ORLA WHO's there
ADAM. What, my voung 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.
Kaow 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!
ORLA Why, what's the matter?
ADAM. Ob, 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 wil 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.
ORLA. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have
ADAM. No matter whither, so you come not here..
ORLA. 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.
Oría. Oh! good old min, how well in thee ap
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 prun'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, 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?hat we cannot mend;"
They break their faith to God, as well as us.
Cry wo, destruction, run, loss, decay;
The worst is death, and death will have his day.
SCROOP. Glad an. 1 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 it the world were al dissolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits swells the rage
Ot Bolingbroke, cov'ring your tearful land
With hard bright steel, and nearts more hard than
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;
The 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 pow'r 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 eves
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth!
Let's chuse executors, and talk of wills;
And yet not se-
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's sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of Kings;
How sonie have been depos'd, some slain in war ;
Some haunted by the ghosts they dispossess'd;
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping kill'd;
All murdered,For within the hol ow 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,
Ware 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 Leads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn rev'rence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have hut 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?
HOTSPUR AND GLENDOWER.
GLEND.SIT, consin Percy; sit.good cousin Hotspur; For, by that e, as oft as Lancaster
Doth speak of on, his cheeks look pale; and with A rising sigh, he wisheth you in heav'n.
Hor. And you in hell, as often as he hears Owen Glendower spoken of.
GLEND. I blame him not: at my nativity, The front of heav'n was full of fiery shapes, Of burning cressets; know, that at my birth, The frame and the foundation of the earth Shook like a coward.
Hor. So it would have done
At the same season, if your mother's cat
Had kitten'd, though yourself had ne'er been born. GLEND I say, the earth did shake when
HOT. I say, the earth then was not of my mind; you suppose, as fearing you, it shook.
GLEND. The heav'ns were all on fire, the earth did tremble.
Hor. O then the earth shook to see the heav'ns on fire,
And not in fear of your nativity.
Diseased nature often times breaks forth
In stran ze eruptions; and the teeming earth
Is with a kind cholic pinch'd and vex'd,
By the imprisoning of unruly wind
Within her womb: which for enlargement striving,
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