So when this thief, this traitor Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilft we were wandring with th' Antipodes,
Shall fee us rifing in our throne, the east
His treafons will fet blufhing in his face,
Not able to endure the fight of day;
But felf-affrighted, tremble at his fin.
Not all the water in the rough rude fea
Can wash the balm from an anointed King;
The breath of worldly men cannot depofe
The Deputy elected by the Lord.

For every man that Bolingbroke hath preft,
To lift fharp fteel against our golden crown,
Heav'n for his Richard hath in heav'nly pay
A glorious angel; then if angels fight,

Weak men muft fall, for heav'n ftill guards the right.

Welcome, my Lord, how far off lyes your power?
Sal. Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious Lord,
Than this weak arm; difcomfort guides my tongue,
And bids me speak of nothing but defpair:
One day too late, I fear, my noble Lord,
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.
Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou fhalt have twelve thoufand fighting men.
To-day, to-day, unhappy day too late

O'er-throws thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy ftate.
For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, difperft and fled.

[pale?

Aum. Comfort, my Liege; why looks your Grace fo
K. Rich. But now the blood of twenty thousand men

Did triumph in my face, and they are fled.

(a)—and they are fled,

And 'till fo much blood thither come again,

Have I not reason to look pale, and dead?
All fouls

All

All fouls, that will be fafe, fly from my fide;
For time hath fet a blot upon my pride.

Aum. Comfort, my Liege, remember who you are:
K. Rich. I had forgot my felf: am I not King;
Awake, thou coward Majefty, thou sleepest:
Is not the King's name forty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my name! a puny fubject strikes
At thy great glory. Look not to the ground,
Ye fav'rites of a King! are we not high?
High be our thoughts! I know my uncle York
Hath pow'r to serve our turn. But who comes here?
SCENE IV.

Enter Scroop.

Scroop. More health and happiness betide my Liege,
Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him!

K. Rich. Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar'd:
The worst is worldly lofs thou canft unfold.
Say, is my kingdom loft? why, 'twas my care:
And what lofs is it to be rid of care:
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?
Greater he fhall not be: if he ferve God,
We'll ferve him too, and be his fellow fo.
Revolt our fubjects? that we cannot mend;
They break their faith to God as well as us.
Cry woe, deftruction, ruin, lofs, decay;
The worst is death, and death will have his day.
Scroop. Glad am I, that your Highness is fo arm'd
To bear the tidings of calamity.

Like an unfeasonable ftormy day,

Which makes the filver rivers drown their fhores,

As if the world were all diffolv'd to tears;

So high above his limits fwells the rage

Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring your fearful land

With hard bright steel, and hearts more hard than steel,
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless fcalps
Against thy Majefty; boys with womens voices
Strive to fpeak big, and clafp their female joints

In

!

In ftiff unwieldy arms, against thy crown:
The very beadfmen learn to bend their bows
Of doubly-fatal yewa, against thy ftate:
Yea, diftaff-women manage rufty bills.
Against thy feat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have pow'r to tell.

K. Rich. Too well, too well thou tell'ft a tale fo ill.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire?

What is become of Bufby? where is Green?
That they have let the dang'rous enemy
Measure our confines with fuch peaceful steps?
If we prevail, their heads fhall pay for it.
I warrant they've made peace with Bolingbroke.

Scroop. Peace they have made with him indeed, my Lord.
K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption;
Dogs, eafily won to fawn on any man;

Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that fting my heart;
Three Judalles, each one thrice worse than Judas!
Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted fouls for this offence!

Scroop. Sweet love, I fee, changing his property,
Turns to the fow'reft and most deadly hate:
Again uncurfe their fouls; their peace is made
With heads, and not with hands: thofe whom you curfe
Have felt the worst of death's deftroying hand,
And lye full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.

Aum. Is Busby, Green, and th' Earl of Wiltshire dead?
Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol loft their heads.
Aum. Where is the Duke my father, with his power?
K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man fpeak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,
Make duft our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write forrow in the bofom of the earth!
Let's chuse executors, and talk of wills;
And yet not fo-for what can we bequeath,
Save our depofed bodies to the ground?

Our

(a) The Yew is faid to be doubly fatal, from a poisonous quality in it, and from affording inftruments of death in war. Warburton.

Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own, but death;
And that fmall model of the barren earth,
Which ferves as paste and cover to our bones.
For heav'n's fake let us fit upon the ground,
And tell fad stories of the death of Kings:
How fome have been depos'd, fome flain in war:
Some haunted by the ghofts they difpoffefs'd:
Some poifon'd by their wives, fome fleeping kill'd:
All murther'd. For within the hollow crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a King,
Keeps death his Court, and there the Antick fits
Scoffing his ftate, and grinning at his pomp ;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene

To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infufing him with felf and vain conceit,
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brafs impregnable: and humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin

Bores through his caftle-walls, and farewel King!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With folemn rev'rence: throw away refpect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but miftook me all this while:
I live on bread like you, feel want like

you,

Tafte grief, need friends, like you: fubjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a King?

Carl. My Lord, wife men ne'er wail their prefent woes, But presently prevent the ways to wail:

To fear the foe, fince fear oppreffeth strength,

Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe;
And fo your follies fight against your self, a

(a)

against your felf. **

Fear, and be flain, no worfe can come from fight,
And fight and die, is death deftroying death.
Where fearing, dying, pays death fervile breath.
Aum. My father hath a pow'r, enquire of him,
And learn to make a body of a limb.

K. Rich. Thou

K. Rich

K. Rich. Thou chid'ft me well: proud Bolingbroke, I

come-a

Say, Scroop, where lyes our uncle with his power? b
Scroop. I play the torturer, by fmall and small
To lengthen out the worst, that must be spoken.
Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke,
And all your northern caftles yielded up,
And all your fouthern gentlemen in arms
Upon his faction.

K. Rich. Thou haft faid enough.

Befhrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth
Of that sweet way I was in to despair!

What fay you now? what comfort have we now?
By heav'n, I'll hate him everlastingly
That bids me be of comfort any more.
Go to Flint-caftle, there I'll pine away;
A King, woe's flave, fhall kingly woe obey:
That pow'r I have, discharge, and let 'em go
To ear the land, that hath fome hope to grow:
For I have none. Let no man speak again
To alter this, for counsel is but vain.
Aum. My Liege, one word.

K. Rich. He does me double wrong,

That wounds me with the flatt'ries of his tongue.
Discharge my followers: let them away,

From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day. [Exeunt.

To change blows with thee, for our day of doom;

This ague-fit of fear is over blown,

An eafie task it is to win our own.
Say, Scroop,-

(b)

his power?

Speak fweetly, man, although thy looks be fower.
Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the sky
The fate and inclination of the day;

So may you by my dull and heavy eye,
My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say:

I play ·

SCENE