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part, for

you must

To worthy danger, and deferved death.

North. My guilt be on my head, and there's an end. - Take leave and part,


forth with. K. Rich. Doubly divorc'd ? Bad men, ye violate A two-fold marriage ; 'twixt my crown and me; And then betwixt me and my married wife. Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me.

(To the Queen. -And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made. Part us, Northumberland. I, towards the North, Where shiv'ring cold and sickness pines the clime; My Queen to France, from whence, set forth in pomp, She came adorned hither like sweet May ; Sent back like Hollowmas, or shortest day.

Queen. And must we be divided ? must we part ? K. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my Love, and heart

from heart. Queen. Banish us both, and send the King with me, North. That were some Love, but little Policy. Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go. K. Rich. So two together weeping, make one woe. Weep thou for me in France; I for thee here : Better far off; than near, be ne'er the near, * Go, count thy way with sighs, I mine with groans :

Queen. So longest way shall have the longest moans. K. Rich. Twice for one step I'll groan, the way be.

ing short, And piece the way out with a heavy heart. Come, come, in wooing forrow let's be brief; Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief. One kiss shall itop our mouths, and dumbly part; Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. (They kiss.

* Better far of, than near, be counties, ne'er the ne-er, is, 19,

ne'er the near,] To be ne- make no advance towards the good ver ibe nigher, or as it is com- defired. monly spoken in the mid land



Queen. Give me mine own again ; 'twere no good

part, To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart. (Kiss again, So, now I have mine own again, be gone, That I may strive to kill it with a groan.

K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay: Once more, adieu ; the rest let sorrow say. (Exeunt,

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The Duke of YOR K’s Palace.

Enter York, and his Dutchess. Dutch. Y lord, you told me, you would tell the

rest, When Weeping made you break the story off, Of our two Cousins coming into London.

York. Where did I leave?

Dutch. At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude mis-govern'd hands, from window-tops, Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head.

York. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring Rider seem'd to know, With Now, but stately pace, kept on his courses While all tongues cry'd, God save thee, Bolingtroke! You wou'd have thought, the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage ; and that all the walls With painted imag'ry had said at once, Jesu, preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke ! Whilft he, from one side to the other turning, Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck, Bespoke them thus ; I thank you, Country-men ; And thus ftill doing, thụs he past along,


Dutch. Alas! poor

Richard, where rides he the while ? York. As in a Theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-grac'd Actor leaves the Stage; Are idly bents 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 cry'd, God save him! No joyful tongue gave him his welcome hoine ; But dust was thrown upon his facred 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 it self 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 aye allow.


Enter Aumerle.
Dutch. 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 lafting fealty to the new-made King.

Dutch. Welcome, my son; who are the Violets now, That strew the green lap of the new-come spring ?

Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care ; God knows, I had as lief be none,' as one,

York.Well, * bear you well in this new Spring of time, Left you


you come to Prime. s Are idly bent ] That practice on the stage. is, carelesly turned, thrown with.


you well] That is, put attention.

This the poet conduet yourself with prudence, learned by his attendance and


What news from Oxford ? hold these Justs and Tri

umphs ? Aum. For aught I know, they do. York. You will be there? Aum. If God prevent me not, I purpose fo. York. What Seal is that, which 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 fome reasons I would not have seen.

York. Which, for some reasons, Sir, I mean to fee. I fear, I fear

Dutch. What should you fear, my lord ? 'Tis nothing but some bond he's enter'd into, For gay apparel, against the triumph.

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

thew it.
York. I will be satisfied, let me see it, I say.

(Snatches it and reads. Treason! foul treason! villain, traitor, Nave!

Dutch. What's the matter, my lord ?

York. Hoa, who's within there ? saddle my horse. Heav'n, for his mercy! what treachery is here?

Dutch. Why, what is’t, my lord ?

York. Give me my boots, I say. Saddle my horfe. . Now by my honour, by my life, my troth, I will appeach the villain,

+ Yea, Look" shou poole? let be easily supplied, but that it

me fee the Writing) Such would be dangerous to let conharsh and defective lines as this, jecture look on such slight ocare probably corrupt, and might casions.

Dutch * loose

Dutch. What is the matter ?
York. Peace, foolish woman.
Dutch. I will not Peace: what is the matter, fon?

Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.

Dutch. Thy life answer!

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Enter Servant with boots. York. Bring me my boots. I will unto the King. Dutch. Strike him, Aymerle.- Poor boy, thou art

amaz’d. Hence, villain, never more come in my sight.--

[Speaking to the Servant. York. Give me my boots. .

Dutch. Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more fons ? 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 Sacranient,
And interchangeably have set their hands,
To kill the King at Oxford.

Dutch. 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, I would appeach him.

Dutch. Hadst thou groan'd for him,
As I have done, thou’dst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect,
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,


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