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Now, mark me, how I will undo myself;
pomp and Majefty I do forfwear :
North. No more; but that you read
K. Ricb. Muft I do so ? and must I ravel out
Boling. Part of your cares you give me with your crow.
K. Rich. Your cares set up do not pluck my cares dow.. My care, is lots of care, by old care done; Your care is gain of care, by new care won. The cares I give, I have, though given away: They tend the crown, yet still with ine they stay.
Boling. Are you contented to relign the crowa?
K Ricb. I, no, no, I; for I mult nothing be:
To read a lecture of them ? if thou would's,
North. My Lord, dispatch ; read o'er these articles.
K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears : I cannot see :
North. My Lord
K. Rich. No Lord of thine, insulting man; Nor no man's Lord: I have no name, no title; No, not that name was giv'n me at the font, But 'tis usurp'd. Alack the heavy day! That I have worn so many winters out, And know not now what name to call my felf. Oh, that I were a mockery King of snow, Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke, To melt my self away in water-drops ! *. An if my word be sterling yet in England, Let it command a mirror hither straight, That it may shew me what a face I have, Since it is bankrupt of his Majesty. Boling. Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass.
: North. Read o'er this paper, while the glass doth come. K. Rich. Fiend, thou torment'st me, ere I come to hell. ...:in water drops. Good King, great King, and yet not greatly good, And if my, 66.
Boling. Urge it no more, my Lord Nortbumberlanda
K. Ricb. They shall be satisfy'd: rll read enough,
Enter one with a glass.
my followers in prosperity,
Boling. The shadow of your forrow harb destroy &
K. Rich. Say that again.
Boling. Name it, my fair coufin.
K. Rich. Fair cousin'! I am greater than a King:
to... beholders wink?
Were then but subjects ? being now a subject,
Boling. Yet ask.
Boling. Go some of you, convey him to the Tower. *
$ c E N E IV. Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here beheld.
Carl. The woe's to come: the children yet unborn Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.
Aum. You holy clergy-men, is there no plot To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?
Abbot. Before I freely speak my mind herein, You shall not only take the sacrament, To bury mine intents, but to effect Whatever I shall happen to devise, I see your brows are full of discontent, Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears. Come home with me to supper, and I'll lay A plot shall Thew us all a merry day. [Exeunt.
A CT V. SCENE I.
To Julius Cæsar's ill-erected tow'r,
to the Tower.
Enter King Richard and Guards. But soft, but fee, or rather do not see, My fair Rose wither ; yet look up ; behold, That you in pity may dissolve to dew, And wash him fresh again with true-love tears. O thou, the model where old Troy did ftand, (To K. Rich. Thou map of honout, thou King Richard's tomb, And not King Ricbard; thou moft beauteous Inn, Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee, When triumph is become an ale-house guest ?
K. Ricb. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not fo, To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul, To think our former ftate a happy dream, From which awak'd, the truth of what we are, Shews us but this. I am sworn brother, sweet, To grim Neceffity; and he and I Will keep a league' 'till death. Hye thee to France, And cloister thee in fome religious house; Our holy lives must win a new world's crown, Which our profane hours here have stricken down.
Queen. How, is my Richard both in shape and mind Transform’d and weak? hath Bolingbroke deposed Thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart ! The Lion dying thrusteth. forth his paw, And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage To be o'erpower'd: and wilt thou, pupil-like, Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod, And fawn on rage with base humility, Which art a Lion and a King of bealts ?
K. Ricb. A King of beasts indeed ; if ought but beafts, I had been still a happy King of men. Good, * sometime Queen! prepare thee hence for France; Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak't, As from my death-bed, my laft living leave. In winter's tedious nights fit by the fire With good old folks, and let them tell thče tales Of woeful ages, long ago betid : And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their grief, Sonetime, for formerly.