Where no man never comes, but that sad dog
That brings me food, to make misfortune live?

Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my (sometimesroyal) master's face.
0, how it yearned my heart, when I beheld,
In London streets, that coronation day,
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary!
That horse, that thou so often hast bestrid;
That horse, that I so carefully have dressed !
K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary ? Tell me, gentle

friend,
How went he under him?

Groom. So proudly, as if he disdained the ground.
- K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his

back!
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Would he not stumble ? would he not fall down,
(Since pride must have a fall,) and break the neck
Of that proud man that did usurp his back ?
Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be awed by man,
Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;
And yet I bear a burden like an ass,
Spur-galled, and tired by jauncingo Bolingbroke.

a

Enter Keeper, with a dish.
Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.

[To the Groom. K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away. Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart

[Exit

.

shall say

Keep. My lord, will’t please you to fall to ?
K. Rich. Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do.
Keep. My lord, I dare not; sir Pierce of Exton,

who Lateiy came from the king, commands the contrary. K. Rich. The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and

thee ! Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.

[Beats the Keeper. Keep. Help, help, help!

Enter Exton and Servants, armed. K. Rich. How now ? what means death in this rude

assault? Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument.

[Snatching a weapon, and killing one. Go thou, and fill another room in hell. [He kills another, and then Exton strikes

him doron. That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire, That staggers thus my person.-Exton, thy fierce hand Hath with the king's blood stained the king's own land. Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high, Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.

[Dies. Erton. As full of valor, as of royal blood. Both have I spilled! O, 'would the deed were good!

1 These stage directions are not in the old copies.

2 The representation here given of the king's death is perfectly agreeable to Hall and Holinshed (who copied from Fabian, with whom the story of Exton is thought to have its origin). But the fact was otherwise. He refused food for several days, and died of abstinence and a broken heart. See Walsingham, Otterburne, the Monk of Evesham, the Continuator of the History of Croyland, and the Godstow Chronicle. His body, after being submitted to public inspection in the church of Pomfret, was brought to London, and exposed in Cheapside for two hours, “ his heade on a black cushion, and his visage open," when it was viewed, says Froissart, by twenty thousand persons, and finally in St. Paul's cathedral. Stowe seems to have had before him a manuscript history of the latter part of king Richard's life, written by a person who was with him in Wales. He says “ he was imprisoned in Pomfrait Castle, where xv dayes and mightes they vexed him with continual hunger, thirst, and cold, and finally bereft him of his life with such a kind of death as never before that time was knowen in England.” VOL. III.

57

For now the devil, that told me I did well,
Says, that this deed is chronicled in hell.
This dead king to the living king I'll bear ;-
Take hence the rest, and give them burial here.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

Windsor. A Room in the Castle.

Flourish.

Enter BOLINGBROKE and York, with Lords and At

tendants. Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear Is that the rebels have consumed with fire Our town of Cicester in Glocestershire ! But whether they be ta’en, or slain, we hear not.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND. Welcome, my lord. What is the news ?

North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness. The next news is,- i have to London sent The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent." The manner of their taking may appear At large discoursed in this paper here.

[Presenting a paper. Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains; And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.

Enter FITZWATER.

Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London The heads of Brocas and sir Bennet Seely; Two of the dangerous, consorted traitors, That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot; Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

Enter Percy, with the Bishop of Carlisle. Percy. The grand conspirator, abbot of Westminster, With clog of conscience, and sour melancholy, Hath yielded up his body to the grave; But here is Carlisle living to abide Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride. Boling. Carlisle, this is

your

doom :-?
Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
So, as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife.
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honor in thee have I seen.

Enter Exton, with Attendants bearing a coffin. Exton. Great king, within this coffin I present

I Thy buried fear; herein all breathless lies The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, Richard of Bourdeaux, by me hither brought. Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast

wrought A deed of slander, with thy fatal hand, Upon any head, and all this famous land. Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did I this

, deed. Boling. They love not poison that do poison need, Nor do I thee; though I did wish him dead, I hate the murderer, love him murdered. The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labor, But neither my good word nor princely favor.

With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
And never show thy head by day nor light.-
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me, to make me grow.
Come, mourn with me for what I do lament,
And put on sullen black, incontinent:
I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.
March sadly after; grace my mournings here,
In weeping after this untimely bier. [Exeunt.

This play is one of those which Shakspeare has, apparently, revised; but as success in works of invention is not always proportionate to labor, it is not finished at last with the happy force of some other of his tragedies, nor can it be said much to affect the passions, or enlarge the understanding

Johnson.