Boling. With all my heart

I pardon him.

Dutch. A God on earth thou art.

Boling. But for our trufty brother-in-law, the Abbot,
With all the rest of that conforted crew,

Destruction ftreight fhall dog them at the heels.
Good uncle help to order feveral powers
To Oxford, or where-e'er these traytors are.*

SCENE IX.

Enter Exton and a Servant.

[Exeunt.

Exton. Didst thou not mark the King, what words he fpake?

"Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear? . Was it not fo?

Serv. Those were his very words.

Exton. Have I no friend? quoth he; he spake it twice,

And urg'd it twice together; did he not?

Serv. He did.

Exton. And fpeaking it, he wiftly look'd on me,
As who fhall fay, I would thou wert the man
That would divorce this terror from my heart
Meaning the King at Pomfret. Come, let's
I am the King's friend, and will rid his foe.

go:

[Exeunt.

SCENE

1

traytors are.

They fhall not live within this world, I fwear;
But I will have them, if I once know where.
Uncle farewel, and cousin adieu;

Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.
Dutch. Come my old fon, I pray heav'n make thee

new.

SCENE, &c.

I

Have been ftudying, how to compare
This prifon where I live, unto the world;
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but my felf,
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 d word it felf

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 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 first of fortune's flaves,
And fhall 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 cafe,
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

And none contented. Sometimes am I King, Then treafon makes me with my self a beggar, And fo I am. Then crushing penury Perfwades me, I was better when a King; Then am 1 king'd again; and by and by, Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke, And ftreight am nothing-but what-e'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? [Mufic. Ha, ha, keep time: how fow'r 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 fcheck time broke in a diforder'd string; But for the concord of my state and time, Had not an ear to hear my true time broke: I wasted time, and now doth time waste me. For now hath time made me his numbring clock: My thoughts are minutes; and with fighis they jar, Their watches to mine eyes, the outward watch; Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,

my

time

Is pointing ftill, in cleanfing 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 but
Runs pofting on, in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I ftand fooling here, his jack o'th' clock.
This music mads me, let it found no more;
For though it have help'd mad men to their wits,
In me it seems, 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.

f hear. † Brooch, an old word fignifying a Jewel:

SCENE XI.

Enter Groom.

Groom. Hail, royal Prince.*

K. Rich. 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 stable, King,
When thou wert King; who travelling tow'rds 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 rode on Roan Barbary,
That horfe, that thou so often haft bestrid;
That horfe, that I fo carefully have dress'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 hath 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 must have a fall) and break the neck Of that proud man, that did ufurp his back? Forgiveness, horfe; why do I rail on thee, Since thou, created to be aw'd by man, Waft born to bear? I was not made a horse, And yet I bear a burthen like an ass, Spur-gall'd, and tir'd by jaunting Bolingbroke.

royal Prince.

K. Rich. Thanks, noble Peer.

The cheapest of us, is ten groats too dear,
What art thou? and how com'ft, &c.

fometime, for formerly.

SCENE

SCENE XII.

Enter Keeper with a dish.

Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer flay. [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.

Keep. My lord, will't pleafe you to fall to?

[Exit.

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. The Dev'l take Henry of Lancaster, and thee. Patience is stale, and I am weary of it. [Beats the Keeper. Keep. Help, help, help.

Enter Exton and Servants.

K. Rich. How now? what means death in this rude affault?

Wretch, thine own hand yields thy death's inftrument; [Snatching a Sword. Go thou, and fill another room in hell. [Kills another. [Exton ftrikes him down: That hand fhall burn in never-quenching fire,

That ftaggers thus my perfon: thy fierce hand
Hath with the King's blood ftain'd the King's own land
Mount, mount my foul, thy feat is up on high,
Whilft my grofs flesh finks downward, here to die.

[Dies.

Exton. As full of valour, as of royal blood,
Both have I fpilt: Oh would the deed were good!
For now the devil that told me I did well,
Says, that this deed is chronicled in hell.
This dead King to the living King I'll bear;
Take hence the reft, and give them burial here.

H 3

[Exeunt.

SCENE