Which makes the filver rivers drown their fhores,
As if the world were all diffolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits fwells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring your fearful land
With hard bright fteel, and hearts more hard than steel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless fcalps
Against thy Majefty; boys with womens voices
Strive to fpeak big, and clafp their female joints
In ftiff unwieldy arms, against thy crown:
Thy very beadfmen learn to bend their bows
Of double fatal ewe, against thy ftate:
Yea, diftaff-women manage rufty bills.
Against thy feat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have pow'r to tell.
K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'ft a tale fo ill.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is he got? (12)
What is become of Bushy? where is Green?
That they have let the dang'rous enemy
Measure our confines with fuch peaceful steps?
If we prevail, their heads fhall pay for it.
I warrant, they've made peace with Bolingbroke.
Scroop. Peace they have made with him, indeed, my Lord. K. Rich. Ovillains, vipers, damn'd without redemption; Dogs, eafily won to fawn on any man;
Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that fting my heart; Three Judaes, each one thrice worse than Judas!
(12) Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
What is become of Bufhy? where is Green?] Here are four of them named; and, within a very few lines, the King, hearing they had made their peace with Bolingbroke, calls them THREE Judas's. But how was their peace made? Why, with the lofs of their heads. This being explain'd, Aumerle fays, Is Bufhy, Green, and th' Earl of Wiltshire dead? So that Bagot ought to be left out of the question: and, indeed, he had made the best of his way for Chefter, and from thence had escap'd into Ireland. And fo we find him, in the 2d act, determining to do.
Bagot. No: I'll to Ireland to his Majefty.
The poet could not be guilty of fo much forgetfulness and abfurdity. The tranfcribers must have blunder'd. It seems probable to me that he wrote, as I have conjecturally alter'd the text.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is he got?
i. e. Into what corner of my dominions is he flunk, and abfconded?
Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their fpotted fouls for this offence!
Scroop. Sweet love, I fee, changing his property, Turns to the fow'rest and most deadly hate: Again uncurfe their fouls; their peace is made With heads, and not with hands: thofe, whom you curse, Have felt the worst of death's destroying hand, And lye full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.
for what can we bequeath,
Aum. Is Busby, Green, and th' Earl of Wiltshire dead?
Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol loft their heads.
Aum. Where is the Duke my father, with his power?
K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man fpeak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,
Make duft our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write forrow on the bofom of the earth!
Let's chufe executors, and talk of wills;
And yet not fo
Save our depofed 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 ferves as paste and cover to our bones.
For heav'ns fake, let us fit upon the ground,
And tell fad ftories of the death of Kings:
How fome have been depos'd, fome flain in war:
Same haunted by the ghosts they difpoffefs'd:
Some poifon'd by their wives, fome fleeping 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 antick fits
Scoffing his ftate, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks!
Infufing him with felf and vain conceit,
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brafs impregnable: and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the laft, and with a little pin
Boars through his caftle-walls, and farewel King!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With folemn reverence: throw away respect,
VOL. IV.
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For yoù have but miflook me all this while :
I live on bread like feel want like you,
Tafte grief, need friends, like you: fubjected thus,
How can you fay to me, I am a King?
Carl. My Lord, wife men ne'er wail their prefent woes, But prefently prevent the ways to wail:
To fear the foe, fince fear oppreffeth ftrength,
Gives, in your weakness, ftrength unto your foe;
And fo your follies fight against yourself.
Fear, and be flain; no worfe can come from fight;
And fight and die, is death deftroying death:
Where fearing, dying, pays death fervile breath.
Aum. My father hath a pow'r, enquire of him,
And learn to make a body of a limb.
K. Rich. Thou chid'ft me well: proud Bolingbroke, I come
To change blows with thee, for our day of doom;
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown ;
An easy task it is to win our own.
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power?
Speak fweetly, man, although thy looks be fower.
Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the fky
The state and inclination of the day ;
So may you, by my dull and heavy eye,
My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.
I play the torturer, by small and small
To lengthen out the worst, that must be spoken,
Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke,
And all your northern caftles yielded up,
And all your fouthern gentlemen in arms
Upon his faction.
K. Rich. Thou haft faid enough.
Befhrew thee, coufin, which didft lead me forth
Of that sweet way I was in to despair.
What fay you now? what comfort have we now?
By heav'n, I'll hate him everlastingly,
That bids me be of comfort any more.
Go to Flint-caftle, there I'll pine away:
A King, woe's flave, fhall kingly woe obey:
That pow'r I have, difcharge; and let 'em go
To ear the land, that hath fome hope to grow:
Let no man fpeak again
To alter this, for counsel is but vain.
Aum. My liege, one word.
K. Rich. He does me double wrong,
That wounds me with the flatt'ries of his tongue.
Difcharge my foll'wers: let them hence, away,
From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day. [Exeunt.
SCENE Bolingbroke's Camp, near Flint. Enter with drum and colours, Bolingbroke, York, Nor thumberland, and attendants.
O that by this intelligence we learn,
Boling.
The Welshmen are difpers'd; and Salisbury
Is gone to meet the King, who lately landed
With fome few private friends upon this coaft.
North. The news is very fair and good, my Lord,
Richard, not far from hence, hath hid his head.
York. It would beseem the Lord Northumberland,
To fay, King Richard. Ah, the heavy day,
When fuch a facred King should hide his head!
North. Your Grace mistakes me; only to be brief, Left I his title out.
York. The time hath been,
Would you have been fo brief with him, he would
Have been fo brief with you, to shorten you,
For taking fo the head, the whole head's length.
Boling, Miftake not, uncle, farther than
you fhould.
York. Take not, good coufin, farther than you should
Left you mistake; the heav'ns are o'er your head.
Boling. I know it, uncle, nor oppose myself
Against their will. But who comes here ?
Welcome, Harry; what, will not this caftle yield?
Percy. The castle royally is mann'd, my Lord,
Against your entrance.
Boling. Royally? why, it contains no King!
Percy. Yes, my good Lord,
It doth contain a King: King Richard lyes
Within the limits of yond lime and flone;
And with him Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury,
Sir Stephen Scroop, befides a clergyman
Of holy reverence: who, I cannot learn.
North. Belike, it is the bishop of Carlisle.
Boling. Noble Lord,
Go to the rude ribs of that antient castle,
Through brazen trumpet fend the breath of parle
Into his ruin'd ears, and thus deliver:
Henry of Bolingbroke upon his knees
Doth kifs King Richard's hand, and fends allegiance
And faith of heart unto his royal perfon:
Ev'n at his feet I lay my arms and pow'r,
Provided, that my banishment repeal'd,
And lands reftor'd again, be freely granted:
If not, I'll ufe th' advantage of my pow'r,
And lay the fummer's duft with fhow'rs of blood,
Rain'd from the wounds of flaughter'd Englishmen.
The which, how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke
It is, fuch crimson tempest should bedrench
The fresh green lap of fair King Richard's land,
My flooping duty tenderly fhall fhew.
Go fignify as much, while here we march
Upon the graffy carpet of this plain;
Let's march without the noife of threat'ning drum,
That from this castle's tatter'd battlements
Our fair appointments may be well perus'd.
Methinks, King Richard and myself should meet
With no lefs terror than the elements
Of fire and water, when their thund'ring fhock,
At meeting, tears the cloudy cheeks of heav'n:
when their thund'ring smoak,
(13) At meeting, tears the cloudy cheeks of beav'n: This is the first time, I believe, we ever heard of a thund'ring fmoak: I never conceiv'd any thing of a more filent nature. But this is a noftrum of the wife editors; who imagine, I prefume, that the report and thundering of a cannon proceed from the fmoak, and not from the explofion of the powder. I have reftor'd the reading of the elder
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