York. Perufe this writing here, and thou shalt know
The treafon that my hafte forbids me show.
Aum. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise past:
I do repent me; read not my name there,
My heart is not confederate with my hand.
York. 'Twas, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.—
I tore it from the traitor's bofom, king;
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence:
Forget to pity him, left thy pity prove
A ferpent that will sting thee to the heart.
Boling. O heinous, ftrong, and bold confpiracy!-
O loyal father of a treacherous fon!
Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,
From whence this stream through muddy paffages,
Hath held his current, and defil'd himself!
Thy overflow of good converts to bad;
And thy abundant goodness shall excufe
This deadly blot in thy digreffing fon.
York. So fhall my virtue be his vice's bawd;
And he shall spend mine honour with his fhame,
As thriftlefs fons their scraping fathers' gold.
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,
Or my tham'd life in his dishonour lies:
Thou kill'ft me in his life; giving him breath,
The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.
Duch. [Within.] What ho, my liege! for God's fake, let me in.
Boling. What fhrill-voic'd fuppliant makes this eager cry?
Duch. 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.
Boling. Our scene is alter'd,—from a serious thing, And now chang'd to The Beggar and the King.
My dangerous coufin, let your mother in ;
I know, the's come to pray for your foul fin.
York. If thou do pardon, whofoever pray,
More fins, for this forgiveness, profper may.
This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rests found;
This, let alone, will all the reft confound.
Duch. O king, believe not this hard-hearted man; Love, loving not itself, none other can.
York. Thou frantick woman, what doft thou make
Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?
Duch. Sweet York, be patient: Hear me, gentle liege.
Boling. Rife up, good aunt.
For ever will I kneel upon my knees,
And never fee day that the happy fees,
Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,
By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.
Aum. Unto my mother's prayers, I bend my knee.
York. Against them both, my true joints bended be.
[Kneels.
Ill may't thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!
Duch. 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 foul, and all befide:
His weary joints would gladly rise, I know ;
Our knees fhall kneel till to the ground they grow:
His prayers are full of false hypocrify;
Ours, of true zeal and deep integrity.
Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have
That mercy, which true prayers ought to have.
Boling. Good aunt, ftand up.
Nay, do not fay-stand up;
But, pardon, firft; 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 fhort, but not so thort as sweet;
No word like, pardon, for kings' mouths fo meet.
York. Speak it in French, king; fay, pardonnez moy.
Duch. Doft thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?
Ah, my four husband, my hard-hearted lord,
That set'st 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, fet 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.
Boling. Good aunt, ftand up.
I do not fue to ftand,
Pardon is all the fuit I have in hand.
Boling. I pardon him, as God fhall pardon me.
Duch. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
Yet am I fick for fear: fpeak it again;
Twice faying pardon, doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon strong.
Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law,—and the
With all the rest of that conforted crew,-
Deltruction straight shall dog them at the heels.—
Good uncle, help to order feveral 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 coufin too, adieu :
Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.
Duch. Come, my old son ;—I pray God make thee new.
Enter EXTON, and a Servant.
Exton. Didst thou not mark the king, what words he fpake?
Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?
Those were his very words.
Exton. Have I no friend? quoth he he fpake it
And urg'd it twice together; did he not?
Exton. And, fpeaking it, he wiftly 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.
Pomfret. The Dungeon of the Caftle.
K. Rich. I have been studying 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 it out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my foul;
My foul, the father; and thefe two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,
And these fame thoughts people this little world;
In humours, like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented. The better fort,—
As thoughts of things divine,-are intermix'd
With fcruples, and do fet 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 poftern of a 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 prifon 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 flaves,
Nor shall not be the laft; like filly beggars,
Who, fitting in the stocks, refuge their fhame,-
That many have, and others must fit there:
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
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