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London. A Street leading to the Tower'.
Enter Queen, and Ladies. Queen. This way the king will come; this is the way To Julius Cæsar's ill-erected tower, To whose Aint bosom my condemned lord Is doom'd a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke : Here let us reft, if this rebellious earth Have any resting for her true king's queen.
Enter King RICHARD, and guards.
But soft, but see, or rather do not fee,
My fair rose wither : Yet look up; behold;
That you in pity may diffolve to dew,
And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.--
Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand;
of honour; thou king Richard's tomb,
And not king Richard ; thou most beauteous inn,
Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee,
When triumph is become an alehouse guest?
K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not for To make my end too sudden : learn, good soul, To think our former state a happy dream; From which awak'd, the truth of what we are Shows us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet, To grim necessity; and he and I Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France, And cloister thee in some religious house :
Our holy lives must win a new world's crown,
Which our profane hours here have stricken down.
Queen. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind
Tranform’d, and weakened ? Hath Bolingbroke
Depos'd thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart?
The lion, dying, thrusteth forth his paw,
And wounds the earth, if nothing else,
To be o’erpower'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take thy correction mildly? kiss the rod;
And fawn on rage with base humility,
Which art a lion, and a king of beasts?
K. Rich. A king of beafts, indeed; if aught but beasts,
I had been still a happy king of men.
Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France :
Think, I am dead ; and that even here thou tak'st,
As from my death-bed, my last living leave.
In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire
With good old folks ; and let them tell thee tales
Of woful ages, long ago betid:
And, ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds.
For why, the senseless brands will sympathize
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,
And, in compassion, weep the fire out :
And some will mourn in alhes, some coal-black,
For the deposing of a rightful king.
Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, attended.
North. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd;
You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.
And, madam, there is order ta'en for you;
With all swift fpeed you must away to France.
K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne, -
The time shall not be
More than it is, ere foul fin, gathering head,
Shall break into corruption : thou shalt think,
Though he divide the realm, and give thee half,
It is too little, helping hini to all ;
And he shall think, that thou, which know'st the way
To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,
Being ne'er so little urg'd, another way
To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.
The love of wicked friends converts to fear;
That fear, to hate; and hate turns one, or both,
To worthy danger, and deserved death.
North. My guilt be on my head, and there an end.
Take leave, and
K. Rich. Doubly divorc'd ?-Bad men, ye violate
A two-fold marriage; 'twixt my crown and me;
And then, betwixt me and my married wife.--
Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me;
And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas inade.
Part'us, Northumberland; I towards the north,
Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime ;
My wife to France; from whence, set forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither like sweet May,
Sent back like Hallowmas, or short'st of day.
Queen. And must we be divided ? must we part ?
K. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from
Queen. Banish us both, and send the king with me.
North. That were some love, but little policy.
Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go..
K. Rich. So two, together weeping, make one woe.
Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here;
Better far off, than-near, be ne'er the near.
Go, count thy way with fighs; I, mine with groans.
Queen. So longest way shall have the longest moans.
K. Rich. Twice for one step I'll groan, the way being
And piece the way out with a heavy heart.
Come, come, in wooing sorrow let's be Brief,
Since wedding it, there is such length in grief.
One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part ;
Thus give I mine, and thus I take thy heart. [They kiss.
Queen. Give me mine own again ; 'twere no good part, To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart. [Kiss again. So, now I have mine own again, begone, That I may strive to kill it with a groan.
K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay : Once more, adieu; the rest fet sorrow say. [Exeunt.
The same. A Room in the Duke of YORK's Palace.
Enter YORK, and his Duchess.
Duch. My lord, you told me, you would tell the rest,
When weeping made you break the story off
Of our two cousins coming into London
York. Where did I leave ?
At that fad stop, my lord, Where rude mifgovern'd hands, from windows' tops, Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head.
York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,
With low, but stately pace, kept on his course,
While all tongues cried—God save thee, Bolingbroke!
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls,
With painted imag'ry, had said at once,
Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Befpake them thus,- I thank you, countrymen:
And thus still doing, thus he pass’d along.
Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rides he the while?
York. As in a theatre, the eyes
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious :
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard ; no man cried, God save him ;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home :
But dust was thrown upon his facred head !
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,-
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in these events;
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow.