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Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds. *

SCENE II.' Enter Northumberland.
Norsb, My Lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd :
You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.
And, Madam, there is order ta'en for you:
With all swift fpeed you must away to France,

K, Ricb. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne, The time shall not be many hours of age More than it is, ere foul lin gath'ring head Shall break into corruption; thou shalt think, Though he divide the realm, and give thee half, It is too little, helping him to all. And he shall think, that thou, which know's the way To plant unrightful Kings, wilt know again, Being ne'er so little urg'd, another way To pluck him headlong from th' usurped throne, The love of wicked friends converts to fear; That fear to hate; and hate turns one, or both, To worthy danger, and deserved death.

North. My guilt be on my head! and there's an enda Take leave, and part, for you must part forthwith,

K. Ricb. 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 Queet.
And yet not fo, for with a kiss 'twas made.
Part us, Nortbumberland: I, towards the North,
Where Thiv'ring cold and fickness 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 ? mut we part ?
..... to the'r beds.
For why? the senseless brands will fympathize
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,
And in compaffion weep the fire out:
And some will mourn in afhes, Tomc coal-blast
For the deposing of a rightful King,

Banilla Banish us both, and send the King with me.

North. That were some love, but little policy. **
K, Riçb. Thus give 1 mine, and thus take I thy hearts

[Tbey kiss.
Queen. Give me mine own again ; 'twere no good part,
To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart, [Kiss agair.
So, now I have mine own again, be gone,
That I may strive to kill it with a groan.

K. Riçb. We make woe wanton with this fond delay : Once more, adieu! the rest let forrow say. (Exeunt, SCENE III. The Duke of York's Palacea

Enter York and his Dutchesse Dutch, My Lord, you told me you would tell the refta When weeping made you break the story off, Qf our two cousins coming into London,

York. Where did I leave ?

Dutcb. At that sad stop, my Lord,
Where rude mil-govern'd hands, from window-tops,
Threw duft and rubbish on King Richard's head.

York. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroken
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,
With now but ftately pace kept on his course :
While all tongues cry'd, God save thee, Bolingbroke!
You would have thought the very windows fpake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their defiring eyes
Upon his visage, and that all the walls
With painted imag'ry had said at once,
... but little policy.

Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go

K. Rich. So two together weeping, make one wola
Weep thou for me in France; 1 for chce here!
Betier far off; than near he nt'er the near.
Go, count thy way with fighs, I mine with groins:

Quern. So longest way shall have the longest moans,

K. Rich. Twice for one step I'll groan, the way being bore And piece the way out with a heavy heart. " Come, come, in wooing sorrow let's be brief, Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief in sus . One kiss shall stop our mouchs, and dumbly part;3 Thus give I minc, &c.


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felu preferve 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 still doing, thus he past along,

Dutcb. 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 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 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 muft perforce have melted,
And barbarism it self have pitied him, in

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..

..SCE N E IV. Enter Aumerle. Dutch, Here comes my son Aumerle.

York. Aumerle that was,
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 lasting fealty to the new-made King.

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

Aum. Madam, I know not, nor do 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.
What news from Oxford hold those jufts and triumphs ?

Aum. For ought I know, they do. -* ...
York. You will be there.
Vol. IV.



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Aum. If God prevent me not, I purpose fo.
York. What real is that that hangs without thy bosom!
Yea, look'A thoy pale ? come, let me see the wsitisig.

Aum. My Lord, 'tis nothing.
York. No matter then who fees it.
I will be satisfied, let me see the writing.

dum. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me,
It is a matter of small confequence,
Which for some reasons I would not have seen.

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

Dutcb. What should you fear, my Lord ?
"Tis nothing but fome bond he's enter'd into,
For gay apparel, now againft 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 fhew it.
York, I will be satisfied, let me see it, I say."

* (Snatcbes it, and reads. Treason ! foul treason! villain, traitor, Aave!

Dutch. What's the matter, my Lord ?

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

Dutch. Why, what is't, my Lord?

York. Oive me my boots, 1 say; saddle my horse.
Now by my honour, by my life, my troth,
I will appeach the villain.

Dutcb. 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!

S'C E N E V Enter Servant with boots.
York. Bring me my boots. I will unto the King.

Dutcb.Strike him, Aumerle. (Poor boy, thou art amaz'a.) Hence, villain, never more come in my fight!

[Speaking to be Strvan's York. Give me my boots.


Dutch. 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 facrament,
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. Hadit 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,
And that he is a bastard, not thy fon:
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind :
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Nor like to me, nor any of my kin,
And yet I love him,
York. Make way, unruly woman!

Dutch. After, Aumerle, mount thee upon his horse.
Spur post, and get before him to the King,
And beg thy pardon, ere he do accuse thee.
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 Boling broke have pardon'd thee. Away! [Exeunt,
SCE N E vi. Cbanges to Windsor-Castle,

Enter Bolingbroke, Percy, and otber 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 hear'n; my Lords, he might be found,
Enquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there :

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