That, when the searching eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and lights, the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unfeen,
In murders, and in outrage, bloody here;
But when, from under this terreftrial ball,
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons, and detested fins,
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,
Whilft we were wand'ring with the antipodes,-
Shall fee us rifing in our throne the east,
His treasons will fit blushing in his face,
Not able to endure the fight of day,
But, felf-affrighted, tremble at his fin.
Not all the water in the rough-rude fea
Can wash the balm from an anointed king :
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord :
For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd,
To lift fhrewd fteel 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.
Welcome, my lord; How far off lies your power?
Sal. Nor near, nor further off, my gracious lord,
Than this weak arm: Discomfort guides my tongue,
And bids me speak of nothing but despair.
One day too late, I fear, my noble lord,
E
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, difpers'd, and fled.
Aum. Comfort, my liege: Why looks your grace fo pale?
K. Rich. But now, the blood of twenty thousand men
Did triumph in my face, and they are fled;
And, till fo much blood thither come again,
Have I not reason to look pale and dead?
All fouls that will be fafe, fly from my
fide;
For time hath fet a blot upon my pride.
Aum. Comfort, my liege; remember who you are.
K. Rich. I had forgot myself: Am I not king?
Awake, thou fluggard majefty! thou sleep'ft.
Is not the king's name forty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my name! a puny fubject ftrikes
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 ferve our turn. But who
Comes here?
Scroop. More health and happiness betide my liege,
Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him!
K. Rich. Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar'd;
The worst is worldly lofs, thou canst unfold.
Say, is my kingdom loft? why, 'twas my care;
And what lofs is it, to be rid of care?
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?
Greater he shall not be; if he ferve God,
We'll ferve him too, and be his fellow fo:
Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend ;
They break their faith to God, as well as us:
Cry, woe, deftruction, ruin, lofs, decay;
The worst is death, and death will have his day.
Scroop. Glad am I, that your highness is fo arm'd
To bear the tidings of calamity.
Like an unfeasonable stormy day,
Which makes the filver rivers drown their fhores,
As if the world were all diffolv'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 fteel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless fcalps
Against thy majefty; 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 feat: both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have power to tell.
K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'ft a tale fo ill,
Where is the earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
What is become of Bushy? where is Green?
That they have let the dangerous enemy
Measure our confines with fuch peaceful steps?
If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.
I warrant, they have made peace with Bolingbroke. Scroop. Peace have they made with him, indeed, my lord.
K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemp
Dogs, eafily won to fawn on any man!
Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart!
Three Judaffes, each one thrice worse than Judas!
Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted fouls for this offence!
Scroop. Sweet love, I fee, changing his property,
Turns to the fourest and most deadly hate :—
Again uncurse their fouls; their peace is made
With heads and not with hands: thofe whom you curse, Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound,
And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.
Aum. Is Bushy, Green, and the earl of Wiltshire,
Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol loft their heads.
Aum. Where is the duke my father with his power? K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make duft our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write forrow on the bofom of the earth.
Let's choose executors, and talk of wills;
And yet not fo,-for what can we bequeath,
Save our depofed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own, but death:
And that small model of the barren earth,
Which ferves as paste and cover to our bones.
For heaven's fake, let's fit upon the ground,
And tell fad ftories of the death of kings:-
How fome have been depos'd, fome flain in war;
Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd;
Some poison'd by their wives, fome fleeping kill'd;
All murder'd:-For within the hollow crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps death his court: and there the antick fits,
Scoffing his ftate, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with felf and vain conceit,-
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brafs 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 folemn 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 fay to me-I am a king ?
Car. My lord, wife men ne'er wail their present woes,
But presently prevent the ways to wail.
To fear the foe, fince fear oppreffeth strength,
Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe,
And fo your follies fight against yourself.
Fear, and be flain; no worse can come, to fight:
And fight and die, is death destroying death;
Where fearing dying, pays death fervile breath.
Aum. My father hath a power, inquire of him;
And learn to make a body of a limb.
K. Rich. Thou chid'ft 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 fweetly, man, although thy looks be four.
Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the sky
The state and inclination of the day:
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