Are idly bent on him that enters next
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God save him;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home :
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which, with such gentle sorrow, he shook off,-
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,—
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in these events;
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye2 allow.
Enter Aumerle.
Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle.
York.
Aumerle that was;
But that is lost, for being Richard's friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now:
I am in parliament pledge for his truth,
And lasting fealty to the new-made king.
Duch. Welcome, my son: Who are the violets
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring? Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not: God knows, I had as lief be none, as one.
York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime. What news from Oxford? hold those justs3 and triumphs?
Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do.
York. You will be there, I know.
Aum. If God prevent it not; I purpose so.
York. What seal is that, that hangs without thy
bosom?
Yea, look'st thou pale? let me see the writing.
Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.
York.
No matter then who sees it:
I will be satisfied, let me see the writing.
Aum. I do beseech your grace to pardon me ;
It is a matter of small consequence,
Which for some reasons I would not have seen.
York. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear,-
What should you fear? 'Tis nothing but some bond that he is enter'd into For gay apparel, 'gainst the triumph day.
York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.— Boy, let me see the writing.
Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not
York. I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say. [Snatches it, and reads. Treason! foul treason!-villain! traitor! slave! Duch. What is the matter, my lord? York. Ho! who is within there? [Enter a servant.] Saddle my horse. God for his mercy! what treachery is here! Duch. Why, what is it, my lord?
York. Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse:
Now by mine honour, by my life, my troth,
I will appeach the villain.
Exit servant. What's the matter?
York. Peace, foolish woman.
Re-enter servant, with boots.
York. Bring me my boots, I will unto the king. Duch. Strike him, Aumerle.-Poor boy, thou art amaz'd:4
Hence, villain; never more come in my sight.—
[To the servant.
York. Give me my boots, I say.
Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?
Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own?
York. Thou fond mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.
He shall be none; We'll keep him here: Then what is that to him? York. Away,
Fond woman! were he twenty times my son, would appeach him.
Hadst thou groan'd for him,
As I have done, thou'dst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son:
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me, or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.
York. Make way, unruly woman. [Exit.
Duch. After, Aumerle; mount thee upon his
horse;
And beg his pardon ere he do accuse thee.
Spur, post; and get before him to the king,
I'll not be long behind; though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:
And never will I rise up from the ground,
Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee: Away;
Begone
[Exeunt.
SCENE III-Windsor. A room in the castle.
Enter Bolingbroke as king; Percy, and other
lords.
Boling. Can no man tell of my unthrifty son? 'Tis full three months, since I did see him last:If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.
I would to God, my lords, he might be found:
Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there,
For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,
With unrestrained loose companions;
Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes,
And beat our watch, and rob our passengers;
While he, young, wanton, and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour, to support
So dissolute a crew.
Percy. My lord, some two days since I saw the
prince;
And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford.
Boling. And what said the gallant?
Percy. His answer was,-he would unto the
stews;
Duch. I will not peace:-What is the matter, son? And from the common'st creature pluck a glove,
And wear it as a favour; and with that
He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.
Boling. As dissolute, as desperate: yet, through
both
I see some sparkles of a better hope,
Which elder days may happily bring forth.
But who comes here?
Enter Aumerle, hastily.
Where is the king?
Aum.
Boling.
What means
Our cousin, that he stares and looks so wildly?
Aum. God save your grace. I do beseech your
majesty,
To have some conference with your grace alone.
Boling. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here
alone.- [Exeunt Percy and lords.
What is the matter with our cousin now?
Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth,
[Kneels
My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth,
Unless a pardon, ere I rise, or speak.
Boling. Intended, or committed, was this fault?
If but the first, how heinous e'er it be,
To win thy after-love, I pardon thee.
Aum. Then give me leave that I may turn the key,
That no man enter till my tale be done.
Boling. Have thy desire. [Aum. locks the door. York. [Within.] My liege, beware; look to thyself;
Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.
Boling. Villain, I'll make thee safe. [Drawing.
Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand;
Thou hast no cause to fear.
York. [Within.] Open the door, secure, fool-
hardy king:
Shall I, for love, speak treason to thy face?
Open the door, or I will break it open.
[Bolingbroke opens the door.
Enter York.
Boling. What is the matter, uncle? speak;
Recover breath; tell us how near is danger,
That we may arm us to encounter it.
York. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt
The treason that my haste forbids me show.
Aum. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise
I do repent me; read not my name there,
My heart is not confederate with my hand.
Speak with me, pity me, open the door;
A beggar begs, that never begg'd before.
Boling. Our scene is alter'd,-from a serious
thing,
My dangerous cousin, let your mother in;
And now chang'd to The Beggar and the King —
I know, she's come to pray for your foul sin.
More sins, for this forgiveness, prosper may.
York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rests sound;
This, let alone, will all the rest confound.
Enter Duchess.
Duch. O, king, believe not this hard-hearted
[Kneels. York. Against them both, my true joints bended be.
[Kneels. Ill may'st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace! Duch. Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face; His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest: His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:
We pray with heart, and soul, and all beside:
prays but faintly, and would be denied;
His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;
His prayers are full of false hypocrisy ;
Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow:
Ours, of true zeal and deep integrity.
Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have
York. 'Twas, villain, ere thy hand did set it That mercy, which true prayers ought to have.
I tore it from the traitor's bosom, king:
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence:
Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove
A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.
Boling. O heinous, strong, and bold conspi-
O loyal father of a treacherous son!
Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,
From whence this stream through muddy passages,
Hath held his current, and defil'd himself!
Thy overflow of good converts to bad;
And thy abundant goodness shall excuse
This deadly blot in thy digressing2 son.
York. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd;
And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,
As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold.
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,
Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies:
Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath,
The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.
(2) Transgressing.
(4) Do.
(1) Transparent. 73) An old ballad.
Boling. Good aunt, stand up.
Duch.
Nay, do not say-stand up;
But, pardon, first; and afterwards, stand up.
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon-should be the first word of thy speech.
Say-pardon, king; let pity teach thee how :
I never long'd to hear a word till now;
The word is short, but not so short as sweet;
No word like pardon, for kings' mouths so meet.
York. Speak it in French, king; say, pardonnez
moy.5
Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to de
That many have, and others must sit there:
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of such as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play I, in one person, many people,
And none contented: Sometimes am I king;
Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am: Then crushing penury
Persuades me I was better when a king;
Then am I king'd again and, by-and-by,
and Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
I do not sue to stand, Pardon is all the suit I have in hand. Boling. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me. Duch. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee! Yet am I sick for fear: speak it again; Twice saying pardon, doth not pardon twain, But makes one pardon strong. Boling. I pardon him. Duch. A god on earth thou art. Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law, the abbot,
With all the rest of that consorted crew,-
Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.
Good uncle, help to order several powers!
To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are:
They shall not live within this world, I swear,
But I will have them, if I once know where.
Uncle, farewell,-and cousin too, adieu :
Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.
Duch. Come, my old son;-I pray God make
thee new.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.-Enter Exton, and a Servant. Exton. Didst thou not mark the king, what words he spake?
Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear? Was it not so?
Those were his very words.
Exton. Have I no friend? qaoth he: he spake it twice,
And urg'd it twice together; did he not?
Serv. He did.
Exton. And, speaking it, he wistfully look'd
As who should say,-I would, thou wert the man
That would divorce this terror from my heart;
Meaning, the king at Pomfret. Come, let's go;
I am the king's friend, and will rid his foe. [Exe.
SCENE V-Pomfret. The dungeon of the
castle. Enter King Richard.
K. Rich. I have been studying how I may com
This prison, where I live, unto the world:
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but my self,
I cannot do it ;-Yet I'll hammer it out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul;
My soul, the father: and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,
And these same thoughts people this little world;2
In humours, like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented. The better sort,-
As thoughts of things divine,-are intermix'd
With scruples, and do set the word itself
Against the word :3
As thus,-Come, little ones; and then again,-
It is as hard to come, as for a camel
To thread the postern of a needle's eye.
Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to content, flatter themselves,-
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,
Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame,-
(1) Forces. (2) His own body.
(3) Holy scripture. (4) Little gate. (5) Tick.
(6) Strike for him, like the figure of a man on
And straight am nothing:-But, whate'er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd,
With being nothing.-Music do I hear? [Music.
Ha, ha! keep time:-How sour sweet music is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the music of men's lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To check time broke in a disorder'd string;
But, for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
For now hath time made me his numb'ring clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and, with sighs, they jars
Their watches on to mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, sir, the sound, that tells what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell: So sighs, and tears, and groans,
Show minutes, times, and hours :-but my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o'the clock.
This music mads me, let it sound no more;
For, though it have holp madmen to their wits,
In
me, it seems it will make wise men mad.
Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!
For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch' in this all-hating world.
Enter Groom.
Groom. Hail, royal prince! K. Rich. Thanks, noble peer; The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear. What art thou? and how comest thou hither, Where no man never comes, but that sad dog That brings me food, to make misfortune live?
Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king, When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometimes master's face.
O, how it yern'd my heart, when I beheld,
In London streets, that coronation day,
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary!
That horse, that thou so often hast bestrid;
That horse, that I so carefully have dress'd!
K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gen-
tle friend,
How went he under him?
Groom. So proudly, as if he disdain'd the ground.
K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him."
Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down
(Since pride must have a fall,) and break the neck
Of that proud man that did usurp his back?
(7) An ornamented buckle, and also a jewel in general. (8) Former.
Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be aw'd by man,
Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;
And yet I bear a burden like an ass,
Spur-gall'd, and tir'd, by jauncing' Bolingbroke.
Enter Keeper, with a dish.
Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.
K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert
[To the Groom.
Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my
heart shall say.
Keep. My lord, will't please you to fall to? [Exit. K. Rich. Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do. Keep. My lord, I dare not; sir Pierce of Exton, who Lately came from the king, commands the contrary. K. Rich, The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee!
Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.
Enter Exton, and servants, armed.
K. Rich. How now? what means death in this rude assault? Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument. [Snatching a weapon, and killing one. Go thou, and fill another room in hell. [He kills another, then Exton strikes him down. That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire, That staggers thus my person.-Exton, thy fierce hand
Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land.
Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high;
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.
[Dies.
Exton. As full of valour, as of royal blood :
Both have I spilt; O, would the deed were good!
For now the devil, that told me--I did well,
Says, that this deed is chronicled in hell.
This dead king to the living king I'll bear;-
Take hence the rest, and give them burial here.
SCENE VI.-Windsor. A room in the Castle.
[Exeunt.
Flourish. Enter Bolingbroke, and York, with
lords and attendants.
Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy
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And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
Enter Fitzwater.
Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to
London
The heads of Brocas, and sir Bennet Seely;
That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.
Two of the dangerous consorted traitors,
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.
Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot
Enter Percy, with the Bishop of Carlisle. Percy. The grand conspirator, abbot of West minster,
With clog of conscience, and sour melancholy,
Hath yielded up his body to the grave;
But here is Carlisle living, to abide
Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride.
Boling. Carlisle, this is your doom :-
Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
So, as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife:
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.
Enter Exton, with attendants bearing a coffin.
Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies
Exton. Great king, within this coffin I present
Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast
wrought
A deed of slander, with thy fatal hand,
Upon my head, and all this famous land.
Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did I
this deed.
Nor do I thee; though I did wish him dead,
Boling. They love not poison that do poison need,
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word, nor princely favour:
With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of wo,
And never show thy head by day nor night.-
That blood should sprinkle me, to make me grow :
Come, mourn with me for what I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent;2
Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,
Is that the rebels have consum'd with fire
Our town of Cicester in Glostershire;
But whether they be ta'en, or slain, we hear not.
Enter Northumberland.
Welcome, my lord: What is the news?
North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all hap-
piness.
The next news is,-I have to London sent
The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursed in this paper here.
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand :-
March sadly after; grace my mournings here,
In weeping after this untimely bier.
Kent:vention is not always proportionate to labour, it is
This play is one of those which Shakspeare has
apparently revised; but as success in works of in-
not finished at last with the happy force of some
fect the passions, or enlarge the understanding.
other of his tragedies, nor can be said much to af-
[Presenting a paper.
(1) Jaunting. (2) Immediately.
SCENE 1-London. A room in the palace. Enter King Henry, Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blunt, and others.
So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenc'd in stronds' afar remote.
No more the thirsty Erinnys2 of this soil
Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood:
No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flowrets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,
Which,-like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one substance bred,—
Did lately meet in the intestine shock
And furious close of civil butchery,
Shall now, in mutual, well-beseeming ranks,
March all one way; and be no more oppos'd
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,
As far as to the sepulchre of Christ
(Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross
We are impressed and engag'd to fight,)
Forthwith a power of English shall we levy;
Whose arms were moulded in their mothers' womb
To chase these pagans, in those holy fields,
Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet,
Which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nail'd
For our advantage, on the bitter cross.
But this our purpose is a twelve-month old,
And bootless 'tis to tell you-we will go;
Therefore we meet not now :-Then let me hear
Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
What yesternight our council did decree,
In forwarding this dear expedience.5
(1) Strands, banks of the sea.
(2) The Fury of discord.
3) Force, army. (4) Needless. (5) Expedition.
Lady Percy, wife to Hotspur, and sister to Mor
Lady Mortimer, daughter to Glendower, and wife to Mortimer.
Mrs. Quickly, hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap.
Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two Carriers, Travellers, and Altendants.
West. My liege, this haste was hot in question, And many limits of the charge set down But yesternight: when, all athwart, there came A post from Wales, loaden with heavy news; Whose worst was,--that the noble Mortimer, Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight Against the irregular and wild Glendower, Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken, And a thousand of his people butchered: Upon whose dead corps there was such misuse, Such beastly, shameless transformation, By those Welshwomen done, as may not be, Without much shame, re-told or spoken of.
K. Hen. It seems then, that the tidings of this broil
Brake off our business for the Holy Land.
West. This, match'd with other, did, my gra
For more uneven and unwelcome news
Came from the north, and thus it did import.
On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there,
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon met,
Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour;
As by discharge of their artillery,
And shape of likelihood, the news was told;
For he that brought them, in the very heat
And pride of their contention did take horse,
Uncertain of the issue any way.
K. Hen. Here is a dear and true-industrious friend,
Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,
Stain'ds with the variation of each soil
Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours;
And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.
The earl of Douglas is discomfited;
Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights,
Balk'd in their own blood, did sir Walter see
On Holmedon's plains: Of prisoners, Hotspur took
Mordake the earl of Fife, and eldest son
(6) Estimates. (7) September 14.
(8) Covered with dirt of different colours.
(9) Piled up in a heap.
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