Thy fun fets weeping in the lowly west,
Witneffing ftorms to come, woe, and unrest:
Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes;
And crofly to thy good, all fortune goes.

[Exit.

A CT III. SCENE I

Bolingbroke's Camp.

Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Rofs, Percy, Willoughby, with Bushy and Green Prisoners.

BOLINGBROKE.

RING forth thefe men.

B

Bushy and Green, I will not vex your fouls (Since prefently your fouls muft 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 fome causes of your deaths.
You have mif-led a Prince, a royal King,
A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,
By you unhappy'd, and disfigur'd clean.
You have in manner with your finful hours
Made a divorce betwixt his Queen and him ;
Broke the poffeffion of a royal bed,

And ftain'd the beauty of a fair Queen's cheeks...
With tears drawn from her eyes, with your
foul wrongs,
My felf, a Prince, by fortune of my birth,
Near to the King in blood, (and near in love,
Till you did make him mif-interpret me,)
Have ftoopt my neck under your injuries,
And figh'd my English breath in foreign clouds,
FS

Eating

Eating the bitter bread of banishment:

While you have fed upon my feigniories;
Dif-park'd my parks, and fell'd my foreft woods;
From mine own windows torn my
houfhold coat,

Raz'd out my Imprefs; leaving me no fign,
Save mens opinions, and my living blood,
To fhew the world I am a gentleman.

This, and much more, much more than twice all this,,
Condemns you to the death. See them deliver'd
To execution, and the hand of death.

Bushy. More welcome is the ftroak of death to me, Than Bolingbroke to England.

Green. My comfort is, that heav'n will take our fouls, And plague injuftice with the pains of hell.

Boling. My lord Northumberland, fee them dispatch'd.. Uncle, you fay the Queen is at your house For heav'ns fake, fairly let her be intreated ; Tell her I fend to her my kind commends; Take fpecial care my greetings be deliver'd. Tork. A gentleman of mine I have difpatch'd With letters of your love to her at large.

Boling. Thanks, gentle uncle: come, my lords, away, To fight with Glendower, and his complices; A while to work, and after holiday.

SCENE IL

Changes to the Coaft of Wales.

Flourish: Drums and Trumpets.

[Exeunt;

Enter King Richard, Aumerle, Bishop of Carliffe, and

K. Rich

Soldiers.

Arkloughly-cafle call you this at hand? Aum. Yea, my good lord; how brooks your grace the air,

After your toffing on the breaking feas

K. Rich..

K. Rich. Needs muft I like it well; I weep for joy To stand upon my kingdom once again.

Dear earth, I do falute thee with my hand,
Though rebels wound thee with their horfes hoofs:
As a long-parted mother with her child,

Plays fondly with her tears, and fmiles in meeting;
So weeping, fmiling, greet I thee my earth,
And do thee favour with my royal hands.
Feed not thy foveraign's foe, my gentle earth,
Nor with thy fweets comfort his rav'nous fenfe ::
But let thy fpiders that fuck up thy venom,
And heavy-gaited toads, lye in their way,
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet
Which with ufurping fteps do trample thee.
Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies;
And when they from thy bofom pluck a flower,
Guard it I pr'ythee with a lurking adder;
Whofe double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy foveraign's enemies.
Mock not my fenfelefs conjuration, lords;
This earth fhall have a feeling, and these stones
Prove armed foldiers, ere her native King

Shall faulter under foul rebellious arms.

Bishop. Fear not, my lord, that pow'r that made you'
King

Hath pow'r to keep you King, in fpight of all.
a The means that heaven yields must be embrac❜d,
And not neglected: elfe if heaven would

And we would not, heav'n's offer we refufe,
The proffer'd means of fuccour and redrefs.

Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remifs, Whilft Bolingbroke, through our fecurity,

Grows ftrong and great, in fubftance and in power.
K. Rich. Difcomfortable coufin, know'st thou not,,
That when the fearching eye of heav'n is hid
Behind the globe, that lights the lower world;
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unfeen,

a

The four lines that follow, from the first editions

In

In murders, and in outrage bloody here.
But when from under this terrestrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his b light through ev'ry guilty hole;
Then murders, treasons, and detefted 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 th'Antipodes,
Shall fee us rifing in our throne, the east;
His treasons will fet blufhing 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 depofe
The deputy elected by the Lord.

For every man that Bolingbroke hath preft,
To lift fharp fteel againft our golden crown,
Heav'n for his Richard hath in heav'nly pay
A glorious angel; then if angels fight,

Weak men muft fall, for heav'n ftill guards the right.

Welcome, my lord, how far off lies your power?
Sali. Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious lord,
Than this weak arm; discomfort, guides my tongue,
And bids me fpeak of nothing but defpair:
One day (too late I fear, my noble lord).
Hath clouded all d thy happy days on earth.
Oh call back yesterday, bid time return,

And thou fhalt have twelve thousand fighting men.
To-day, to-day, unhappy day too late
O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy ftate.

b lightning. added from the fame edition:

For

d my.

For all the Welshmen hearing thou wert dead,

Are gone to Bolingbroke, difperft 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. *
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 my felf: am I not King?
Awake thou coward Majefty, thou flee peft:
Is not the King's name forty thousand names?
Arm, arm my name; a puny subject strikes
At thy great glory. Look not to the ground,
Ye fav'rites of a King! are we not high?
High be our thoughts. I know my uncle Tork
Hath pow'r to ferve our turn. But who comes here?

SCENE IV.

Enter Scroop.

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 fubjects? that we cannot mend;

They'

* and they are fled,

And till fo much blood thither come again,
Have I not reason to look pale, and dead?
All fouls

દ