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To worthy danger, and deferved death.

North. My guilt be on my head, and there's an end. -Take leave and part, for you must part forthwith. 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 unkifs the oath 'twixt thee and me.

[To the Queen. -And yet not fo, for with a kifs 'twas made. Part us, Northumberland. I, towards the North, Where fhiv'ring cold and fickness pines the clime; My Queen to France, from whence, fet forth in She came adorned hither like fweet May; Sent back like Hollowmas, or shortest day.

pomp,

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

Queen. Banish us both, and fend the King with me.
North. That were fome 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 fighs, I mine with groans:
Queen. So longest way fhall have the longest moans.
K. Rich. Twice for one ftep 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 fuch length in grief.
One kifs fhall top our mouths, and dumbly part;
Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. [They kifs.

Better far off, than near, be ne'er the near,] To be never the nigher, or as it is commonly fpoken in the mid land

counties, ne'er the ne-er, is, to make no advance towards the good defired.

G4

Queen.

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

part,

To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart. [Kifs 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 reft let forrow fay.

Dutch.

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MY

[Exeunt.

Y lord, you told me, you would tell the
reft,

When Weeping made you break the ftory off,
Of our two Coufins coming into London.
York. Where did I leave?

Dutch. At that fad ftop, my lord,

Where rude mif-govern'd hands, from window-tops,
Threw duft and rubbish on King Richard's head.
York. Then, as I faid, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

Which his afpiring Rider feem'd to know,

With flow, but stately pace, kept on his course;
While all tongues cry'd, God fave thee, Bolingbroke!
You wou'd have thought, the very windows fpake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through cafements darted their defiring eyes
Upon his vifage; and that all the walls
With painted imag'ry had faid at once,
Jefu, preferve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilft he, from one fide 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, thus he past along.

Dutch,

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 bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Even fo, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did fcowl on Richard; no man cry'd, God fave him!
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;
But duft was thrown upon his facred head;
Which with fuch gentle forrow he shook off,
His face ftill combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience;

That had not God, for fome ftrong 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 fworn Subjects now,
Whofe State, and Honour, I for aye allow.

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But that is loft, 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 fon; who are the Violets now, That strew the green lap of the new-come fpring? 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 be cropt before you come to Prime.

Are idly bent] That is, carelefly turned, thrown withput attention. This the poet learned by his attendance and

practice on the stage.

bear you well] That is, conduct yourself with prudence.

York.

What news from Oxford? hold thefe Jufts and Triumphs ?

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 bofom?

Yea, look'ft thou pale? let me fee the Writing. t
Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.

York. No matter then who fees it.
I will be fatisfied, let me fee the Writing.
Aum. I do befeech your Grace to pardon me,
It is a matter of fmall confequence,

Which for fome reafons I would not have seen.

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

Dutch. What fhould you fear, my lord?

'Tis nothing but fome 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 fee the Writing.

Aum. I do befeech you, pardon me; I may not

fhew it.

York. I will be fatisfied, let me fee it, I fay.

[Snatches it and reads.

Treafon! foul treafon! villain, traitor, flave!
Dutch. What's the matter, my lord?

York. Hoa, who's within there? faddle my horse. Heav'n, for his mercy! what treachery is here? Dutch. Why, what is't, my lord?

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

Yea, look thou pale? let me fee the Writing] Such harsh and defective lines as this, are probably corrupt, and might

my

horfe.

be eafily fupplied, but that it would be dangerous to let conjecture look on fuch flight occafions.

* loose

Dutch.

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 muft answer. Dutch. Thy life answer!

SCENE V.

Enter Servant with boots.

York. Bring me my boots. I will unto the King. Dutch. Strike him, Aumerle.-Poor boy, thou art amaz'd.

Hence, villain, never more come in my fight.

York. Give me my boots.

[Speaking to the Servant.

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 fon 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 Confpiracy?

A dozen of them here have ta'en the Sacrament,
And interchangeably have fet their hands,

To kill the King at Oxford.

Dutch. He fhall be none :

We'll keep him here; then what is that to him? York. Away, fond woman: were he twenty times My fon, I would appeach him.

Dutch. Hadft thou groan'd for him,

As I have done, thou'dft be more pitiful.

But now I know thy mind; thou doft fufpect,
That I have been difloyal to thy bed,

And

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