I'll weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty;
Lie at thy feet and kiss 'em, though they spurn me,
Till wounded by my suff'rings thou relent,
And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness.
Pier. Art thou not-
Pier. A coward, a most scand'lous coward, Spiritless, void of honour, one who has sold
Thy everlasting fame for shameless life?
Jaff. All, all, and more, much more: my faults are numberless.
Pier. And wouldst thou have me live on terms like thine ?
Base as thou'rt false
Jaff. No: 'tis to me that's granted : The safety of thy life was all I aim'd at,
In recompense for faith and trust so broken.
Pier. I scorn it more, because preserv'd by thee:
And as, when first my foolish heart took pity
On thy misfortunes, sought thee in thy mis'ries,
Reliev'd thy wants, and rais'd thee from thy state
Of wretchedness, in which thy fate had plung'd thee,
To rank thee in my list of noble friends;
All I receiv'd in surety for thy truth
Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger,
Giv'n with a worthless pledge thou since hast stol'n :
So I restore it back to thee again;
Swearing by all those pow'rs which thou hast violated,
Never from this curs'd hour to hold communion,
Friendship, or int'rest with thee, though our years
Were to exceed those limited the world.
Take it. Farewell, for now I owe thee nothing.
Jaff. Say thou wilt live then.
Pier. For my life, dispose of't
Just as thou wilt, because 'tis what I'm tir'd with.
Jaff. O Pierre !
Jaff. My eyes won't lose the sight of thee, But languish after thine, and ache with gazing.
Pier. Leave me- -Nay, then thus, thus, I throw thee
And curses, great as is thy falsehood, catch thee.
Adam. What, my young master! Oh, my gentle master! Oh, my sweet master! oh you memory
Of old sir Rowland! Why, what makes you here?
Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?
Why would
you be so fond to overcome
The bony prizer of the hum'rous Duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours: your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
Oh, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!
Orlan. Why, what's the matter?
Adam. Oh, unhappy youth,
Come not within these doors; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives :
Your brother-(no; no brother; yet the son,—
Yet not the son; I will not call him son
Of him I was about to call his father)
Hath heard your praises, and this night he means,
To burn the lodging where you us'd to lie,
And you within it if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off.
I overheard him, and his practices :
This is no place; this house is but a butchery;
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.
Orlan. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?
Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here.
Orlan. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?
Or with a base and boist'rous sword enforce
A thievish living on the common road ?
This must I do, or know not what to do :
Yet this I will not do, do how I can;
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother.
Adam. But do not so; I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,
Which I did store to be my foster nurse,
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown:
Take that; and he that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! here is the gold;
All this I give you, let me be your servant:
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;
Nor did I with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly; let me go with you;
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.
Orlan. O! good old man, how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion;
And, having that, do choke their service up
Ev'n with the having; 'tis not so with thee;
But, poor old man, thou pruir'st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
But come thy ways, we'll go along together,
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some settled low content.
Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow thee
To the last gasp with truth and loyalty;
From seventeen years till now, almost fourscore,
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
But at fourscore it is too late a week;
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.
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 loss thou canst unfold;
Say, is my kingdom lost? Why, 'twas my care;.'
And what loss is it, to be rid of care?
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we!
Greater he shall not be; if he serve God,
We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so.
Revolt our subjects? That we cannot mend;
They break their faith to God, as well as us,
Cry wo, destruction, ruin, loss, decay;
The worst is death, and death will have his day.
Scroop. Glad am I, that your Highness is so arm'd
To bear the tidings of calamity.
Like an unseasonable stormy day,
Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,
As if the world were all dissolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits swells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring your fearful land
With hard, bright steel, and hearts more hard than steel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy Majesty; boys, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clasp 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 seat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have power to tell.
K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'st a tale so ill.
Where is the earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
What is become of Busby? where is Green?
-No matter where; of comfort no man speak,
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth!
Let's choose executors, and talk of wills;
And yet not so-
-for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed 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 serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For Heav'n's sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of Kings;
How some have been depos'd; some slain in war;
Some haunted by the ghosts they dispossess'd;
Some poison'd by their wives; some sleeping 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 antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable: and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle walls, and farewell King!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn rev'rence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while.
I live on bread like you; feel want like you;
Taste grief, need friends, like you: subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a King?
|