'The King fhall do it: muft he be depos'd?
The King fhall be contented: must he lose
The name of King? o' God's name, let it go.
I'll give my jewels for a fet 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 fcepter, for a palmer's walking staff;
My fubjects, for a pair of carved faints;
And my large Kingdom, for a little Grave;
A little, little Grave; an obfcure Grave.
Or I'll be bury'd in the King's high way: (9)
Some way of common Tread, where Subjects' feet
May hourly trample on their Sovereign's head:
For on my heart they tread now, whilft I live;
And, bury'd once, why not upon my head?
Aumerle, thou weep'ft; (my tender-hearted coufin !)
We'll make foul weather with despised tears;
Our fighs, and they, fhall lodge the fummer corn,
And make a dearth in this revolting Land.
Or fhall we play the Wantons with our woes,
And make fome pretty match, with fhedding tears?
As thus, to drop them ftill upon one place,
Till they have fretted us a pair of Graves
Within the earth; and therein laid, there lies
Two kinfmen, digg'd their Graves with weeping eyes?
Would not this ill do well? well, well, I fee

I talk but idly, and you mock at me.
Moft mighty Prince, my lord Northumberland,

(9) Or I'll be buried in the King's bigh way ;

Some Way of common Trade,· ] As fpecious as this Reading appears, Mr. Warburton, Mr. Bishop, and I, all concurr'd in fufpecting it, and in the Amendment which now polfeffes the Text;

Some way of common Tread,

i. e. a high Road. He fubjoins immediately;

For on my beart they tread now, while I live;

And we know how much it is Shakespeare's way to diversify the Image with the fame Word.

What

What fays 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 gilft'ring Phaeton, Wanting the manage of unruly jades.

In the bafe court ? bafe 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 fhriek, where mounting Larks. fhould fing.

Boling. What fays his Majesty?

North. Sorrow, and Grief of Heart,

Makes him fpeak fondly, like a frantick Man ;

Yet is he come.

Boling. Stand all apart,

And fhew fair duty to his Majefty...

My gracious Lord

[Kneels

K. Rich. Fair coufin, you debafe your princely knee, To make the base earth proud with kiffing it. Me rather had, my heart might feel your love, Than my unpleas'd eye fee your courtefie. Up, coufin, up; your heart is up, I know, Thus high at leaft, although your knee be low.. Boling. My gracious lord, I come but for mine own. K. Rich. Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all. Boling. So far be mine, my moft redoubted lord, As my true service shall deserve your love.

K. Rich. Well you deferve: they well deferve to have,,
That know the strong'ft and surest way to get.
Uncle, give me your hand; nay, dry your eyes;.
Tears fhew their love, but want their remedies.
Coufin, 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 muft, what force will have us do..
Set on towards London. Coufin, is it fo?

Boling. Yea, my good lord.

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

C S

SCENE,

SCENE, a Garden, in the Queen's Court. Enter Queen and two Ladies.

Queen. WHAT sport shall we devife here in this ́

garden,

To drive away the heavy thought of care?
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.

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; fome other sport.
Lady. Madam, we'll tell tales.
Queen. Of forrow, or of joy?
Lady. Of either, Madam.

Queen. Of neither, girl.

For if of joy, being altogether wanting,
It doth remember me the more of forrow:
Or if of grief, being altogether had,
It adds more forrow to my want of joy.
For what I have, I need not to repeat :
And what I want, it boots not to complain.
Lady. Madam, I'll fing.

Queen. 'Tis well, that thou hast cause :

But thou should't please me better, would't thou weep. Lady. I could weep, Madam, would it do you good. Queen. And I could weep, would weeping do me good,

And never borrow any tear of thee.

But ftay, here come the Gardiners.

Let's ftep into the fhadow of these trees;
My Wretchedness unto a row of pins,

Enter a Gardiner, and two Servants.

They'll talk of State; for every one doth fo,
Against a Change; woe is fore-run with woe.
[Queen and Ladies retire.
Gard.

Gard. Go, bind thou up yond dangling Apricocks, Which like unruly children, make their Sire Stoop with oppreffion of their prodigal weight: Give fome fupportance to the bending twigs. Go thou, and, like an executioner, Cut off the heads of too faft-growing sprays, That look too lofty in our Common-wealth : All must be even in our Government. You thus imploy'd, I will go root away The noifom weeds, that without profit fuck The foil's fertility from wholfom flowers. Serv. Why fhould we, in the compass of a pale, Keep law, and form, and due proportion, Shewing, as in a model, our firm ftate? When our Sea-walled garden, (the whole Land,) Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers choak'd up, Her fruit-trees all unprun'd, her hedges ruin'd, Her knots diforder'd, and her wholfom herbs Swarming with Caterpillars ?

Gard. Hold thy peace.

He, that hath fuffer'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 pull'd up, root and all, by Bolingbroke;
I mean, the Earl of Wiltshire, Busby, Green.
Serv. What, are they dead?

Gard. They are,

And Bolingbroke hath feiz'd the wafteful King.
What pity is't, that he had not so trimm'd
And dreft his Land, as we this Garden drefs,
And wound the bark, the skin, of our fruit-trees;
Left, being over proud with fap and blood,
With too much riches it confound it felf;
Had he done fo to great and growing men,
They might have liv'd to bear, and he to tafte
Their fruits of duty. All fuperfluous-branches
Welop away, that bearing boughs may live :
Had he done fo, himself had born the Crown,
Which waste and idle hours have quite thrown down,

Serco.

Serv. What, think you then, the King fhall be depos'd?

Gard. Depreft he is already, and depos'd, 'Tis doubted, he will be. Letters last night Came to a dear friend of the Duke of York, That tell black tidings.

Queen. Oh, I am preft to death, through want of
speaking:

Thou Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden,
How dares thy tongue found this unpleafing news?
What Eve, what Serpent hath fuggested thee,
To make a fecond Fall of curfed man?
Why doft thou fay, King Richard is depos'd?
Dar'ft thou, (thou little better Thing than earth,).
Divine his downfal? fay, where, when, and how
Cam'st thou by thefe ill tidings? fpeak, thou wretch.
Gard. Pardon me, Madam. Little joy have I
To breathe these news; yet, what I fay, 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 fome few Vanities that make him light:
But in the Balance of great Bolingbroke,
Befides himself, are all the English Peers,
And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.
Poft you to London, and you'll find it fo;

I fpeak no more, than every one doth know.

Queen. Nimble Mifchance, that art fo light of foot,

Doth not thy Embaffage belong to me?

And am I laft, that know it? oh, thou think'ft
To ferve me laft, that I may longest keep
Thy forrow in my breaft. Come, ladies, go;
To meet at London, London's King in woe.
What, was I born to this! that my fad Look
Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke!
Gard'ner, for telling me thefe news of woe,
I would the plants, thou graft'ft, may never grow.
[Exe. Queen and Ladies.

Gard. Poor Queen, so that thy state might be no worse,

I would my skill were fubject to thy Curfe.

Here