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And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your fick fervice had a Prince.
Nay, you may think, my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning. Do, an if you will:
If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,
Why then, you must- Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you.

Hub. I've fworn to do it;

And with hot irons muft I burn them out.

Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age would do it.
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
Approaching near thefe eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench its fiery indignation,

Even in the matter of mine innocence:
Nay, after that, confume away in ruft,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn hard, than hammer'd iron?
Oh! if an angel fhould have come to me,

And told me, Hubert fhould put out mine eyes,
I would not have believ'd a tongue, but Hubert's.
[Hubert famps, and the men enter.
Hub. Come forth; do as I bid you.

Arth. O fave me, Hubert, fave me! my eyes are out,
Even with the fierce looks of thefe bloody men.
Hub. Give me the iron, I fay, and bind him here.
Arth. Alas, what need you be fo boift'rous-rough?
I will not ftruggle, I will ftand ftone-fill.
For heaven's fake, Hubert, let me not be bound.
Nay, hear me, Hubert-drive these men away,
And I will fit as quiet as a lamb.

I will not ftir, nor wince, nor fpeak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angrily;

Thruft but thefe men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.

Hub. Go, ftand within; let me alone with him.
Exec. I am beft pleas'd to be from such a deed. [Exeunt.
Arth. Alas, I then have chid away my friend:
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart;
Let him come back, that his compaflion may
Give life to yours.

Hub.

Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself.

Arth. Is there no remedy?

Hub. None, but to lofe your eyes.

Arth. O heaven! that there were but a moth in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand'ring hair,

Any annoyance in that precious sense;

Then, feeling what fmall things are boift'rous there,
Your vile intent muft needs feem horrible.

Hub. Is this your promife? Go to, hold your tongue.
Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Muft needs want pleading for a pair of eyes:
Let me not hold my tongue: let me not, Hubert's
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes. O fpare mine eyes!
Though to no ufe, but ftill to look on you.
Lo, by my troth, the inftrument is cold,
And would not harm me.

Hub. I can heat it, boy.

Arth. No, in good footh, the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be us'd

In undeferv'd extremes; fee else yourself.

There is no malice in this burning coal;

The breath of heaven hath blown its fpirit out,
And ftrew'd repentant afhes on his head.

Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with fhame of your proceedings, Hubert:
Nay, it, perchance, will fparkle in your eyes;
And like a dog, that is compell'd to fight,
Snatch at his mafter that doth tarre him on.
All things, that you should use to do me wrong,
Deny their office; only you do lack

That mercy which fierce fire and iron, extends,
Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

Hub. Well, fee to live; I will not touch thine eye,

For all the treasure that thine uncle owes :

Yet am I fworn; and I did purpose, boy,

With this fame very iron to burn them out.

Arth. O, now you look like Hubert. All this while You were disguised.

Hub. Peace: no more.

Adieu.
L 3

Your

Your uncle must not know but
you are dead.
I'll fill thefe dogged fpies with falfe reports:
And, pretty child, fleep doubtlefs and fecure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.

Arth. O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.

Hub. Silence, no more; go closely in with me. Much danger do I undergo for thee.

I

(Ext

N°. VIII. KING RICHARD II,

ACT V. SCENE V. Prison at Pomfret-Cafile.

·Enter King Richard.

HAVE been ftudying, how I may compare
This prifon, 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 on 't.
My brain I'll prove the female to my foul,
My foul, the father; and thefe two beget
A generation of ftill-breeding thoughts;
And these fame thoughts people this little world;
In humour, like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented. The better fort,
As thoughts of things divine, are intermixt
With fcruples, and do fet the word itfelf

Against the word: as thus, Come, little ones; and then again.
It is as hard to come, as for a camel

To thread the poftern of a needle's eye.

Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders; how thefe vain weak nails
May tear a paffage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prifon-walls,
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to content, flatter themselves,
That they are not the firft of fortune's flaves,
Nor fhall not be the laft; like filly beggars
Who, fitting in the ftoeks, refuge their fhame,

That

That many have, and others must fit there;
And in this thought they find a kind of eafe,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of fuch as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play I, in one prifon, many people,
And none contented. Sometimes am I king;
Then treafon makes me wish myself a beggar,
And fo I am. Then crushing penury
Perfuades me, I was better when a king;
Then am I king'd again; and by and by
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing. But whate'er I am,"
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing fhall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
With being nothing.-Mufic do I hear?
Ha, ha; keep time: how four fweet music is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the mufic of men's lives;
And here have I the daintinefs of ear,
To check time broke in a diforder'd string,
But for the concord of my ftate and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wafted time, and now doth time waste me;
For now hath time made me his numb'ring clock.
My thoughts are minutes; and with fighs they jar:
Their watches to mine eyes the outward watch;
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,

[Mufic.

Is pointing ftill, in cleaning them from tears.
Now, Sir, the founds that tell what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that ftrike upon my heart,
Which is the bell; fo fighs, and tears, and groans,
Shew minutes, hours, and times. O, but my time
Runs pofting on, in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I ftand fooling here, his jack o' th' clock.
This mufic mads me, let it found no more;
For though it have holpe mad men to their wits,

In

me, it feems, it will make wife men mad. Yet bleffing on his heart that gives it me! For 'tis a fign of love; and love to Richard Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

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Enter Groom.

Groom. Hail, royal Prince!

K. Rich. Thanks, noble Peer.

The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
What art? how com'ft thou hither;

Where no man ever comes, but that fad dog,
That brings me food to make misfortune live?
Groom. I was a poor groom of thy ftable, King,
When thou wert king; who travelling towards York,
With much ado at length have gotten leave
To look upon my fometime mafter's face.
O, how it yearn'd my heart when I beheld,
In London ftreets, that Coronation day,
When Bolingbroke road on Roan Barbary,
That horfe, that thou so often haft beftrid;
That horfe, that I fo carefully have drefs'd!

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him?

Groom. So proudly, as he had difdain'd the ground. K. Rich. So proud, that Bolingbroke was on his back! That jade had eat bread from my royal hand; This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. Would he not ftumble? would he not fall down, Since pride muft have a fall, and break the neck Of that proud man that did ufurp his back? Forgivenefs, horfe; why do I rail on thee, Since thou, created to be aw'd by man, Wail born to bear? I was not made a horse, And yet I bear a burden like an ass,

Spur-gall'd, and tir'd, by jaunting Bolingbroke.

Enter Keeper, with a dish.

Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer ftay. [To the Groom. K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away. Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart fhall fay.

[Exit.

Keep. My Lord, will't please you to fall to? K. Rich. Tafte of it firft, as thou wert wont to do. Keep. My Lord, I dare not; for Sir Pierce of Exton, Who late came from the King, commands the contrary.

K. Rich

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