On yond' proud man, should take it off again
With words of sooth. O! that I were as great
As is my grief, or lesser than my name,
Or that I could forget what I have been,
Or not remember what I must be now!
Swell'st thou, proud heart? I'll give thee scope
to beat,

Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me. Aum. Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke.

K. Rich. What must the king do now? Must he submit? The king shall do it.

Must he be depos'd?

The king shall be contented. Must he lose
The name of king? o' God's name, let it go:
I'll give my jewels for a set of beads,
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage,
My gay apparel for an alms-man's gown,
My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood,
My sceptre for a palmer's walking-staff,
My subjects for a pair of carved saints,
And my large kingdom for a little grave,
A little little grave, an obscure grave:
Or I'll be buried in the king's highway,
Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet
May hourly trample on their sovereign's head;

For on my heart they tread, now whilst I live,
And, buried once, why not upon my head?—
Aumerle, thou weep'st; my tender-hearted cou-
sin!-

We'll make foul weather with despised tears;
Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn,
And make a dearth in this revolting land :
Or shall we play the wantons with our woes,
And make some pretty match with shedding tears?
As thus ;-to drop them still upon one place,
Till they have fretted us a pair of graves
Within the earth; and, therein laid, there lies
Two kinsmen digg'd their graves with weeping

eyes.

Would not this ill do well?-Well, well, I see
I talk but idly, and you mock at me.-
Most mighty prince, my lord Northumberland,
What says king Bolingbroke? will his majesty
Give Richard leave to live till Richard die?
You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay.

North. My lord, in the base court he doth attend To speak with you: may't please you to come down?

K. Rich. Down, down, I come; like glistering

Phaeton,

Wanting the manage of unruly jades. [NORTHUMBERLAND retires again to BOLINGBROKE.

In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base,

To come at traitors' calls, and do them grace.

In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down, king!

For night-owls shriek, where mounting larks should
sing.
[Exeunt, from above.
Boling. What says his majesty?
North.
Sorrow and grief of heart
Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man:
Yet he is come.

Enter King RICHARD, and his Attendants, below.

K. Rich. Your own is yours; and I am yours, and all.

Boling. So far be mine, my most redoubted lord, As my true service shall deserve your love.

K. Rich. Well you deserve :-they well deserve to have,

That know the strong'st and surest way to get.—
Uncle, give me your hand: nay, dry your eyes;
Tears show their love, but want their reme-
dies.-
Cousin, I am too young to be
your father,
Though you are old enough to be my heir.
What you will have, I'll give, and willing too;
For do we must what force will have us do.-
Set on towards London.-Cousin, is it so ?
Boling. Yea, my good lord.
K. Rich.

Then, I must not say no.
[Flourish. Exeunt.

SCENE IV.-Langley. The Duke of YORK's Garden.

Enter the QUEEN, and two Ladies. Queen. What sport shall we devise here in this garden,

To drive away the heavy thought of care? 1 Lady. Madam, we'll play at bowls.

Queen. "Twill make me think the world is full of rubs,

And that my fortune runs against the bias. 1 Lady. Madam, we'll dance.

Queen. My legs can keep no measure in delight, When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief: Therefore, no dancing, girl; some other sport. 1 Lady. Madam, we'll tell tales. Queen. Of sorrow, or of joy! 1 Lady. Of either, madam. Queen. Of neither, girl;

For if of joy, being altogether wanting,
It doth remember me the more of sorrrow;
Or if of grief, being altogether had,

2

It adds more sorrow to my want of joy ;
For what I have I need not to repeat,
And what I want it boots not to complain.
1 Lady. Madam, I'll sing.
Queen.

'Tis well that thou hast cause; But thou should'st please me better, would'st thou

weep.

1 Lady. I could weep, madam, would it do you good.

Queen. And I could sing, would weeping do me good,

And never borrow any tear of thee.
But stay, here come the gardeners:
Let's step into the shadow of these trees.-
My wretchedness unto a row of pins,
They'll talk of state; for every one doth so
Against a change. Woe is forerun with woe.
[QUEEN and Ladies retire.

Enter a Gardener and two Servants.
Gard. Go, bind thou up yond' dangling apricocks,
Which, like unruly children, make their sire
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight:
Give some supportance to the bending twigs.-
Go thou, and like an executioner,
Cut off the heads of too-fast-growing sprays,
That look too lofty in our commonwealth:
All must be even in our government.-
You thus employ'd, I will go root away
The noisome weeds, that without profit suck
The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers.

1 Serv. Why should we, in the compass of a pale, Keep law, and form, and due proportion, Showing, as in a model, our firm estate, When our sea-walled garden, the whole land, Is full of weeds; her fairest flowers chok'd up, Her fruit-trees all unprun'd, her hedges ruin'd, Her knots disorder'd, and her wholesome herbs Swarming with caterpillars?

Gard.

Hold thy peace.

He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring,
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf:
The weeds that his broad-spreading leaves did

shelter,

That seem'd in eating him to hold him up,
Are pluck'd up, root and all, by Bolingbroke;
I mean, the earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.
1 Serv. What! are they dead?
Gard.

They are; and Bolingbroke

Hath seiz'd the wasteful king.-O! what pity is it,
That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land,
As we this garden. We at time of year
Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees,
Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood,
With too much riches it confound itself:
Had he done so to great and growing men,
They might have liv'd to bear, and he to taste
Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches
We lop away, that bearing boughs may live :
Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,
Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.
1 Serv. What! think you, then, the king shall
be depos'd?

Gard. Depress'd he is already; and depos'd,
'Tis doubt, he will be: letters came last night
To a dear friend of the good duke of York's,
That tell black tidings.

Queen. O! I am press'd to death, through want of speaking. [Coming forward. Thou, old Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden, How dares thy harsh, rude tongue sound this unpleasing news?

What Eve, what serpent hath suggested thee
To make a second fall of cursed man?
Why dost thou say king Richard is depos'd?
Dar'st thou, thou little better thing than earth,
Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how,
Cam'st thou by these ill tidings? speak, thou wretch.

Gard. Pardon me, madam: little joy have 1, To breathe these news, yet what I say is true. King Richard, he is in the mighty hold Of Bolingbroke: their fortunes both are weigh'd: In your lord's scale is nothing but himself, And some few vanities that make him light; But in the balance of great Bolingbroke, Besides himself, are all the English peers, And with that odds he weighs king Richard down. Post you to London, and you'll find it so;

I speak no more than every one doth know.

Queen. Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot, Doth not thy embassage belong to me,

And am I last that knows it? O! thou think'st
To serve me last, that I may longest keep
Thy sorrow in my breast.-Come, ladies, go
To meet at London London's king in woe.-
What! was I born to this, that my sad look
Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?—
Gardener, for telling me these news of woe,
Pray God, the plants thou graft'st may never grow.
[Exeunt QUEEN, and Ladies.
Gard. Poor queen! so that thy state might be

no worse,

I would my skill were subject to thy curse.
Here did she fall a tear; here, in this place,
I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace:
Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,
In the remembrance of a weeping queen. [Exeunt.

Bagot. My lord Aumerle, I know your daring
tongue

Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver'd.
In that dead time when Gloster's death was plotted,
I heard you say," Is not my arm of length,
That reacheth from the restful English court,
As far as Calais, to mine uncle's head?"
Amongst much other talk, that very time,
I heard you say, that you had rather refuse
'The offer of an hundred thousand crowns,
Than Bolingbroke's return to England;
Adding withal, how blest this land would be
In this your cousin's death.
Aum.

Princes, and noble lords,
What answer shall I make to this base man?
Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars,
On equal terms to give him chastisement?
Either I must, or have mine honour soil'd
With the attainder of his slanderous lips.-
There is my gage, the manual seal of death,
'That marks thee out for hell: I say, thou liest,
And will maintain what thou hast said is false
In thy heart-blood, though being all too base
To stain the temper of my knightly sword.
Boling. Bagot, forbear: thou shalt not take it

And I will turn thy falsehood to thy hean,
Where it was forged, with my rapier's point.
Aum. Thou dar'st not, coward, live to see that day.
Fitz. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour.
Aum. Fitzwater, thou art damn'd to hell for this.
Percy. Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true
In this appeal, as thou art all unjust;
And, that thou art so, there I throw my gage,
To prove it on thee to th' extremest point
Of mortal breathing. Seize it if thou dar'st.

Aum. And if I do not, may my hands rot off,
And never brandish more revengeful steel
Over the glittering helmet of my foe!

Lord. I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle;

And spur thee on with full as many lies

As may be holla'd in thy treacherous ear
From sun to sun. There is my honour's pawn:
Engage it to the trial, if thou dar'st.

Aum. Who sets me else? by heaven, I'll throw

at all.

I have a thousand spirits in one breast,
To answer twenty thousand such as you.
Surrey. My lord Fitzwater, I do remember well
The very time Aumerle and you did talk.

Fitz. 'Tis very true: you were in presence then;
And you can witness with me this is true.
Surrey. As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is

true.

Fitz. Surrey, thou liest.
Surrey.
Dishonourable boy!
That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword,
That it shall render vengeance and revenge,
Till thou, the lie-giver, and that lie, do lie
In earth as quiet as thy father's scull.

In proof whereof, there is my honour's pawn:
Engage it to the trial, if thou dar'st.

Fitz. How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse!
If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live,
I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness,
And spit upon him, whilst I say he lies,
And lies, and lies. There is my bond of faith,
To tie thee to my strong correction.
As I intend to thrive in this new world,
Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal:
Besides, I heard the banish'd Norfolk say,
That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men
To execute the noble duke at Calais.

Aum. Some honest Christian trust me with a gage. That Norfolk lies, here do I throw down this, If he may be repeal'd to try his honour. Boling. These differences shall all rest under gage,

Till Norfolk be repeal'd: repeai'd he shall be,
And, though mine enemy, restor❜d again
To all his lands and signories. When he's return'd,
Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial.

Bishop. That honourable day shall ne'er be seen.
Many a time hath banish'd Norfolk fought
For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field,
Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross
Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens ;
And toil'd with works of war, retir'd himself
To Italy, and there, at Venice, gave
His body to that pleasant country's earth,
And his pure soul unto his captain Christ,
Under whose colours he had fought so long.
Boling. Why, bishop, is Norfolk dead!
Bishop. As surely as I live, my lord.

Boling. Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom

Of good old Abraham!-Lords appellants,
Your differences shall all rest under gage,
Till we assign you to your days of trial.

Enter YORK, attended.

York. Great duke of Lancaster, I come to thee From plume-pluck'd Richard, who with willing soul Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields To the possession of thy royal hand. Ascend his throne, descending now from him,And long live Henry, of that name the fourth! Boling. In God's name I'll ascend the regal throne.

Bishop. Marry, God forbid !-

Worst in this royal presence may I speak,
Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth.
Would God, that any in this noble presence
Were enough noble to be upright judge
Of noble Richard: then, true nobless would
Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong.
What subject can give sentence on his king?
And who sits here that is not Richard's subject?
Thieves are not judg'd but they are by to hear,
Although apparent guilt be seen in them;
And shall the figure of God's majesty,
His captain, steward, deputy elect,
Anointed, crowned, planted many years,
Be judg'd by subject and inferior breath,

And he himself not present? O! forfend it, God,
That, in a Christian climate, souls refin'd
Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed!
I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks,
Stirr'd up by God thus boldly for his king.
My lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,
Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king;
And if you crown him, let me prophesy
The blood of English shall manure the ground,
And future ages groan for this foul act :
Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,
And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars
Shall kin with kin, and kind with kind confound;
Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny,
Shall here inhabit, and this land be call'd
The field of Golgotha, and dead men's sculls.
O! if you raise this house against this house,
It will the woefullest division prove,
That ever fell upon this cursed earth.
Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so,

Lest child, child's children, cry against you-woe! North. Well have you argu'd, sir; and, for your pains,

Of capital treason we arrest you here.-
My lord of Westminster, be it your charge

Procure your sureties for your days of answer.— Little are we beholding to your love,

[To the Bishop. And little look for at your helping hands. Re-enter YORK, with King RICHARD, and Officers bearing the Crown, &c.

K. Rich. Alack! why am I sent for to a king, Before I have shook off the regal thoughts Wherewith I reign'd! I hardly yet have learn'd To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my limbs : Give sorrow leave a while to tutor me

To this submission. Yet I well remember
The favours of these men: were they not mine?
Did they not sometime cry, All hail! to me?
So Judas did to Christ; but he, in twelve,
Found truth in all, but one: I, in twelve thousand,

none.

God save the king!-Will no man say, amen?
Am I both priest and clerk? well then, amen.
God save the king! although I be not he;
And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me.—
To do what service am I sent for hither?
York. To do that office of thine own good will,
Which tired majesty did make thee offer;
The resignation of thy state and crown
To Harry Bolingbroke.

K. Rich. Give me the crown.-Here, cousin, seize the crown;

Here, cousin, on this side my hand, and on that side, yours.

Now is this golden crown like a deep well,
That owes two buckets, filling one another;
The emptier ever dancing in the air,
The other down, unseen, and full of water:
That bucket down, and full of tears, am I,
Drinking my grief, whilst you mount up on high.
Boling. I thought you had been willing to resign.
K. Rich. My crown, I am; but still my griefs
are mine.

You may my glories and my state depose,
But not my griefs: still am I king of those.
Boling. Part of your cares you give me with

your crown.

K. Rich. Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down.

My care is loss of care, by old care done;
Your care is gain of care, by new cares won:
The cares I give, I have, though given away;
They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.
Boling. Are you contented to resign the crown?
K. Rich. Ay, no;-no, ay ;-for I must nothing
be;.

Therefore no no, for I resign to thee.
Now mark me how I will undo myself.—
I give this heavy weight from off my head,
And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand,
The pride of kingly sway from out my heart:
With mine own tears I wash away my balm,
With mine own hands I give away my crown,
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,