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 scepter, 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 cousin!—
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.

[NORTH. retires to BOLING. In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base, To come at traitors' calls, and do them In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down,

king!

grace.

For night-owls shriek, where mounting larks should [Exeunt, from above.

sing.

Boling. What says his majesty?

North. Sorrow and grief of heart

Makes him speak fondly, like a frantick man :

Yet he is come.

Enter King RICHARD, and his Attendants, below.

Boling. Stand all apart,

And show fair duty to his majesty.

My gracious lord,—

[Kneeling.

K. Rich. Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee,

To make the base earth proud with kissing it:

Me rather had, my heart might feel your love,
Than my unpleas'd eye see your courtesy.
Up, cousin, up; your heart is up, I know,

Thus high at least, [Touching his own head.] 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 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 remedies.-
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 'gainst the bias.

1 Lady. Madam, we will 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 sorrow;
Or if of grief, being altogether had,
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 weep, 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.—

Enter a Gardener and two Servants.

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,

Gard. Go, bind thou up yon' 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 the 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 Sero. 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.-Oh! 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 with 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. All 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.