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Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,

And fend the hearers weeping to their beds. *

SCENE II. Enter Northumberland.
North. 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 fwift fpeed you muft away to France.
K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke afcends my throne,
The time fhall not be many hours of age
More than it is, ere foul fin 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'ft the way
To plant unrightful Kings, wilt know again,
Being ne'er fo little urg'd, another way

To pluck him headlong from th' ufurped throne.
The love of wicked friends converts to fear;
That fear to hate; and hate turns one, or both,
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 Quecz.
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 pomp,
She came adorned hither like fweet May,

Sent back like Hollowmas, or fhortest day.
Queen. And must we be divided? must we part?

to the'r beds.

For why? the fenfelefs brands will fympathize

The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,

And in compaffion weep the fire out:

And fome will mourn in afhes, fome coal-black
For the depofing of a rightful King,
SCENE

B

Banish us both, and fend the King with me.

North. That were fome love, but little policy.

K. Rich. Thus give 1 mine, and thus take I thy heart.
[They kifs.
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 ftrive to kill it with a groan.

K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay :
Once more, adieu! the reft let forrow fay.

[Exeunt
SCENE III. The Duke of York's Palace.
Enter York and his Dutchess.

Dutch. My Lord, you told me you would tell the refta
When weeping made you break the story 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 fteed,

Which his afpiring rider feem'd to know,
With flow but ftately pace kept on his courfe:
While all tongues cry'd, God fave thee, Bolingbroke
You would 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 said at once,

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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; 1 for thee here!
Better far off; than near, be ne'er the near.

Go, count thy way with fighs, I mine with gro1ns:

Queen. So longeft way fhall have the longest moans,

K. Rich. Twice for one ftep I'l groan, the way being fort
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 stop our mouths, and dumbly part
Thus give I mine, &c.

I

Jefu

Jefu preferve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilft he, from one fide to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud fteed's neck,
Bespoke them thus; I thank you, country-men ;..
And thus ftill doing, thus he paft 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 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 such gentle forrow he shook off,
His face ftill combating with tears and fmiles,
The badges of his grief and patience;

That had not God, for fome ftrong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they muft perforce have melted,
And barbarifm it felf have pitied him.

But heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whofe high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we fworn fubjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow.

SCENE IV. Enter Aumerle.

Dutch. Here comes my fon 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 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 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 fpring of time, Left you be cropt before you come to prime.

What news from Oxford? hold thofe jufts and triumphs Aum. For ought I know, they do.

York. You will be there.

VOL. IV.

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Aum.

Aum. If God prevent me not, I purpose so.

York. What feal is that that hangs without thy bofom? Yea, look'ft thou pale? come, let me fee the writing. 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 reasons I would not have seen.
York. Which for some 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, now 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, fave!

Dutch. What's the matter, my Lord?

York. Hoa, who's within there? faddle me 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; faddle horfe.

Now by my honour, by my life, my troth,

I will appeach the villain.

Dutch. What is the matter?

York. Peace, foolish woman!

my

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!

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!

[Speaking to the Servant.

York, Give me my boots.

Dutch

Dutch. Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trefpafs 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 facrament,
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 that he is a baftard, not thy fön:

Sweet York, fweet hufband, 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!

[Exit.

Dutch. After, Aumerle, mount thee upon his horfe.

Spur poft, 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 faft as York.
And never will I rife up from the ground,
"Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away! [Exeunt.
SCENE VI. Changes to Windfor-Caftle
Enter Bolingbroke, Percy, and other Lords.
Boling. Can no man tell of my unthrifty fon?
"Tis full three months fince I did fee him laft.
If any plague hang over us, 'tis he:

I would to heav'n, my Lords, he might be found,
Enquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there:

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