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Now, mark me, how I will undo myself;
I give this heavy weight from off my head,
And this unwieldy scepter from my hand,
The pride of kingly sway from out my heart,
With mine own tears I wash away my balm,
With mine own hands I give away my crown,
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,
With mine own breath release all duteous oaths:

pomp and Majefty I do forfwear :
My manors, rents, revenues, I forego;
My acts, decrees, and statutes, I deny :
God pardon all oaths that are broke to me!
God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee!
Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd,
And thou with all pleas'd, that hast all atchiev'd!
What more remains ?

North. No more; but that you read
These accusations, and these grievous crimes
Committed by your person, and your followers,
Against the state and profit of this land:
That by confessing them, the souls of men
May deem that you are worthily depos'd.

K. Ricb. Muft I do so ? and must I ravel out
My weav'd-up fóllies? Oh Northumberland,
If thy offences were upon record,
Would it not shame thee in fo fair a troop,

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:
Therefore no no, for I resign to thee.
Now, mark mc, &c.
..... that haft all archiev'd!
Long may'lt thou live in Richard's seat to fit,
And sopo tye Richard in an earthy pit!
God save King Henry, unking'd Richard says,
And send him many years of fun-biae days!
What more, C.


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To read a lecture of them ? if thou would's,
There should'At thou find one hainous article,
Containing the deposing of a King,
And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,
Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heav'n.
Nay, all of you, that stand and look upon me,
Witit that my wretchedness doth bait my self,
Though some of you with Pilate wash your hands,
Shewing an outward pity; yet you Pilates
Have here deliver'd me to my sow'r cross,
And water cannot wash away your fin.

North. My Lord, dispatch ; read o'er these articles.

K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears : I cannot see :
And yet salt-water blinds them not so much,
But they can see a sort of traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon my self,
I find my felf a traitor with the rest :
For I have given here my soul's consent,
T' undeck the pompous body of a King;
Made glory base ; a Sovereign, a slave ;
Proud Majesty, a subject; state, a peasant.

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
North. The Commons will not then be satisfy'd.

K. Ricb. They shall be satisfy'd: rll read enough,
When I do see the very book indeed,
Where all my fins are writ, and that's my self.

Enter one with a glass.
Give me that glass, and therein will I read,
No deeper wrinkles yet ? hath sorrow ftruck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds ? oh flatt'ring glass,
Like to

my followers in prosperity,
Thou doft beguile me. Was this face the face
That every day under his houshold-roof
Did keep ten thousand men I was this the face,
That like the sun did make beholders wink? +
How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face!

Boling. The shadow of your forrow harb destroy &
The shadow of your face.

K. Rich. Say that again.
The shadow of my sorrow! ha, let's see;
'Tis very true, my grief lyes all within,
And these external manners of laments
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,
That swells with filence in the tortur': roul.
There lyes the fubstance; and I thank thee, King,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv'ft
Me cause to wail, but teacheft me the way
How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,
And then be gone, and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it ?

Boling. Name it, my fair coufin.

K. Rich. Fair cousin'! I am greater than a King:
For when I was a King, my flatterera

to... beholders wink?
Is thje the face which fac'd so many follies,
That was at talt out.fac'd by Bolingbroks?
A brittle glory faineth in this face,
A. britele as the glory, is the face,
For there it is, crackt in an hundred fhiveri.
Mark, filent King, the moral of this fpoçte
How soon my forrow, 66.


Were then but subjects ? being now a subject,
I have a King here to my Aatterer :
Being so great, I have no need to beg.

Boling. Yet ask.
K. Rich. And shall I have ?
Boling. You shall.
k. Rich. Then give me leave to go.
Boling. Whither?
K. Rich. Whither you will, so I were from your fight.

Boling. Go some of you, convey him to the Tower. *
On Wednesday next we folemnly set down
Our coronation : Lords, prepare your selves.
[Exeunt all but Abbot, Bishop of Carlife and Aumerle.

$ 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 Street in London. Enter Queen and Ladies.
Queen. THIS way the King will come: this is the way

To Julius Cæsar's ill-erected tow'r,
To whose fint borom my condemned Lord
Is doom'd a prisoner, by proud Bolingbroke.
Here let us reft, if this rebellious earth
Have any resting for her true King's Queen. ·

to the Tower.
K. Rich. Oh, good! convey : conveyers are you all,
That rise thus nimbly by a true King's fall.
Boling. On Wednesday, Oct



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.


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