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Arm, arm, my name ! a puny subject strikes
Enter SCROOP. 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 ? that we cannot mend; They break their faith to God, as well as us : Cry, woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay; The worst is-death, and death will have his day.
Scroop. Glad am I, 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 if the world were all dissoly'd to tears; So high above his limits swells the rage Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land With hard bright steel, and hearts harder than steel. White-beards have arm’d their thin and hairless scalps Against hy majesty ; boys, with women's voices, Stiin tu speab big, and clap their female joints
In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown:
K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'st a tale so ill.
lord. K. Rich. O, villains, vipers, damn'd without redemp
tion ! Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! Snakes in my heart-blood warm’d, that sting my heart! Three Judasses, each one thrice worse than Judas! Would they make peace? terrible hell make war Upon their spotted souls for this offence!
Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his property, Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate : Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made With heads, and not with hands : those, whom you
curse, Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound, And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground. Aum. Is Bushy, Green, and the earl of Wiltshire,
dead? Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their hearts.
Aum. Where is the duke my father with his power ?
K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills: And yet not so,-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 heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: How some have been depos’d, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d; Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping 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 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, Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and-farewell king! Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence; throw away respect, Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty, For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief,
Car. My lord, wise men ne'er wail their present woes,
Aum. My father hath a power, enquire of him;
task it is, to win our own.
Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the sky
K. Rich. Thou hast said enough.
Beshrew thee, cousin, which did'st lead me forth
[To AUMERLE. Of that sweet way I was in to despair ! What say you now? What comfort have we now? By heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly, That bids me be of comfort any more. Go, to Flint castle; there I'll pine away; A king, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey. That power, I have, discharge ; and, let them go To ear the land, that hath some hope to grow, For I have none :Let no man speak again To alter this, for counsel is but vain.
Aum. My liege, one word.
K. Rich. He does me double wrong,
SCENE III.—Wales. Before Flint Castle.
Enter, with Drum and Colours, BOLINGBROKE and For
ces; YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, and Others. Boling. So that by this intelligence we learn, The Welshmen are dispers'd; and Salisbury
gone to meet the king, who lately landed, With some few private friends, upon this coast.
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 say-king Richard :-Alack the heavy day, When such a sacred king should hide his head !