewell.
  ANNE. 'Tis more than you deserve;
    But since you teach me how to flatter you,
    Imagine I have said farewell already.
                             Exeunt two GENTLEMEN With LADY ANNE
  GLOUCESTER. Sirs, take up the corse.
  GENTLEMEN. Towards Chertsey, noble lord?
  GLOUCESTER. No, to White Friars; there attend my coming.
                                       Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER
    Was ever woman in this humour woo'd?
    Was ever woman in this humour won?
    I'll have her; but I will not keep her long.  
    What! I that kill'd her husband and his father-
    To take her in her heart's extremest hate,
    With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,
    The bleeding witness of my hatred by;
    Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me,
    And I no friends to back my suit at all
    But the plain devil and dissembling looks,
    And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!
    Ha!
    Hath she forgot already that brave prince,
    Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,
    Stabb'd in my angry mood at Tewksbury?
    A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman-
    Fram'd in the prodigality of nature,
    Young, valiant, wise, and no doubt right royal-
    The spacious world cannot again afford;
    And will she yet abase her eyes on me,
    That cropp'd the golden prime of this sweet prince
    And made her widow to a woeful bed?
    On me, whose all not equals Edward's moiety?  
    On me, that halts and am misshapen thus?
    My dukedom to a beggarly denier,
    I do mistake my person all this while.
    Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
    Myself to be a marv'llous proper man.
    I'll be at charges for a looking-glass,
    And entertain a score or two of tailors
    To study fashions to adorn my body.
    Since I am crept in favour with myself,
    I will maintain it with some little cost.
    But first I'll turn yon fellow in his grave,
    And then return lamenting to my love.
    Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,
    That I may see my shadow as I pass.                     Exit




SCENE 3.

London. The palace

Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, LORD RIVERS, and LORD GREY

  RIVERS. Have patience, madam; there's no doubt his Majesty
    Will soon recover his accustom'd health.
  GREY. In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse;
    Therefore, for God's sake, entertain good comfort,
    And cheer his Grace with quick and merry eyes.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. If he were dead, what would betide on
    me?
  GREY. No other harm but loss of such a lord.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. The loss of such a lord includes all
    harms.
  GREY. The heavens have bless'd you with a goodly son
    To be your comforter when he is gone.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, he is young; and his minority
    Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester,
    A man that loves not me, nor none of you.
  RIVER. Is it concluded he shall be Protector?  
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. It is determin'd, not concluded yet;
    But so it must be, if the King miscarry.

                     Enter BUCKINGHAM and DERBY

  GREY. Here come the Lords of Buckingham and Derby.
  BUCKINGHAM. Good time of day unto your royal Grace!
  DERBY. God make your Majesty joyful as you have been.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. The Countess Richmond, good my Lord
    of Derby,
    To your good prayer will scarcely say amen.
    Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she's your wife
    And loves not me, be you, good lord, assur'd
    I hate not you for her proud arrogance.
  DERBY. I do beseech you, either not believe
    The envious slanders of her false accusers;
    Or, if she be accus'd on true report,
    Bear with her weakness, which I think proceeds
    From wayward sickness and no grounded malice.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. Saw you the King to-day, my Lord of  
    Derby?
  DERBY. But now the Duke of Buckingham and I
    Are come from visiting his Majesty.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. What likelihood of his amendment,
    Lords?
  BUCKINGHAM. Madam, good hope; his Grace speaks
    cheerfully.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. God grant him health! Did you confer
    with him?
  BUCKINGHAM. Ay, madam; he desires to make atonement
    Between the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers,
    And between them and my Lord Chamberlain;
    And sent to warn them to his royal presence.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. Would all were well! But that will
    never be.
    I fear our happiness is at the height.

              Enter GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and DORSET

  GLOUCESTER. They do me wrong, and I will not endure it.  
    Who is it that complains unto the King
    That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not?
    By holy Paul, they love his Grace but lightly
    That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours.
    Because I cannot flatter and look fair,
    Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive, and cog,
    Duck with French nods and apish courtesy,
    I must be held a rancorous enemy.
    Cannot a plain man live and think no harm
    But thus his simple truth must be abus'd
    With silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?
  GREY. To who in all this presence speaks your Grace?
  GLOUCESTER. To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace.
    When have I injur'd thee? when done thee wrong,
    Or thee, or thee, or any of your faction?
    A plague upon you all! His royal Grace-
    Whom God preserve better than you would wish!-
    Cannot be quiet searce a breathing while
    But you must trouble him with lewd complaints.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the  
    matter.
    The King, on his own royal disposition
    And not provok'd by any suitor else-
    Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred
    That in your outward action shows itself
    Against my children, brothers, and myself-
    Makes him to send that he may learn the ground.
  GLOUCESTER. I cannot tell; the world is grown so bad
    That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.
    Since every Jack became a gentleman,
    There's many a gentle person made a Jack.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. Come, come, we know your meaning,
    brother Gloucester:
    You envy my advancement and my friends';
    God grant we never may have need of you!
  GLOUCESTER. Meantime, God grants that I have need of you.
    Our brother is imprison'd by your means,
    Myself disgrac'd, and the nobility
    Held in contempt; while great promotions
    Are daily given to ennoble those  
    That scarce some two days since were worth a noble.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. By Him that rais'd me to this careful
    height
    From that contented hap which I enjoy'd,
    I never did incense his Majesty
    Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been
    An earnest advocate to plead for him.
    My lord, you do me shameful injury
    Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects.
  GLOUCESTER. You may deny that you were not the mean
    Of my Lord Hastings' late imprisonment.
  RIVERS. She may, my lord; for-
  GLOUCESTER. She may, Lord Rivers? Why, who knows
    not so?
    She may do more, sir, than denying that:
    She may help you to many fair preferments
    And then deny her aiding hand therein,
    And lay those honours on your high desert.
    What may she not? She may-ay, marry, may she-
  RIVERS. What, marry, may she?  
  GLOUCESTER. What, marry, may she? Marry with a king,
    A bachelor, and a handsome stripling too.
    Iwis your grandam had a worser match.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long
    borne
    Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs.
    By heaven, I will acquaint his Majesty
    Of those gross taunts that oft I have endur'd.
    I had rather be a country servant-maid
    Than a great queen with this condition-
    To be so baited, scorn'd, and stormed at.

                Enter old QUEEN MARGARET, behind

    Small joy have I in being England's Queen.
  QUEEN MARGARET. And less'ned be that small, God, I
    beseech Him!
    Thy honour, state, and seat, is due to me.
  GLOUCESTER. What! Threat you me with telling of the
    King?  
    Tell him and spare not. Look what I have said
    I will avouch't in presence of the King.
    I dare adventure to be sent to th' Tow'r.
    'Tis time to speak-my pains are quite forgot.
  QUEEN MARGARET. Out, devil! I do remember them to
    well:
    Thou kill'dst my husband Henry in the Tower,
    And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury.
  GLOUCESTER. Ere you were queen, ay, or your husband
    King,
    I was a pack-horse in his great affairs,
    A weeder-out of his proud adversaries,
    A liberal rewarder of his friends;
    To royalize his blood I spent mine own.
  QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, and much better blood than his or
    thine.
  GLOUCESTER. In all which time you and your husband Grey
    Were factious for the house of Lancaster;
    And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your husband
    In Margaret's battle at Saint Albans slain?  
    Let me put in your minds, if you forget,
    What you have been ere this, and what you are;
    Withal, what I have been, and what I am.
  QUEEN MARGARET. A murd'rous villain, and so still thou art.
  GLOUCESTER. Poor Clarence did forsake his father, Warwick,
    Ay, and forswore himself-which Jesu pardon!-
  QUEEN MARGARET. Which God revenge!
  GLOUCESTER. To fight on Edward's party for the crown;
    And for his meed, poor lord, he is mewed up.
    I would to God my heart were flint like Edward's,
    Or Edward's soft and pitiful like mine.
    I am too childish-foolish for this world.
  QUEEN MARGARET. Hie thee to hell for shame and leave this
    world,
    Thou cacodemon; there thy kingdom is.
  RIVERS. My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy days
    Which here you urge to prove us enemies,
    We follow'd then our lord, our sovereign king.
    So should we you, if you should be our king.
  GLOUCESTER. If I should be! I had rather be a pedlar.  
    Far be it from my heart, the thought thereof!
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. As little joy, my lord, as you suppose
    You should enjoy were you this country's king,
    As little joy you may suppose in me
    That I enjoy, being the Queen thereof.
  QUEEN MARGARET. As little joy enjoys the Queen thereof;
    For I am she, and altogether joyless.
    I can no longer hold me patient.                 [Advancing]
    Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out
    In sharing that which you have pill'd from me.
    Which of you trembles not that looks on me?
    If not that, I am Queen, you bow like subjects,
    Yet that, by you depos'd, you quake like rebels?
    Ah, gentle villain, do not turn away!
  GLOUCESTER. Foul wrinkled witch, what mak'st thou in my
    sight?
  QUEEN MARGARET. But repetition of what thou hast marr'd,
    That will I make before I let thee go.
  GLOUCESTER. Wert thou not banished on pain of death?
  QUEEN MARGARET. I was; but I do find more pain in  
    banishment
    Than death can yield me here by my abode.
    A husband and a son thou ow'st to me;
    And thou a kingdom; all of you allegiance.
    This sorrow that I have by right is yours;
    And all the pleasures you usurp are mine.
  GLOUCESTER. The curse my noble father laid on thee,
    When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper
    And with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his eyes,
    And then to dry them gav'st the Duke a clout
    Steep'd in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland-
    His curses then from bitterness of soul
    Denounc'd against thee are all fall'n upon thee;
    And God, not we, hath plagu'd thy bloody deed.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. So just is God to right the innocent.
  HASTINGS. O, 'twas the foulest deed to slay that babe,
    And the most merciless that e'er was heard of!
  RIVERS. Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported.
  DORSET. No man but prophesied revenge for it.
  BUCKINGHAM. Northumberland, then present, wept to see it.  
  QUEEN MARGARET. What, were you snarling all before I came,
    Ready to catch each other by the throat,
    And turn you all your hatred now on me?
    Did York's dread curse prevail so much with heaven
    That Henry's death, my lovely Edward's death,
    Their kingdom's loss, my woeful banishment,
    Should all but answer for that peevish brat?
    Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven?
    Why then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses!
    Though not by war, by surfeit die your king,
    As ours by murder, to make him a king!
    Edward thy son, that now is Prince of Wales,
    For Edward our son, that was Prince of Wales,
    Die in his youth by like untimely violence!
    Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen,
    Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self!
    Long mayest thou live to wail thy children's death,
    And see another, as I see thee now,
    Deck'd in thy rights, as thou art stall'd in mine!
    Long die thy happy days before thy death;  
    And, after many length'ned hours of grief,
    Die neither mother, wife, nor England's Queen!
    Rivers and Dorset, you were standers by,
    And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son
    Was stabb'd with bloody daggers. God, I pray him,
    That none of you may live his natural age,
    But by some unlook'd accident cut off!
  GLOUCESTER. Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither'd
    hag.
  QUEEN MARGARET. And leave out thee? Stay, dog, for thou
    shalt hear me.
    If heaven have any grievous plague in store
    Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,
    O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe,
    And then hurl down their indignation
    On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace!
    The worm of conscience still be-gnaw thy soul!
    Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv'st,
    And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!
    No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,  
    Unless it be while some tormenting dream
    Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!
    Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog,
    Thou that wast seal'd in thy nativity
    The slave of nature and the son of hell,
    Thou slander of thy heavy mother's womb,
    Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins,
    Thou rag of honour, thou detested-
  GLOUCESTER. Margaret!
  QUEEN MARGARET. Richard!
  GLOUCESTER. Ha?
  QUEEN MARGARET. I call thee not.
  GLOUCESTER. I cry thee mercy then, for I did think
    That thou hadst call'd me all these bitter names.
  QUEEN MARGARET. Why, so I did, but look'd for no reply.
    O, let me make the period to my curse!
  GLOUCESTER. 'Tis done by me, and ends in-Margaret.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thus have you breath'd your curse
    against yourself.
  QUEEN MARGARET. Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my  
    fortune!
    Why strew'st thou sugar on that bottled spider
    Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about?
    Fool, fool! thou whet'st a knife to kill thyself.
    The day will come that thou shalt wish for me
    To help thee curse this poisonous bunch-back'd toad.
  HASTINGS. False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse,
    Lest to thy harm thou move our patience.
  QUEEN MARGARET. Foul shame upon you! you have all
    mov'd mine.
  RIVERS. Were you well serv'd, you would be taught your
      duty.
  QUEEN MARGARET. To serve me well you all should do me
    duty,
    Teach me to be your queen and you my subjects.
    O, serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty!
  DORSET. Dispute not with her; she is lunatic.
  QUEEN MARGARET. Peace, Master Marquis, you are malapert;
    Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current.
    O, that your young nobility could judge  
    What 'twere to lose it and be miserable!
    They that stand high have many blasts to shake them,
    And if they fall they dash themselves to pieces.
  GLOUCESTER. Good counsel, marry; learn it, learn it, Marquis.
  DORSET. It touches you, my lord, as much as me.
  GLOUCESTER. Ay, and much more; but I was born so high,
    Our aery buildeth in the cedar's top,
    And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun.
  QUEEN MARGARET. And turns the sun to shade-alas! alas!
    Witness my son, now in the shade of death,
    Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath
    Hath in eternal darkness folded up.
    Your aery buildeth in our aery's nest.
    O God that seest it, do not suffer it;
    As it is won with blood, lost be it so!
  BUCKINGHAM. Peace, peace, for shame, if not for charity!
  QUEEN MARGARET. Urge neither charity nor shame to me.
    Uncharitably with me have you dealt,
    And shamefully my hopes by you are butcher'd.
    My charity is outrage, life my shame;  
    And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
  BUCKINGHAM. Have done, have done.
  QUEEN MARGARET. O princely Buckingham, I'll kiss thy
    hand
    In sign of league and amity with thee.
    Now fair befall thee and thy noble house!
    Thy garments are not spotted with our blood,
    Nor thou within the compass of my curse.
  BUCKINGHAM. Nor no one here; for curses never pass
    The lips of those that breathe them in the air.
  QUEEN MARGARET. I will not think but they ascend the sky
    And there awake God's gentle-sleeping peace.
    O Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog!
    Look when he fawns, he bites; and when he bites,
    His venom tooth will rankle to the death:
    Have not to do with him, beware of him;
    Sin, death, and hell, have set their marks on him,
    And all their ministers attend on him.
  GLOUCESTER. What doth she say, my Lord of Buckingham?
  BUCKINGHAM. Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord.  
  QUEEN MARGARET. What, dost thou scorn me for my gentle
    counsel,
    And soothe the devil that I warn thee from?
    O, but remember this another day,
    When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow,
    And say poor Margaret was a prophetess!
    Live each of you the subjects to his hate,
    And he to yours, and all of you to God's!               Exit
  BUCKINGHAM. My hair doth stand an end to hear her curses.
  RIVERS. And so doth mine. I muse why she's at liberty.
  GLOUCESTER. I cannot blame her; by God's holy Mother,
    She hath had too much wrong; and I repent
    My part thereof that I have done to her.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. I never did her any to my knowledge.
  GLOUCESTER. Yet you have all the vantage of her wrong.
    I was too hot to do somebody good
    That is too cold in thinking of it now.
    Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid;
    He is frank'd up to fatting for his pains;
    God pardon them that are the cause thereof!  
  RIVERS. A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion,
    To pray for them that have done scathe to us!
  GLOUCESTER. So do I ever-  [Aside]  being well advis'd;
    For had I curs'd now, I had curs'd myself.

                         Enter CATESBY

  CATESBY. Madam, his Majesty doth can for you,
    And for your Grace, and you, my gracious lords.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. Catesby, I come. Lords, will you go
    with me?
  RIVERS. We wait upon your Grace.
                                       Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER
  GLOUCESTER. I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl.
    The secret mischiefs that I set abroach
    I lay unto the grievous charge of others.
    Clarence, who I indeed have cast in darkness,
    I do beweep to many simple gulls;
    Namely, to Derby, Hastings, Buckingham;
    And tell them 'tis the Queen and her allies  
    That stir the King against the Duke my brother.
    Now they believe it, and withal whet me
    To be reveng'd on Rivers, Dorset, Grey;
    But then I sigh and, with a piece of Scripture,
    Tell them that God bids us do good for evil.
    And thus I clothe my naked villainy
    With odd old ends stol'n forth of holy writ,
    And seem a saint when most I play the devil.

                       Enter two MURDERERS

    But, soft, here come my executioners.
    How now, my hardy stout resolved mates!
    Are you now going to dispatch this thing?
  FIRST MURDERER. We are, my lord, and come to have the
    warrant,
    That we may be admitted where he is.
  GLOUCESTER. Well thought upon; I have it here about me.
                                             [Gives the warrant]
    When you have done, repair to Crosby Place.  
    But, sirs, be sudden in the execution,
    Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead;
    For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps
    May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him.
  FIRST MURDERER. Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to
    prate;
    Talkers are no good doers. Be assur'd
    We go to use our hands and not our tongues.
  GLOUCESTER. Your eyes drop millstones when fools' eyes fall
    tears.
    I like you, lads; about your business straight;
    Go, go, dispatch.
  FIRST MURDERER. We will, my noble lord.                 Exeunt




SCENE 4.

London. The Tower

Enter CLARENCE and KEEPER

  KEEPER. Why looks your Grace so heavily to-day?
  CLARENCE. O, I have pass'd a miserable night,
    So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
    That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
    I would not spend another such a night
    Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days-
    So full of dismal terror was the time!
  KEEPER. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you
    tell me.
  CLARENCE. Methoughts that I had broken from the Tower
    And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy;
    And in my company my brother Gloucester,
    Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
    Upon the hatches. Thence we look'd toward England,
    And cited up a thousand heavy times,
    During the wars of York and Lancaster,
    That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along  
    Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
    Methought that Gloucester stumbled, and in falling
    Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard
    Into the tumbling billows of the main.
    O Lord, methought what pain it was to drown,
    What dreadful noise of waters in my ears,
    What sights of ugly death within my eyes!
    Methoughts I saw a thousand fearful wrecks,
    A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon,
    Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
    Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,
    All scatt'red in the bottom of the sea;
    Some lay in dead men's skulls, and in the holes
    Where eyes did once inhabit there were crept,
    As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,
    That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep
    And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatt'red by.
  KEEPER. Had you such leisure in the time of death
    To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?
  CLARENCE. Methought I had; and often did I strive  
    To yield the ghost, but still the envious flood
    Stopp'd in my soul and would not let it forth
    To find the empty, vast, and wand'ring air;
    But smother'd it within my panting bulk,
    Who almost burst to belch it in the sea.
  KEEPER. Awak'd you not in this sore agony?
  CLARENCE. No, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life.
    O, then began the tempest to my soul!
    I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood
    With that sour ferryman which poets write of,
    Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
    The first that there did greet my stranger soul
    Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick,
    Who spake aloud 'What scourge for perjury
    Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?'
    And so he vanish'd. Then came wand'ring by
    A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
    Dabbled in blood, and he shriek'd out aloud
    'Clarence is come-false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,
    That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury.  
    Seize on him, Furies, take him unto torment!'
    With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends
    Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears
    Such hideous cries that, with the very noise,
    I trembling wak'd, and for a season after
    Could not believe but that I was in hell,
    Such terrible impression made my dream.
  KEEPER. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you;
    I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.
  CLARENCE. Ah, Keeper, Keeper, I have done these things
    That now give evidence against my soul
    For Edward's sake, and see how he requites me!
    O God! If my deep prayers cannot appease Thee,
    But Thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds,
    Yet execute Thy wrath in me alone;
    O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!
  KEEPER, I prithee sit by me awhile;
    My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.
  KEEPER. I will, my lord. God give your Grace good rest.
                                               [CLARENCE sleeps]  

                  Enter BRAKENBURY the Lieutenant

  BRAKENBURY. Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,
    Makes the night morning and the noontide night.
    Princes have but their titles for their glories,
    An outward honour for an inward toil;
    And for unfelt imaginations
    They often feel a world of restless cares,
    So that between their tides and low name
    There's nothing differs but the outward fame.

                      Enter the two MURDERERS

  FIRST MURDERER. Ho! who's here?
  BRAKENBURY. What wouldst thou, fellow, and how cam'st
    thou hither?
  FIRST MURDERER. I would speak with Clarence, and I came
    hither on my legs.
  BRAKENBURY. What, so brief?  
  SECOND MURDERER. 'Tis better, sir, than to be tedious. Let
    him see our commission and talk no more.
                                           [BRAKENBURY reads it]
  BRAKENBURY. I am, in this, commanded to deliver
    The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands.
    I will not reason what is meant hereby,
    Because I will be guiltless from the meaning.
    There lies the Duke asleep; and there the keys.
    I'll to the King and signify to him
    That thus I have resign'd to you my charge.
  FIRST MURDERER. You may, sir; 'tis a point of wisdom. Fare
    you well.                       Exeunt BRAKENBURY and KEEPER
  SECOND MURDERER. What, shall I stab him as he sleeps?
  FIRST MURDERER. No; he'll say 'twas done cowardly, when
    he wakes.
  SECOND MURDERER. Why, he shall never wake until the great
    judgment-day.
  FIRST MURDERER. Why, then he'll say we stabb'd him
    sleeping.
  SECOND MURDERER. The urging of that word judgment hath  
    bred a kind of remorse in me.
  FIRST MURDERER. What, art thou afraid?
  SECOND MURDERER. Not to kill him, having a warrant; but to
    be damn'd for killing him, from the which no warrant can
    defend me.
  FIRST MURDERER. I thought thou hadst been resolute.
  SECOND MURDERER. So I am, to let him live.
  FIRST MURDERER. I'll back to the Duke of Gloucester and
    tell him so.
  SECOND MURDERER. Nay, I prithee, stay a little. I hope this
    passionate humour of mine will change; it was wont to
    hold me but while one tells twenty.
  FIRST MURDERER. How dost thou feel thyself now?
    SECOND MURDERER. Faith, some certain dregs of conscience
    are yet within me.
  FIRST MURDERER. Remember our reward, when the deed's
    done.
  SECOND MURDERER. Zounds, he dies; I had forgot the reward.
  FIRST MURDERER. Where's thy conscience now?
  SECOND MURDERER. O, in the Duke of Gloucester's purse!  
  FIRST MURDERER. When he opens his purse to give us our
    reward, thy conscience flies out.
  SECOND MURDERER. 'Tis no matter; let it go; there's few or
    none will entertain it.
  FIRST MURDERER. What if it come to thee again?
  SECOND MURDERER. I'll not meddle with it-it makes a man
    coward: a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; a man
    cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his
    neighbour's wife, but it detects him. 'Tis a blushing shame-
    fac'd spirit that mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills a man
    full of obstacles: it made me once restore a purse of gold
    that-by chance I found. It beggars any man that keeps it.
    It is turn'd out of towns and cities for a dangerous thing;
    and every man that means to live well endeavours to trust
    to himself and live without it.
  FIRST MURDERER. Zounds, 'tis even now at my elbow,
    persuading me not to kill the Duke.
  SECOND MURDERER. Take the devil in thy mind and believe
    him not; he would insinuate with thee but to make the
    sigh.  
  FIRST MURDERER. I am strong-fram'd; he cannot prevail with
    me.
  SECOND MURDERER. Spoke like a tall man that respects thy
    reputation. Come, shall we fall to work?
  FIRST MURDERER. Take him on the costard with the hilts of
    thy sword, and then chop him in the malmsey-butt in the
    next room.
  SECOND MURDERER. O excellent device! and make a sop of
    him.
  FIRST MURDERER. Soft! he wakes.
  SECOND MURDERER. Strike!
  FIRST MURDERER. No, we'll reason with him.
  CLARENCE. Where art thou, Keeper? Give me a cup of wine.
  SECOND MURDERER. You shall have wine enough, my lord,
    anon.
  CLARENCE. In God's name, what art thou?
  FIRST MURDERER. A man, as you are.
  CLARENCE. But not as I am, royal.
  SECOND MURDERER. Nor you as we are, loyal.
  CLARENCE. Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble.  
  FIRST MURDERER. My voice is now the King's, my looks
    mine own.
  CLARENCE. How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak!
    Your eyes do menace me. Why look you pale?
    Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come?
  SECOND MURDERER. To, to, to-
  CLARENCE. To murder me?
  BOTH MURDERERS. Ay, ay.
  CLARENCE. You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so,
    And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it.
    Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?
  FIRST MURDERER. Offended us you have not, but the King.
  CLARENCE. I shall be reconcil'd to him again.
  SECOND MURDERER. Never, my lord; therefore prepare to die.
  CLARENCE. Are you drawn forth among a world of men
    To slay the innocent? What is my offence?
    Where is the evidence that doth accuse me?
    What lawful quest have given their verdict up
    Unto the frowning judge, or who pronounc'd
    The bitter sentence of poor Clarence' death?  
    Before I be convict by course of law,
    To threaten me with death is most unlawful.
    I charge you, as you hope to have redemption
    By Christ's dear blood shed for our grievous sins,
    That you depart and lay no hands on me.
    The deed you undertake is damnable.
  FIRST MURDERER. What we will do, we do upon command.
  SECOND MURDERER. And he that hath commanded is our
    King.
  CLARENCE. Erroneous vassals! the great King of kings
    Hath in the tables of his law commanded
    That thou shalt do no murder. Will you then
    Spurn at his edict and fulfil a man's?
    Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his hand
    To hurl upon their heads that break his law.
  SECOND MURDERER. And that same vengeance doth he hurl
    on thee
    For false forswearing, and for murder too;
    Thou didst receive the sacrament to fight
    In quarrel of the house of Lancaster.  
  FIRST MURDERER. And like a traitor to the name of God
    Didst break that vow; and with thy treacherous blade
    Unripp'dst the bowels of thy sov'reign's son.
  SECOND MURDERER. Whom thou wast sworn to cherish and
    defend.
  FIRST MURDERER. How canst thou urge God's dreadful law
    to us,
    When thou hast broke it in such dear degree?
  CLARENCE. Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed?
    For Edward, for my brother, for his sake.
    He sends you not to murder me for this,
    For in that sin he is as deep as I.
    If God will be avenged for the deed,
    O, know you yet He doth it publicly.
    Take not the quarrel from His pow'rful arm;
    He needs no indirect or lawless course
    To cut off those that have offended Him.
  FIRST MURDERER. Who made thee then a bloody minister
    When gallant-springing brave Plantagenet,
    That princely novice, was struck dead by thee?  
  CLARENCE. My brother's love, the devil, and my rage.
  FIRST MURDERER. Thy brother's love, our duty, and thy
    faults,
    Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee.
  CLARENCE. If you do love my brother, hate not me;
    I am his brother, and I love him well.
    If you are hir'd for meed, go back again,
    And I will send you to my brother Gloucester,
    Who shall reward you better for my life
    Than Edward will for tidings of my death.
  SECOND MURDERER. You are deceiv'd: your brother Gloucester
    hates you.
  CLARENCE. O, no, he loves me, and he holds me dear.
    Go you to him from me.
  FIRST MURDERER. Ay, so we will.
  CLARENCE. Tell him when that our princely father York
    Bless'd his three sons with his victorious arm
    And charg'd us from his soul to love each other,
    He little thought of this divided friendship.
    Bid Gloucester think of this, and he will weep.  
  FIRST MURDERER. Ay, millstones; as he lesson'd us to weep.
  CLARENCE. O, do not slander him, for he is kind.
  FIRST MURDERER. Right, as snow in harvest. Come, you
    deceive yourself:
    'Tis he that sends us to destroy you here.
    CLARENCE. It cannot be; for he bewept my fortune
    And hugg'd me in his arms, and swore with sobs
    That he would labour my delivery.
  FIRST MURDERER. Why, so he doth, when he delivers you
    From this earth's thraldom to the joys of heaven.
  SECOND MURDERER. Make peace with God, for you must die,
    my lord.
  CLARENCE. Have you that holy feeling in your souls
    To counsel me to make my peace with God,
    And are you yet to your own souls so blind
    That you will war with God by murd'ring me?
    O, sirs, consider: they that set you on
    To do this deed will hate you for the deed.
  SECOND MURDERER. What shall we do?
  CLARENCE. Relent, and save your souls.  
  FIRST MURDERER. Relent! No, 'tis cowardly and womanish.
  CLARENCE. Not to relent is beastly, savage, devilish.
    Which of you, if you were a prince's son,
    Being pent from liberty as I am now,
    If two such murderers as yourselves came to you,
    Would not entreat for life?
    My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks;
    O, if thine eye be not a flatterer,
    Come thou on my side and entreat for me-
    As you would beg were you in my distress.
    A begging prince what beggar pities not?
  SECOND MURDERER. Look behind you, my lord.
  FIRST MURDERER.  [Stabbing him]  Take that, and that. If all
    this will not do,
    I'll drown you in the malmsey-butt within.
                                              Exit with the body
  SECOND MURDERER. A bloody deed, and desperately
    dispatch'd!
    How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands
    Of this most grievous murder!  

                       Re-enter FIRST MURDERER

  FIRST MURDERER-How now, what mean'st thou that thou
    help'st me not?
    By heavens, the Duke shall know how slack you have
    been!
  SECOND MURDERER. I would he knew that I had sav'd his
    brother!
    Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say;
    For I repent me that the Duke is slain.                 Exit
  FIRST MURDERER. So do not I. Go, coward as thou art.
    Well, I'll go hide the body in some hole,
    Till that the Duke give order for his burial;
    And when I have my meed, I will away;
    For this will out, and then I must not stay.            Exit




<>



ACT II. SCENE 1.

London. The palace

Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD sick, QUEEN ELIZABETH, DORSET, RIVERS,
HASTINGS, BUCKINGHAM, GREY, and others

  KING EDWARD. Why, so. Now have I done a good day's
    work.
    You peers, continue this united league.
    I every day expect an embassage
    From my Redeemer to redeem me hence;
    And more at peace my soul shall part to heaven,
    Since I have made my friends at peace on earth.
    Hastings and Rivers, take each other's hand;
    Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love.
  RIVERS. By heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate;
    And with my hand I seal my true heart's love.
  HASTINGS. So thrive I, as I truly swear the like!
  KING EDWARD. Take heed you dally not before your king;
    Lest He that is the supreme King of kings
    Confound your hidden falsehood and award  
    Either of you to be the other's end.
  HASTINGS. So prosper I, as I swear perfect love!
  RIVERS. And I, as I love Hastings with my heart!
  KING EDWARD. Madam, yourself is not exempt from this;
    Nor you, son Dorset; Buckingham, nor you:
    You have been factious one against the other.
    Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand;
    And what you do, do it unfeignedly.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. There, Hastings; I will never more
    remember
    Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine!
  KING EDWARD. Dorset, embrace him; Hastings, love Lord
    Marquis.
  DORSET. This interchange of love, I here protest,
    Upon my part shall be inviolable.
  HASTINGS. And so swear I.                       [They embrace]
  KING EDWARD. Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this
    league
    With thy embracements to my wife's allies,
    And make me happy in your unity.  
  BUCKINGHAM.  [To the QUEEN]  Whenever Buckingham
    doth turn his hate
    Upon your Grace, but with all duteous love
    Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me
    With hate in those where I expect most love!
    When I have most need to employ a friend
    And most assured that he is a friend,
    Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile,
    Be he unto me! This do I beg of God
    When I am cold in love to you or yours.
                                                  [They embrace]
  KING EDWARD. A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham,
    Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart.
    There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here
    To make the blessed period of this peace.
  BUCKINGHAM. And, in good time,
    Here comes Sir Richard Ratcliff and the Duke.

                      Enter GLOUCESTER, and RATCLIFF
  
  GLOUCESTER. Good morrow to my sovereign king and
    Queen;
    And, princely peers, a happy time of day!
  KING EDWARD. Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day.
    Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity,
    Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate,
    Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.
  GLOUCESTER. A blessed labour, my most sovereign lord.
    Among this princely heap, if any here,
    By false intelligence or wrong surmise,
    Hold me a foe-
    If I unwittingly, or in my rage,
    Have aught committed that is hardly borne
    To any in this presence, I desire
    To reconcile me to his friendly peace:
    'Tis death to me to be at enmity;
    I hate it, and desire all good men's love.
    First, madam, I entreat true peace of you,
    Which I will purchase with my duteous service;
    Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham,  
    If ever any grudge were lodg'd between us;
    Of you, and you, Lord Rivers, and of Dorset,
    That all without desert have frown'd on me;
    Of you, Lord Woodville, and, Lord Scales, of you;
    Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen-indeed, of all.
    I do not know that Englishman alive
    With whom my soul is any jot at odds
    More than the infant that is born to-night.
    I thank my God for my humility.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. A holy day shall this be kept hereafter.
    I would to God all strifes were well compounded.
    My sovereign lord, I do beseech your Highness
    To take our brother Clarence to your grace.
  GLOUCESTER. Why, madam, have I off'red love for this,
    To be so flouted in this royal presence?
    Who knows not that the gentle Duke is dead?
                                                [They all start]
    You do him injury to scorn his corse.
  KING EDWARD. Who knows not he is dead! Who knows
    he is?  
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. All-seeing heaven, what a world is this!
  BUCKINGHAM. Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest?
  DORSET. Ay, my good lord; and no man in the presence
    But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks.
  KING EDWARD. Is Clarence dead? The order was revers'd.
  GLOUCESTER. But he, poor man, by your first order died,
    And that a winged Mercury did bear;
    Some tardy cripple bare the countermand
    That came too lag to see him buried.
    God grant that some, less noble and less loyal,
    Nearer in bloody thoughts, an not in blood,
    Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did,
    And yet go current from suspicion!

                           Enter DERBY

  DERBY. A boon, my sovereign, for my service done!
  KING EDWARD. I prithee, peace; my soul is full of sorrow.
  DERBY. I Will not rise unless your Highness hear me.
  KING EDWARD. Then say at once what is it thou requests.  
  DERBY. The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant's life;
    Who slew to-day a riotous gentleman
    Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk.
  KING EDWARD. Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death,
    And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave?
    My brother killed no man-his fault was thought,
    And yet his punishment was bitter death.
    Who sued to me for him? Who, in my wrath,
    Kneel'd at my feet, and bid me be advis'd?
    Who spoke of brotherhood? Who spoke of love?
    Who told me how the poor soul did forsake
    The mighty Warwick and did fight for me?
    Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury
    When Oxford had me down, he rescued me
    And said 'Dear Brother, live, and be a king'?
    Who told me, when we both lay in the field
    Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me
    Even in his garments, and did give himself,
    All thin and naked, to the numb cold night?
    All this from my remembrance brutish wrath  
    Sinfully pluck'd, and not a man of you
    Had so much race to put it in my mind.
    But when your carters or your waiting-vassals
    Have done a drunken slaughter and defac'd
    The precious image of our dear Redeemer,
    You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon;
    And I, unjustly too, must grant it you.        [DERBY rises]
    But for my brother not a man would speak;
    Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself
    For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all
    Have been beholding to him in his life;
    Yet none of you would once beg for his life.
    O God, I fear thy justice will take hold
    On me, and you, and mine, and yours, for this!
    Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. Ah, poor Clarence!
                                 Exeunt some with KING and QUEEN
  GLOUCESTER. This is the fruits of rashness. Mark'd you not
    How that the guilty kindred of the Queen
    Look'd pale when they did hear of Clarence' death?
    O, they did urge it still unto the King!  
    God will revenge it. Come, lords, will you go
    To comfort Edward with our company?
  BUCKINGHAM. We wait upon your Grace.                    Exeunt




SCENE 2.

London. The palace

Enter the old DUCHESS OF YORK, with the SON and DAUGHTER of CLARENCE

  SON. Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead?
  DUCHESS. No, boy.
  DAUGHTER. Why do you weep so oft, and beat your breast,
    And cry 'O Clarence, my unhappy son!'?
  SON. Why do you look on us, and shake your head,
    And call us orphans, wretches, castaways,
    If that our noble father were alive?
  DUCHESS. My pretty cousins, you mistake me both;
    I do lament the sickness of the King,
    As loath to lose him, not your father's death;
    It were lost sorrow to wail one that's lost.
  SON. Then you conclude, my grandam, he is dead.
    The King mine uncle is to blame for it.
    God will revenge it; whom I will importune
    With earnest prayers all to that effect.
  DAUGHTER. And so will I.  
  DUCHESS. Peace, children, peace! The King doth love you
    well.
    Incapable and shallow innocents,
    You cannot guess who caus'd your father's death.
  SON. Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Gloucester
    Told me the King, provok'd to it by the Queen,
    Devis'd impeachments to imprison him.
    And when my uncle told me so, he wept,
    And pitied me, and kindly kiss'd my cheek;
    Bade me rely on him as on my father,
    And he would love me dearly as a child.
  DUCHESS. Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shape,
    And with a virtuous vizor hide deep vice!
    He is my son; ay, and therein my shame;
    Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit.
  SON. Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam?
  DUCHESS. Ay, boy.
  SON. I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this?

            Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, with her hair about her  
                ears; RIVERS and DORSET after her

  QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, who shall hinder me to wail and
    weep,
    To chide my fortune, and torment myself?
    I'll join with black despair against my soul
    And to myself become an enemy.
  DUCHESS. What means this scene of rude impatience?
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. To make an act of tragic violence.
  EDWARD, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead.
    Why grow the branches when the root is gone?
    Why wither not the leaves that want their sap?
    If you will live, lament; if die, be brief,
    That our swift-winged souls may catch the King's,
    Or like obedient subjects follow him
    To his new kingdom of ne'er-changing night.
  DUCHESS. Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow
    As I had title in thy noble husband!
    I have bewept a worthy husband's death,
    And liv'd with looking on his images;  
    But now two mirrors of his princely semblance
    Are crack'd in pieces by malignant death,
    And I for comfort have but one false glass,
    That grieves me when I see my shame in him.
    Thou art a widow, yet thou art a mother
    And hast the comfort of thy children left;
    But death hath snatch'd my husband from mine arms
    And pluck'd two crutches from my feeble hands-
    Clarence and Edward. O, what cause have I-
    Thine being but a moiety of my moan-
    To overgo thy woes and drown thy cries?
  SON. Ah, aunt, you wept not for our father's death!
    How can we aid you with our kindred tears?
  DAUGHTER. Our fatherless distress was left unmoan'd;
    Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept!
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. Give me no help in lamentation;
    I am not barren to bring forth complaints.
    All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes
    That I, being govern'd by the watery moon,
    May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world!  
    Ah for my husband, for my dear Lord Edward!
  CHILDREN. Ah for our father, for our dear Lord Clarence!
  DUCHESS. Alas for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence!
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. What stay had I but Edward? and he's
    gone.
  CHILDREN. What stay had we but Clarence? and he's gone.
  DUCHESS. What stays had I but they? and they are gone.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. Was never widow had so dear a loss.
  CHILDREN. Were never orphans had so dear a loss.
  DUCHESS. Was never mother had so dear a loss.
    Alas, I am the mother of these griefs!
    Their woes are parcell'd, mine is general.
    She for an Edward weeps, and so do I:
    I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she.
    These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I:
    I for an Edward weep, so do not they.
    Alas, you three on me, threefold distress'd,
    Pour all your tears! I am your sorrow's nurse,
    And I will pamper it with lamentation.
  DORSET. Comfort, dear mother. God is much displeas'd  
    That you take with unthankfulness his doing.
    In common worldly things 'tis called ungrateful
    With dull unwillingness to repay a debt
    Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent;
    Much more to be thus opposite with heaven,
    For it requires the royal debt it lent you.
  RIVERS. Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother,
    Of the young prince your son. Send straight for him;
    Let him be crown'd; in him your comfort lives.
    Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward's grave,
    And plant your joys in living Edward's throne.

               Enter GLOUCESTER, BUCKINGHAM, DERBY,
                      HASTINGS, and RATCLIFF

  GLOUCESTER. Sister, have comfort. All of us have cause
    To wail the dimming of our shining star;
    But none can help our harms by wailing them.
    Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy;
    I did not see your Grace. Humbly on my knee  
    I crave your blessing.
  DUCHESS. God bless thee; and put meekness in thy breast,
    Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!
  GLOUCESTER. Amen!  [Aside]  And make me die a good old
    man!
    That is the butt end of a mother's blessing;
    I marvel that her Grace did leave it out.
  BUCKINGHAM. You cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing
    peers,
    That bear this heavy mutual load of moan,
    Now cheer each other in each other's love.
    Though we have spent our harvest of this king,
    We are to reap the harvest of his son.
    The broken rancour of your high-swol'n hearts,
    But lately splinter'd, knit, and join'd together,
    Must gently be preserv'd, cherish'd, and kept.
    Me seemeth good that, with some little train,
    Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fet
    Hither to London, to be crown'd our King.

 RIVERS. Why with some little train, my Lord of  
    Buckingham?
  BUCKINGHAM. Marry, my lord, lest by a multitude
    The new-heal'd wound of malice should break out,
    Which would be so much the more dangerous
    By how much the estate is green and yet ungovern'd;
    Where every horse bears his commanding rein
    And may direct his course as please himself,
    As well the fear of harm as harm apparent,
    In my opinion, ought to be prevented.
  GLOUCESTER. I hope the King made peace with all of us;
    And the compact is firm and true in me.
  RIVERS. And so in me; and so, I think, in an.
    Yet, since it is but green, it should be put
    To no apparent likelihood of breach,
    Which haply by much company might be urg'd;
    Therefore I say with noble Buckingham
    That it is meet so few should fetch the Prince.
  HASTINGS. And so say I.
  GLOUCESTER. Then be it so; and go we to determine
    Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow.  
    Madam, and you, my sister, will you go
    To give your censures in this business?
                        Exeunt all but BUCKINGHAM and GLOUCESTER
  BUCKINGHAM. My lord, whoever journeys to the Prince,
    For God sake, let not us two stay at home;
    For by the way I'll sort occasion,
    As index to the story we late talk'd of,
    To part the Queen's proud kindred from the Prince.
  GLOUCESTER. My other self, my counsel's consistory,
    My oracle, my prophet, my dear cousin,
    I, as a child, will go by thy direction.
    Toward Ludlow then, for we'll not stay behind.        Exeunt




SCENE 3.

London. A street

Enter one CITIZEN at one door, and another at the other

  FIRST CITIZEN. Good morrow, neighbour. Whither away so
    fast?
  SECOND CITIZEN. I promise you, I scarcely know myself.
    Hear you the news abroad?
  FIRST CITIZEN. Yes, that the King is dead.
  SECOND CITIZEN. Ill news, by'r lady; seldom comes the
    better.
    I fear, I fear 'twill prove a giddy world.

                        Enter another CITIZEN

  THIRD CITIZEN. Neighbours, God speed!
  FIRST CITIZEN. Give you good morrow, sir.
  THIRD CITIZEN. Doth the news hold of good King Edward's
    death?
  SECOND CITIZEN. Ay, sir, it is too true; God help the while!  
  THIRD CITIZEN. Then, masters, look to see a troublous
    world.
  FIRST CITIZEN. No, no; by God's good grace, his son shall
    reign.
  THIRD CITIZEN. Woe to that land that's govern'd by a child.
  SECOND CITIZEN. In him there is a hope of government,
    Which, in his nonage, council under him,
    And, in his full and ripened years, himself,
    No doubt, shall then, and till then, govern well.
  FIRST CITIZEN. So stood the state when Henry the Sixth
    Was crown'd in Paris but at nine months old.
  THIRD CITIZEN. Stood the state so? No, no, good friends,
    God wot;
    For then this land was famously enrich'd
    With politic grave counsel; then the King
    Had virtuous uncles to protect his Grace.
  FIRST CITIZEN. Why, so hath this, both by his father and
    mother.
  THIRD CITIZEN. Better it were they all came by his father,
    Or by his father there were none at all;  
    For emulation who shall now be nearest
    Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not.
    O, full of danger is the Duke of Gloucester!
    And the Queen's sons and brothers haught and proud;
    And were they to be rul'd, and not to rule,
    This sickly land might solace as before.
  FIRST CITIZEN. Come, come, we fear the worst; all will be
    well.
  THIRD CITIZEN. When clouds are seen, wise men put on
    their cloaks;
    When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand;
    When the sun sets, who doth not look for night?
    Untimely storms make men expect a dearth.
    All may be well; but, if God sort it so,
    'Tis more than we deserve or I expect.
  SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, the hearts of men are fun of fear.
    You cannot reason almost with a man
    That looks not heavily and fun of dread.
  THIRD CITIZEN. Before the days of change, still is it so;
    By a divine instinct men's minds mistrust  
    Ensuing danger; as by proof we see
    The water swell before a boist'rous storm.
    But leave it all to God. Whither away?
  SECOND CITIZEN. Marry, we were sent for to the justices.
  THIRD CITIZEN. And so was I; I'll bear you company.
                                                          Exeunt




SCENE 4.

London. The palace

Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF YORK, the young DUKE OF YORK, QUEEN ELIZABETH,
and the DUCHESS OF YORK

  ARCHBISHOP. Last night, I hear, they lay at Stony Stratford,
    And at Northampton they do rest to-night;
    To-morrow or next day they will be here.
  DUCHESS. I long with all my heart to see the Prince.
    I hope he is much grown since last I saw him.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. But I hear no; they say my son of York
    Has almost overta'en him in his growth.
  YORK. Ay, mother; but I would not have it so.
  DUCHESS. Why, my good cousin, it is good to grow.
  YORK. Grandam, one night as we did sit at supper,
    My uncle Rivers talk'd how I did grow
    More than my brother. 'Ay,' quoth my uncle Gloucester
    'Small herbs have grace: great weeds do grow apace.'
    And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast,
    Because sweet flow'rs are slow and weeds make haste.  
  DUCHESS. Good faith, good faith, the saying did not hold
    In him that did object the same to thee.
    He was the wretched'st thing when he was young,
    So long a-growing and so leisurely
    That, if his rule were true, he should be gracious.
  ARCHBISHOP. And so no doubt he is, my gracious madam.
  DUCHESS. I hope he is; but yet let mothers doubt.
  YORK. Now, by my troth, if I had been rememb'red,
    I could have given my uncle's Grace a flout
    To touch his growth nearer than he touch'd mine.
  DUCHESS. How, my young York? I prithee let me hear it.
  YORK. Marry, they say my uncle grew so fast
    That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old.
    'Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth.
    Grandam, this would have been a biting jest.
  DUCHESS. I prithee, pretty York, who told thee this?
  YORK. Grandam, his nurse.
  DUCHESS. His nurse! Why she was dead ere thou wast
    born.
  YORK. If 'twere not she, I cannot tell who told me.  
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. A parlous boy! Go to, you are too
    shrewd.
  ARCHBISHOP. Good madam, be not angry with the child.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. Pitchers have ears.

                        Enter a MESSENGER

  ARCHBISHOP. Here comes a messenger. What news?
  MESSENGER. Such news, my lord, as grieves me to report.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. How doth the Prince?
  MESSENGER. Well, madam, and in health.
  DUCHESS. What is thy news?
  MESSENGER. Lord Rivers and Lord Grey
    Are sent to Pomfret, and with them
    Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners.
  DUCHESS. Who hath committed them?
  MESSENGER. The mighty Dukes, Gloucester and Buckingham.
  ARCHBISHOP. For what offence?
  MESSENGER. The sum of all I can, I have disclos'd.
    Why or for what the nobles were committed  
    Is all unknown to me, my gracious lord.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ay me, I see the ruin of my house!
    The tiger now hath seiz'd the gentle hind;
    Insulting tyranny begins to jet
    Upon the innocent and aweless throne.
    Welcome, destruction, blood, and massacre!
    I see, as in a map, the end of all.
  DUCHESS. Accursed and unquiet wrangling days,
    How many of you have mine eyes beheld!
    My husband lost his life to get the crown;
    And often up and down my sons were toss'd
    For me to joy and weep their gain and loss;
    And being seated, and domestic broils
    Clean over-blown, themselves the conquerors
    Make war upon themselves-brother to brother,
    Blood to blood, self against self. O, preposterous
    And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen,
    Or let me die, to look on death no more!
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. Come, come, my boy; we will to
    sanctuary.  
    Madam, farewell.
  DUCHESS. Stay, I will go with you.
  QUEEN ELIZABETH. You have no cause.
  ARCHBISHOP.  [To the QUEEN]  My gracious lady, go.
    And thither bear your treasure and your goods.
    For my part, I'll resign unto your Grace
    The seal I keep; and so betide to me
    As well I tender you and all of yours!
    Go, I'll conduct you to the sanctuary.                Exeunt




<>



ACT III. SCENE 1.

London. A street

The trumpets sound. Enter the PRINCE OF WALES, GLOUCESTER, BUCKINGHAM,
CATESBY, CARDINAL BOURCHIER, and others

  BUCKINGHAM. Welcome, sweet Prince, to London, to your
    chamber.
  GLOUCESTER. Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts' sovereign.
    The weary way hath made you melancholy.
  PRINCE. No, uncle; but our crosses on the way
    Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy.
    I want more uncles here to welcome me.
  GLOUCESTER. Sweet Prince, the untainted virtue of your
    years
    Hath not yet div'd into the world's deceit;
    Nor more can you distinguish of a man
    Than of his outward show; which, God He knows,
    Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart.
    Those uncles which you want were dangerous;
    Your Grace attended to their sug'red words  
    But look'd not on the poison of their hearts.
    God keep you from them and from such false friends!
  PRINCE. God keep me from false friends! but they were
    none.
  GLOUCESTER. My lord, the Mayor of London comes to greet
    you.

                Enter the LORD MAYOR and his train

  MAYOR. God bless your Grace with health and happy days!
  PRINCE. I thank you, good my lord, and thank you all.
    I thought my mother and my brother York
    Would long ere this have met us on the way.
    Fie, what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not
    To tell us whether they will come or no!

                        Enter LORD HASTINGS

  BUCKINGHAM. And, in good time, here comes the sweating
    Lord.  
  PRINCE. Welcome, my lord. What, will our mother come?
  HASTINGS. On what occasion, God He knows, not I,
    The Queen your mother and your brother York
    Have taken sanctuary. The tender Prince
    Would fain have come with me to meet your Grace,
    But by his mother was perforce withheld.
  BUCKINGHAM. Fie, what an indirect and peevish course
    Is this of hers? Lord Cardinal, will your Grace
    Persuade the Queen to send the Duke of York
    Unto his princely brother presently?
    If she deny, Lord Hastings, go with him
    And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce.
  CARDINAL. My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory
    Can from his mother win the Duke of York,
    Anon expect him here; but if she be obdurate
    To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid
    We should infringe the holy privilege
    Of blessed sanctuary! Not for all this land
    Would I be guilty of so deep a sin.
  BUCKINGHAM. You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord,  
    Too ceremonious and traditional.
    Weigh it but with the grossness of this age,
    You break not sanctuary in seizing him.
    The benefit thereof is always granted
    To those whose dealings have deserv'd the place
    And those who have the wit to claim the place.
    This Prince hath neither claim'd it nor deserv'd it,
    And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it.
    Then, taking him from thence that is not there,
    You break no privilege nor charter there.
    Oft have I heard of sanctuary men;
    But sanctuary children never till now.
  CARDINAL. My lord, you shall o'errule my mind for once.
    Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me?
  HASTINGS. I go, my lord.
  PRINCE. Good lords, make all the speedy haste you may.
                                    Exeunt CARDINAL and HASTINGS
    Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come,
    Where shall we sojourn till our coronation?
  GLOUCESTER. Where it seems best unto your royal self.  
    If I may counsel you, some day or two
    Your Highness shall repose you at the Tower,
    Then where you please and shall be thought most fit
    For your best health and recreation.
  PRINCE. I do not like the Tower, of any place.
    Did Julius Caesar build that place, my lord?
  BUCKINGHAM. He did, my gracious lord, begin that place,
    Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified.
  PRINCE. Is it upon record, or else reported
    Successively from age to age, he built it?
  BUCKINGHAM. Upon record, my gracious lord.
  PRINCE. But say, my lord, it were not regist'red,
    Methinks the truth should Eve from age to age,
    As 'twere retail'd to all posterity,
    Even to the general all-ending day.
  GLOUCESTER.  [Aside]  So wise so young, they say, do never
    live long.
  PRINCE. What say you, uncle?
  GLOUCESTER. I say, without characters, fame lives long.
    [Aside]  Thus, like the formal vice, Iniquity,  
    I moralize two meanings in one word.
  PRINCE. That Julius Caesar was a famous man;
    With what his valour did enrich his wit,
    His wit set down to make his valour live.
    Death makes no conquest of this conqueror;
    For now he lives in fame, though not in life.
    I'll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham-
  BUCKINGHAM. What, my gracious lord?
  PRINCE. An if I live until I be a man,
    I'll win our ancient right in France again,
    Or die a soldier as I liv'd a king.
  GLOUCESTER.  [Aside]  Short summers lightly have a forward
    spring.

              Enter HASTINGS, young YORK, and the CARDINAL

  BUCKINGHAM. Now, in good time, here comes the Duke of
    York.
  PRINCE. Richard of York, how fares our loving brother?
  YORK. Well, my dread lord; so must I can you now.  
  PRINCE. Ay brother, to our grief, as it is yours.
    Too late he died that might have kept that title,
    Which by his death hath lost much majesty.
  GLOUCESTER. How fares our cousin, noble Lord of York?
  YORK. I thank you, gentle uncle. O, my lord,
    You said that idle weeds are fast in growth.
    The Prince my brother hath outgrown me far.
  GLOUCESTER. He hath, my lord.
  YORK. And therefore is he idle?
  GLOUCESTER. O, my fair cousin, I must not say so.
  YORK. Then he is more beholding to you than I.
  GLOUCESTER. He may command me as my sovereign;
    But you have power in me as in a kinsman.
  YORK. I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger.
  GLOUCESTER. My dagger, little cousin? With all my heart!
  PRINCE. A beggar, brother?
  YORK. Of my kind uncle, that I know will give,
    And being but a toy, which is no grief to give.
  GLOUCESTER. A greater gift than that I'll give my cousin.
  YORK. A greater gift! O, that's the sword to it!  
  GLOUCESTER. Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough.
  YORK. O, then, I see you will part but with light gifts:
    In weightier things you'll say a beggar nay.
  GLOUCESTER. It is too heavy for your Grace to wear.
  YORK. I weigh it lightly, were it heavier.
  GLOUCESTER. What, would you have my weapon, little
    Lord?
  YORK. I would, that I might thank you as you call me.
  GLOUCESTER. How?
  YORK. Little.
  PRINCE. My Lord of York will still be cross in talk.
    Uncle, your Grace knows how to bear with him.
  YORK. You mean, to bear me, not to bear with me.
    Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me;
    Because that I am little, like an ape,
    He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders.
  BUCKINGHAM. With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons!
    To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle
    He prettily and aptly taunts himself.
    So cunning and so young is wonderful.  
  GLOUCESTER. My lord, will't please you pass along?
    Myself and my good cousin Buckingham
    Will to your mother, to entreat of her
    To meet you at the Tower and welcome you.
  YORK. What, will you go unto the Tower, my lord?
  PRINCE. My Lord Protector needs will have it so.
  YORK. I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower.
  GLOUCESTER. Why, what should you fear?
  YORK. Marry, my uncle Clarence' angry ghost.
    My grandam told me he was murder'd there.
  PRINCE. I fear no uncles dead.
  GLOUCESTER. Nor none that live, I hope.
  PRINCE. An if they live, I hope I need not fear.
    But come, my lord; and with a heavy heart,
    Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower.
    A sennet.
              Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER, BUCKINGHAM, and CATESBY
  BUCKINGHAM. Think you, my lord, this little prating York
    Was not incensed by his subtle mother
    To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously?  
  GLOUCESTER. No doubt, no doubt. O, 'tis a perilous boy;
    Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable.
    He is all the mother's, from the top to toe.
  BUCKINGHAM. Well, let them rest. Come hither, Catesby.
    Thou art sworn as deeply to effect what we intend
    As closely to conceal what we impart.
    Thou know'st our reasons urg'd upon the way.
    What think'st thou? Is it not an easy matter
    To make William Lord Hastings of our mind,
    For the instalment of this noble Duke
    In the seat royal of this famous isle?
  CATESBY. He for his father's sake so loves the Prince
    That he will not be won to aught against him.
  BUCKINGHAM. What think'st thou then of Stanley? Will
    not he?
  CATESBY. He will do all in all as Hastings doth.
  BUCKINGHAM. Well then, no more but this: go, gentle
    Catesby,
    And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hastings
    How he doth stand affected to our purpose;  
    And summon him to-morrow to the Tower,
    To sit about the coronation.
    If thou dost find him tractable to us,
    Encourage him, and tell him all our reasons;
    If he be leaden, icy, cold, unwilling,
    Be thou so too, and so break off the talk,
    And give us notice of his inclination;
    For we to-morrow hold divided councils,
    Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ'd.
  GLOUCESTER. Commend me to Lord William. Tell him,
    Catesby,
    His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries
    To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret Castle;
    And bid my lord, for joy of this good news,
    Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more.
  BUCKINGHAM. Good Catesby, go effect this business soundly.
  CATESBY. My good lords both, with all the heed I can.
  GLOUCESTER. Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we sleep?
  CATESBY. You shall, my lord.
  GLOUCESTER. At Crosby House, there shall you find us both.  
                                                    Exit CATESBY
  BUCKINGHAM. Now, my lord, what shall we do if we
    perceive
    Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots?
  GLOUCESTER. Chop off his head-something we will
    determine.
    And, look when I am King, claim thou of me
    The earldom of Hereford and all the movables
    Whereof the King my brother was possess'd.
  BUCKINGHAM. I'll claim that promise at your Grace's hand.
  GLOUCESTER. And look to have it yielded with all kindness.
    Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards
    We may digest our complots in some form.              Exeunt




SCENE 2.

Before LORD HASTING'S house

Enter a MESSENGER to the door of HASTINGS

  MESSENGER. My lord, my lord!                        [Knocking]
  HASTINGS.  [Within]  Who knocks?
  MESSENGER. One from the Lord Stanley.
  HASTINGS.  [Within]  What is't o'clock?
  MESSENGER. Upon the stroke of four.

                        Enter LORD HASTINGS

  HASTINGS. Cannot my Lord Stanley sleep these tedious
    nights?
  MESSENGER. So it appears by that I have to say.
    First, he commends him to your noble self.
  HASTINGS. What then?
  MESSENGER. Then certifies your lordship that this night
    He dreamt the boar had razed off his helm.
    Besides, he says there are two councils kept,
    And that may be determin'd at the one  
    Which may make you and him to rue at th' other.
    Therefore he sends to know your lordship's pleasure-
    If you will presently take horse with him
    And with all speed post with him toward the north
    To shun the danger that his soul divines.
  HASTINGS. Go, fellow, go, return unto thy lord;
    Bid him not fear the separated council:
    His honour and myself are at the one,
    And at the other is my good friend Catesby;
    Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us
    Whereof I shall not have intelligence.
    Tell him his fears are shallow, without instance;
    And for his dreams, I wonder he's so simple
    To trust the mock'ry of unquiet slumbers.
    To fly the boar before the boar pursues
    Were to incense the boar to follow us
    And make pursuit where he did mean no chase.
    Go, bid thy master rise and come to me;
    And we will both together to the Tower,
    Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly.  
  MESSENGER. I'll go, my lord, and tell him what you say.
 Exit

                         Enter CATESBY

  CATESBY. Many good morrows to my noble lord!
  HASTINGS. Good morrow, Catesby; you are early stirring.
    What news, what news, in this our tott'ring state?
  CATESBY. It is a reeling world indeed, my lord;
    And I believe will never stand upright
    Till Richard wear the garland of the realm.
  HASTINGS. How, wear the garland! Dost thou mean the
    crown?
  CATESBY. Ay, my good lord.
  HASTINGS. I'll have this crown of mine cut from my
    shoulders
    Before I'll see the crown so foul misplac'd.
    But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it?
  CATESBY. Ay, on my life; and hopes to find you forward
    Upon his party for the gain thereof;  
    And thereupon he sends you this good news,
    That this same very day your enemies,
    The kindred of the Queen, must die at Pomfret.
  HASTINGS. Indeed, I am no mourner for that news,
    Because they have been still my adversaries;
    But that I'll give my voice on Richard's side
    To bar my master's heirs in true descent,
    God knows I will not do it to the death.
  CATESBY. God keep your lordship in that gracious mind!
  HASTINGS. But I shall laugh at this a twelve month hence,
    That they which brought me in my master's hate,
    I live to look upon their tragedy.
    Well, Catesby, ere a fortnight make me older,
    I'll send some packing that yet think not on't.
  CATESBY. 'Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord,
    When men are unprepar'd and look not for it.
  HASTINGS. O monstrous, monstrous! And so falls it out
    With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey; and so 'twill do
    With some men else that think themselves as safe
    As thou and I, who, as thou knowest, are dear  
    To princely Richard and to Buckingham.
  CATESBY. The Princes both make high account of you-
    [Aside]  For they account his head upon the bridge.
  HASTINGS. I know they do, and I have well deserv'd it.

                      Enter LORD STANLEY

    Come on, come on; where is your boar-spear, man?
    Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided?
  STANLEY. My lord, good morrow; good morrow, Catesby.
    You may jest on, but, by the holy rood,
    I do not like these several councils, I.
  HASTINGS. My lord, I hold my life as dear as yours,
    And never in my days, I do protest,
    Was it so precious to me as 'tis now.
    Think you, but that I know our state secure,
    I would be so triumphant as I am?
  STANLEY. The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from
    London,
    Were jocund and suppos'd their states were sure,  
    And they indeed had no cause to mistrust;
    But yet you see how soon the day o'ercast.
    This sudden stab of rancour I misdoubt;
    Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward.
    What, shall we toward the Tower? The day is spent.
  HASTINGS. Come, come, have with you. Wot you what, my
    Lord?
    To-day the lords you talk'd of are beheaded.
  STANLEY. They, for their truth, might better wear their
    heads
    Than some that have accus'd them wear their hats.
    But come, my lord, let's away.

                 Enter HASTINGS, a pursuivant

  HASTINGS. Go on before; I'll talk with this good fellow.
                                      Exeunt STANLEY and CATESBY
    How now, Hastings! How goes the world with thee?
  PURSUIVANT. The better that your lordship please to ask.
  HASTINGS. I tell thee, man, 'tis better with me now  
    Than when thou met'st me last where now we meet:
    Then was I going prisoner to the Tower
    By the suggestion of the Queen's allies;
    But now, I tell thee-keep it to thyself-
    This day those enernies are put to death,
    And I in better state than e'er I was.
  PURSUIVANT. God hold it, to your honour's good content!
  HASTINGS. Gramercy, Hastings; there, drink that for me.
                                          [Throws him his purse]
  PURSUIVANT. I thank your honour.                          Exit

                            Enter a PRIEST

  PRIEST. Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your honour.
  HASTINGS. I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my heart.
    I am in your debt for your last exercise;
    Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you.
                                        [He whispers in his ear]
  PRIEST. I'll wait upon your lordship.
  
                            Enter BUCKINGHAM

  BUCKINGHAM. What, talking with a priest, Lord
    Chamberlain!
    Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest:
    Your honour hath no shriving work in hand.
  HASTINGS. Good faith, and when I met this holy man,
    The men you talk of came into my mind.
    What, go you toward the Tower?
  BUCKINGHAM. I do, my lord, but long I cannot stay there;
    I shall return before your lordship thence.
  HASTINGS. Nay, like enough, for I stay dinner there.
  BUCKINGHAM.  [Aside]  And supper too, although thou
    knowest it not.-
    Come, will you go?
  HASTINGS. I'll wait upon your lordship.                 Exeunt




SCENE 3.

Pomfret Castle

Enter SIR RICHARD RATCLIFF, with halberds, carrying the Nobles,
RIVERS, GREY, and VAUGHAN, to death

  RIVERS. Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell thee this:
    To-day shalt thou behold a subject die
    For truth, for duty, and for loyalty.
  GREY. God bless the Prince from all the pack of you!
    A knot you are of damned blood-suckers.
  VAUGHAN. You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter.
  RATCLIFF. Dispatch; the limit of your lives is out.
  RIVERS. O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison,
    Fatal and ominous to noble peers!
    Within the guilty closure of thy walls
  RICHARD the Second here was hack'd to death;
    And for more slander to thy dismal seat,
    We give to thee our guiltless blood to drink.
  GREY. Now Margaret's curse is fall'n upon our heads,
    When she exclaim'd on Hastings, you, and I,  
    For standing by when Richard stabb'd her son.
  RIVERS. Then curs'd she Richard, then curs'd she
    Buckingham,
    Then curs'd she Hastings. O, remember, God,
    To hear her prayer for them, as now for us!
    And for my sister, and her princely sons,
    Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood,
    Which, as thou know'st, unjustly must be spilt.
  RATCLIFF. Make haste; the hour of death is expiate.
  RIVERS. Come, Grey; come, Vaughan; let us here embrace.
    Farewell, until we meet again in heaven.              Exeunt




SCENE 4

London. The Tower

Enter BUCKINGHAM, DERBY, HASTINGS, the BISHOP of ELY, RATCLIFF, LOVEL,
with others and seat themselves at a table

  HASTINGS. Now, noble peers, the cause why we are met
    Is to determine of the coronation.
    In God's name speak-when is the royal day?
  BUCKINGHAM. Is all things ready for the royal time?
  DERBY. It is, and wants but nomination.
  BISHOP OF ELY. To-morrow then I judge a happy day.
  BUCKINGHAM. Who knows the Lord Protector's mind
    herein?
    Who is most inward with the noble Duke?
  BISHOP OF ELY. Your Grace, we think, should soonest know
    his mind.
  BUCKINGHAM. We know each other's faces; for our hearts,
    He knows no more of mine than I of yours;
    Or I of his, my lord, than you of mine.
    Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love.  
  HASTINGS. I thank his Grace, I know he loves me well;
    But for his purpose in the coronation
    I have not sounded him, nor he deliver'd
    His gracious pleasure any way therein.
    But you, my honourable lords, may name the time;
    And in the Duke's behalf I'll give my voice,
    Which, I presume, he'll take in gentle part.

                       Enter GLOUCESTER

  BISHOP OF ELY. In happy time, here comes the Duke himself.
  GLOUCESTER. My noble lords and cousins an, good morrow.
    I have been long a sleeper, but I trust
    My absence doth neglect no great design
    Which by my presence might have been concluded.
  BUCKINGHAM. Had you not come upon your cue, my lord,
  WILLIAM Lord Hastings had pronounc'd your part-
    I mean, your voice for crowning of the King.
  GLOUCESTER. Than my Lord Hastings no man might be
    bolder;  
    His lordship knows me well and loves me well.
    My lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn
    I saw good strawberries in your garden there.
    I do beseech you send for some of them.
  BISHOP of ELY. Marry and will, my lord, with all my heart.
 Exit
  GLOUCESTER. Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you.
                                               [Takes him aside]
    Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business,
    And finds the testy gentleman so hot
    That he will lose his head ere give consent
    His master's child, as worshipfully he terms it,
    Shall lose the royalty of England's throne.
  BUCKINGHAM. Withdraw yourself awhile; I'll go with you.
                                Exeunt GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM
  DERBY. We have not yet set down this day of triumph.
    To-morrow, in my judgment, is too sudden;
    For I myself am not so well provided
    As else I would be, were the day prolong'd.
  
                    Re-enter the BISHOP OF ELY
                
 
 
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