And make fome pretty match with fhedding tears?
As thus, to drop them ftill upon one place,
'Till they have fretted us a pair of graves.
Moft mighty Prince, my Lord Northumberland,
What fays King Bolingbroke? will his Majefty
Give Richard leave to live, 'till Richard die?
You make a leg, and Bolingbroke fays ay.
North. My Lord, in the bafe court he doth attend To speak with you, may't please you to come down. K. Rich. Down, down I come, like glift'ring Phaeton, Wanting the manage of unruly jades. b
Boling. What fays his Majetty?
North. Sorrow of heart
Makes him fpeak fondly, like a frantick man;
Boling. Stand all apart, and show
Fair duty to his Majesty.
My gracious Lord
K. Rich. Fair coufin, you debafe your princely knee,
To make the base earth proud with kiffing it.
Me rather had, my heart might feel your love,
Than my un-pleas'd eye fee your courtefie.
Boling. My gracious Lord, I come but for mine own.
K. Rich. Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all.
Q 2
Within the earth; and therein laid, there lyes
Two kinfmen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes?
Would not this ill do well? well, well, I fee
I talk but idly, and you mock at me.
Moft mighty Prince, &c.
(b) of unruly jades.
In the base court? bafe court where Kings grow base,
To come at traitors calls, and do them grace.
In the base court come down? down, court, down, Kings
For Night-owls fhriek, where mounting Larks fhould fing.
Boling. What, &c.
(c) your courtefie.
Up, coufin, up; your heart is up, I know,
Thus high at least, although your knee be low.
Boling. My, &c.
Boling. So far be mine, my moft redoubted Lord, As my true service fhall deferve your love.
K. Rich. Well you deferv'd: they well deferve to have, That know the strong'ft and fureft way to get.
Uncle, give me your hand; nay, dry your eyes; [To York.
Tears fhew their love, but want their remedies.
Coufin, I am too young to be your father, [To Bolingbroke.
Though you are old enough to be my heir.
What you will have I'll give, and willing too;
For do we must what force will have us do.
Set on towards London. Coufin, is it fo?
Boling. Yea, my good Lord.
K. Rich. Then I must not fay no.
Enter Queen and two Ladies.
Queen. To drive away the heavy thought of care?
Lady. Madam, we'll play at bowls.
Queen. 'Twill make me think the world is full of rubs, And that my fortune runs against the bias.
Lady. Madam, we'll dance.
Queen. My legs can keep no measure in delight,
When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief.
Therefore no dancing, girl; fome other sport.
Lady. Madam, we'll tell tales.
Queen. Of forrow, or of joy?
Lady. Of either, Madam.
Queen. Of neither, girl.
For if of joy, being altogether wanting,
It doth remember me the more of forrow:
Or if of grief, being altogether had,
It adds more forrow to my want of joy:
For what I have I need not to repeat:
6/And of what I want it boots not to complain.
Lady. Madam, I'll fing.
Queen. 'Tis well that thou haft caufe:
But thou should'st please me better, would'ft thou weep. Lady. I could weep, Madam, would it do you good. Queen. And I could weep, would weeeping do me good, And never borrow any tear of thee.
Enter a Gardiner, and two Servants.
But ftay, here come the gardiners.
Let's step into the fhadow of these trees:
My wretchedness unto a row of pins,
They'll talk of ftate; for every one doth fo,
Against a change; woe is fore-run with woe.
[Queen and Ladies retire.
Gard. Go bind thou up yond dangling Apricocks,
Which, like unruly children, make their Sire
Stoop with oppreffion of their prodigal weight:
Give fome fupportance to the bending twigs.
Go thou, and like an executioner
Cut off the heads of too faft growing fprays,
That look too lofty in our common-wealth:
All must be even in our government.
You thus imploy'd, I will go root away
The noisome weeds, that without profit fuck
The foil's fertility from wholfome flowers.
Serv. Why should we, in the compafs of a pale,
Keep law, and form, and due proportion,
Shewing, as in a model, our firm ftate?
When our fea-walled garden, the whole land,
Is full of weeds, her faireft flowers choak'd up,
Her fruit-trees all unprun'd, her hedges ruin'd,
Her knots diforder'd, and her wholsome herbs
Swarming with Caterpillars?
Gard. Hold thy peace.
He that hath fuffer'd this diforder'd fpring,
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf;
The weeds that his broad-fpreading leaves did fhelter,
(That feem'd, in eating him, to hold him up,)
Are pull'd up, root and all, by Bolingbroke;
I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Busby, Green.
Serv. What, are they dead?
And Bolingbroke hath feiz'd the wafteful King.
What pity is it, that he had not trimm'd
And dreft his land, as we this garden dress,
And wound the bark, the skin, of our fruit-trees,
Left being over-proud with fap and blood,
With too much riches it confound it felf?
Had he done fo to great and growing men,
They might have liv'd to bear, and he to taste
Their fruits of duty. All fuperfluous branches
We lop away, that bearing boughs may live:
Had he done fo, himfelf had born the crown,
Which waste and idle hours have quite thrown down.
Serv. What, think you then, the King fhall be depos'd?
Gard. Depreft he is already, and depos'd
'Tis doubted he will be. Letters last night
Came to a dear friend of the Duke of York,
That tell black tidings.
Queen. Oh, I am preft to death through want of speak
Thou Adam's likenefs, fet to drefs this garden,
How dares thy tongue found this unpleafing news?
What Eve, what ferpent hath fuggefted thee,
To make a second fall of curfed man?
Why doft thou fay, King Richard is depos'd?
Dar't thou, thou little better thing than earth,
Divine his downfal? fay, where, when, and how
Cam'st thou by thefe ill tidings? fpeak, thou wretch,
Gard. Pardon me, Madam. Little joy have I
To breathe thefe news; yet what I fay is true;
King Richard, he is in the mighty hold
Of Bolingbroke; their fortunes both are weigh'd:
your Lord's fcale is nothing but himself,
And fome few vanities that make him light:
But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,
Befides himself, are all the English Peers,
And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.
Poft you to London, and you'll find it fo;
I speak no more than every one doth know.
Queen. Nimble Mifchance, that art fo light of foot, Doth not thy embaffage belong to me?
And am I laft that know it? Oh, thou think'st
To ferve me laft, that I may longest keep
The forrow in my breaft. Come, Ladies, go,
To meet, at London, London's King in woe.
What, was I born to this! that my fad look
Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke!
Gard'ner, for telling me thefe news of woe,
I would the plants thou graft'ft may never grow.
[Ex. Queen and Ladies.
Gard. Poor Queen, fo that thy ftate might be no worfe,
I would my skill were fubject to thy curfe.
Here did the drop a tear, here in this place
I'll fet a bank of Rue, fow'r herb of grace:
Rue, ev'n for ruth, here fhortly fhall be feen,
In the remembrance of a weeping Queen.
|