Depos'd thine intellect? Hath he been in thy heart?
The lion, dying, thrusteth forth his paw,

And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage
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 beasts, 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 woeful 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 ashes, 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 speed you must away to France.
K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder where-
withal

to quit their grief,] To retaliate their mournful stories.

The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,-
The time shall not be many hours of age
More than it is, ere foul sin, gathering head,
Shall break into corruption: thou shalt think,
Though he divide the realm, and give thee half,
It is too little, helping him 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 part; for you must part forthwith.
K. Rich. Doubly divorc'd?-Bad men, ye violate
A twofold marriage; 'twixt my crown and me;
And then, betwixt me and my married wife.-
Let me unkiss the oath betwixt thee and me;
And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made.—
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 heart.

Queen. Banish us both, and send the king with

me.

North. That were some love, but little policy.

7 Hallowmas,] All-hallows, or all-hallowtide; the first of November.

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 sighs; 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 short,

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 let sorrow say.

[Exeunt.

Better far off, than-near, be ne'er the near'.] The meaning is, it is better to be at a great distance, than being near each other, to find that we yet are not likely to be peaceably and happily united.

The same.

SCENE II.

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?
Duch.

At that sad stop, my lord,

Where rude misgovern'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 slow, but stately pace, kept on his course,
While all tongues cried-God save thee, Boling-

broke!

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,
Bespake them thus,-I thank you, countrymen:
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

9 With painted imag'ry, had said at once,] Our author probably was thinking of the painted clothes that were hung in the streets, in the pageants that were exhibited in his own time; in which the figures sometimes had labels issuing from their mouths, containing sentences of gratulation.

Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rides he the

while?

York. As in a theatre,' the eyes

of men,

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 sacred 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.

Enter AUMErle.

Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle.

York.

Aumerle that was;2

But that is lost, for being Richard's friend,

And, madam, you must call him Rutland now:
I am in parliament pledge for his truth,

And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

1

As in a theatre, &c.] "The painting of this description (says Dryden, in his preface to Troilus and Cressida,) is so lively, and the words so moving, that I have scarce read any thing comparable to it, in any other language.

2

Aumerle that was;] The Dukes of Aumerle, Surrey, and Exeter, were, by an act of Henry's first parliament, deprived of their dukedoms, but were allowed to retain their earldoms of Rutland, Kent, and Huntingdon.