Can wash the balm from an anointed King: For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd, Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards the right, Enter SALISBURY, Welcome, my Lord; How far off lies your Sal. Nor near, nor Than this weak arm: power? further off, my gracious Lord, Discomfort guides my tongue, And bids me speak of nothing but despair. To-day; to-day, unhappy day, too late, state; For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead, Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers'd, and fled. Aum. Comfort, my Liege: Why looks your Grace so pale? K. Rich. But now, the blood of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; And, till so much blood thither come again, Have I not reason to look pale and dead?. All souls that will be safe, fly from my side; For time hath set a blot upon my pride. Aum. Comfort, my Licge; remember who you are, K. Rich. I had forgot myself: Am I not King? Awake, thou sluggard Majesty! thou sleep'st. Is not the King's name forty thousand names? Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes At thý great glory. — Look not to the ground, Ye favourites of a King; Are we not high? High be our thoughts; I know, my uncle York Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who Comes here? Enter SCROOP, Scroop. More health and happiness betide my Liege, Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him! The worst is worldly loss, thou canst unfold. The worst is death, and death will have his day. Scroop. Glad am I, that your Highness is so arm'd To bear the tidings of calamity. Like an unseasonable stormy day, Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores, As if the world were all dissolv'd to tears; White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps Against thy Majesty; boys, with women's voices, Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot? Measure our confines with such peaceful steps? broke. Scroop. Peace have they made with him, indeed, my Lord. K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption! Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart! Three Judasses, each one thrice worse than Judas! Would they make peace? terribble hell make war Upon their spotted souls for this offence! Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his property, Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate: Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made With heads, and not with hands: those whom you curse, Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound, And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground. Aum. Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire, dead? Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads. Aum. Where is the Duke my father with his power? K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man speak Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, All murder'd:-For within the hollow crown, That rounds the mortal temples of a King, keeps death his court: and there the antick sits, Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp; Allowing him a breath, a little scene To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks; As if this flesh, which walls about our life, King! farewell Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood How can you say to me I am a King? Car. My Lord, wise men ne'er wail their pre sent woes, But presently prevent the ways to wail. K. Rich. Thou chid'st me well:- Proud Bo- An easy task it is, to win our own. — Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power? Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour. |