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 paft redress, are now with me past care. [Exeunt, SCENE IV, A Camp in Wales, Enter SALISBURY, and a Captain. Cap. My lord of Salisbury, we have staid ten days, And yet we hear no tidings from the king; Sal. Stay yet another day, thou trufty Welshman; In thee. Cap. 'Tis thought, the king is dead: we will not stay, The bay-trees in our country are all wither'd, And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth, And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change; Rich men look fad, and ruffians dance and leap,The one, in fear to lose what they enjoy, The other, to enjoy by rage and war : Thefe figns forerun the death or fall of kings.Farewell; our countrymen are gone and fled, As well affur'd, Richard their king is dead. Sal. Ah, Richard! with the eyes of heavy mind, I fee thy glory, like a fhooting ftar, [Exit. Fall Fall to the base earth from the firmament ! [Exit. ACT ACT III SCENE I. Bolingbroke's Camp at Bristol. Enter BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY, WILLOUGHBY, Ross: Officers behind with BUSHY and GREEN, prisoners. Boling. Bring forth these men. Bushy, and Green, I will not vex your fouls (Since presently your fouls must part your bodies,) And ftain'd the beauty of a fair queen's cheeks foul wrongs. Myfelf-a prince, by fortune of my birth; Whilft you have fed upon my fignories, Difpark'd my parks, and fell'd my forest woods; From From my own windows torn my household coat, This, and much more, much more than twice all this, Busby. More welcome is the stroke of death to me, Than Bolingbroke to England.-Lords, farewell. Green. My comfort is,—that heaven will take our fouls, And plague injuftice with the pains of hell. Boling. My lord Northumberland, see them despatch'd. [Exeunt NORTHUMBERLAND and Others, with prisoners. Uncle, you fay, the queen is at your house; Boling. Thanks, gentle uncle.-Come, lords, away; [Exeunt. SCENE II. The coaft of Wales. A caftle in view. Flourish: drums and trumpets. Enter King RICHARD, Bishop of Carlife, AUMERLE, and Soldiers. K. Rich. Barkloughly caftle call you this at hand? Aum. Yea, my lord: How brooks your grace the air, After late toffing on the breaking seas ? K. Rich. K. Rich. Needs muft I like it well; I weep for joy, Dear earth, I do falute thee with my hand, Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs : Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting; Bishop. Fear not, my lord; that Power, that made you Hath power to keep you king, in spite of all. The means that heaven yields must be embrac'd, Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remifs; K. Rich. Difcomfortable coufin! know'ft thou not, That, |