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Thy life answer!
When weeping made you break the story off,
Duch. What should you
fear? Of our two cousins coming into London.
'Tis nothing but some bond he's enter'd into York. Where did I leave?
For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day. Duch.
At that sad stop, my lord, York. Bound to himself? what doth be with a bond Where rude misgovern'd hands, from windows' tops, That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head. Boy, let me see the writing.
York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, Äum. I do beseech you, pardon me: I may not Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
show it. Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,
York. I will be satisfied : let me see it, I say. With slow but stately pace kept on his course,
[Snatches it and reads. While all tongues cried—“God save thee, Boling- Treason! foul treason !-villain? traitor! slave! broke!”
Duch. What is the matter, my lord ? You would have thought the very windows spake, York. Ho! who is within there? Saddle my horse. So may greedy looks of young and old
God for his mercy! what treachery is here! Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Duch. Why, what is it, my lord ? Upon his visage; and that all the walls
York. Give me my boots, I saddle
horse With painted imagery had said at once,-.
Now by mine honour, by my life, my troth, “Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!” I will appeach the villain. Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
What's the matter? Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
York. Peace, foolish woman. Bespake them thus,—“I thank you, countrymen :" Duch. I will not peace.—What is the matter, And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.
Aumerle ? Duch. Alas, poor Richard ! where rode he the whilst ? Aum. Good mother, be content: it is no more York. As in a theatre, the eyes
Than my poor life must answer. After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Duch. Are idly bent on him that enters next,
York. Bring me my boots ! I will unto the king. Thinking his prattle to be tedious ;
Enter Servant with boots. Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Duch. Strike him, Aumerle.- Poor boy, thou art Did scowl on gentle Richard: no man cried, God save
Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home; But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
York. Give me my boots, I say. Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do? His face still combating with tears and smiles, Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own? The badges of his grief and patience,
Have we more sons, or are we like to have ? That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd Is not my teeming date drunk up with time, The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age, And barbarism itself have pitied him.
And rob me of a happy mother's name? But heaven hath a hand in these events,
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own? To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
York. Thou fond, mad woman, To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy? Whose state and honour I for aye
A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament, Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle.
And interchangeably set down their hands, York.
Aumerle that was; To kill the king at Oxford. But that is lost for being Richard's friend,
He shall be none; And, madam, you must call him Rutland now. We'll keep him here : then, what is that to him? I am in parliament pledge for his truth,
York. Away, fond woman! were he twenty times And lasting fealty to the new-made king.
My son, I would appeach him.
. That strew the green lap of the new-come spring? But now I know thy mind : thou dost suspect,
Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not: That I have been disloyal to thy bed, God knows, I had as lief be none, as one.
And that he is a bastard, not thy son. York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind : Lest
you be cropp'd before you come to prime. He is as like thee as a man may be, What news from Oxford ? hold those justs and triumphs? Not like to me, nor any of my kin,
Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do. And yet I love him.
Duch. After, Aumerle ! Mount thee upon his horse: bosom? Yea, look’st thou pale? let me then see the writing.
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee. Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.
I'll not be long behind : though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York :
No matter, then, who sees it: And never will I rise up from the ground,
Till Boling broke have pardon'd thee. Away! begone. Which for some reasons I would not have seen.
SCENE III.-Windsor. A Room in the Castle. York. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
Enter Bolingbroke as King ; Percy, and other Lorde.
Boling. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son ?
Hadst thou groan'd for him,
Make way, unruly woman. [Exit
It is a matter of small consequence,
I fear, I fear,
'Tis full three months, since I did see him last : Hath held his current, and defil'd himself!
Thy overflow of good converts to bad;
York. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd,
And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,
Thou kill'st me in his life ; giving him breath,
The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.
sake let me in.
Boling. What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes this Percy. His answer was,-he would unto the stews;
Speak with me, pity me, open the door:
A beggar begs, that never begg'd before.
I know, she's come to pray for your foul sin.
York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rest sound;
This, let alone, will all the rest confound.
Duch. O king! believe not this hard-hearted man : To have some conference with your grace alone. Love, loving not itself, none other can. Boling. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here York. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make alone.
[Exeunt Percy and Lords. here? What is the matter with our cousin now?
Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear? Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth, Duch. Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, gentle [Kneels. liege.
[Kneels. My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth,
Boling. Rise up, good aunt. Unless a pardon, ere I rise, or speak.
Not yet, I thee beseech : Boling. Intended, or committed, was this fault? For ever will I walk upon my knees, If on the first, how heinous e'er it be,
And never see day that the happy sees, To win thy after love I pardon thee.
Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy, Aum. Then give me leave that I may turn the key, By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy. That no man enter till my tale be done.
Äum. Unto my mother's prayers, I bend my knee. Boling. Have thy desire. [AUMERLE locks the door.
[Kneels. York (Within.] My liege, beware! look to thyself: York. Against them both, my true joints bended be. Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.
[Kneels. Boling. Villain, I'll make thee safe. [Drawing. Ill may'st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace ! Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand : thou hast no cause Duch. Pleads be in earnest ? look upon his face; to fear.
eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest; York. [Within.] Open the door, secure, fool-hardy His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast: king:
prays but faintly, and would be denied ; Shall I for love speak treason to thy face?
We pray with heart, and soul, and all beside: Open the door, or I will break it open.
His weary joints would gladly rise, I know; [BOLINGBROKE opens the door, and locks it again. Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow: Enter York.
His prayers are full of false hypocrisy; Boling. What is the matter, uncle ? speak; Ours of true zeal and deep integrity. Recover breath : tell us how near is danger,
Our prayers do out-pray his; then, let them have
That mercy which true prayers ought to have.
Nay, do not say-stand up; Aum. Remember, as thou read’st, thy promise past. But, pardon first, and afterwards, stand up. I do repent me; read not my name there:
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon should be the first word of thy speech.
Say—pardon, king; let pity teach thee how:
The word is short, but not so short as sweet; Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove
No word like pardon, for kings' mouths so meet. A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.
York, Speak it in French, king: say, pardonnez-moi. Boling. O, heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy !- Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy ? 0. loyal father of a treacherous son!
Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord, Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,
That set'st the word itself against the word ! From whence this stream through muddy passages Speak, pardon, as 'tis current in our land;
The chopping French we do not understand.
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
I do not sue to stand : Of such as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play I, in one person, many people,
And none contented : sometimes am I king;
And so I am : then, crushing penury
Persuades me I was better when a king:
Then, am I king'd again; and, by and by,
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
A god on earth thou art. [Rises. And straight am nothing.-But whate'er I am,
With nothing shall be pleas’d, till he be eas'd
With being nothing.-Music do I hear? [Music.
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the music of men's lives :
To check time broke in a disorder'd string,
But for the concord of my state and time,
[Exeunt. For now hath time made me his numbering clock: SCENE IV.
My thoughts are minutes, and with sighs they jar,
Their watches on unto mine eyes the outward watch,
Now, for the sound, that tells what hour it is,
Which is the bell : so sighs, and tears, and groans,
Show minutes, times, and hours ; but my time
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o' the clock.
This music mads me : let it sound no more,
For though it hath holpe madmen to their wits,
Groom. Hail, royal prince !
Thanks, noble peer;
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
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 sometime royal master's face.
O! how it yern'd my heart, when I beheld
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary !
That horse that I so carefully have dress'd !
K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,
How went be under him? As thus,—“Come, little ones ;” and then again,- Groom. So proud, as if he had disdain'd the ground. “ It is as hard to come, as for a camel
K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back? To thread the postern of a small needle's eye.” That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand; Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. Unlikely wonders : how these vain weak nails Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down, May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
(Since pride must have a fall) and break the neck Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls ;
Of that proud man that did usurp his back?
Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse; The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent:
The manner of their taking may appear
[Presenting a Paper. Keep. Fellow, give place : here is no longer stay. Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains,
[To the Groom. And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
heart Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
[Exit. The heads of Brocas, and Sir Bennet Seely,
Keep. My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton, who Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
Percy. The grand conspirator, abbot of Westminster, Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.
With clog of conscience, and sour melancholy,
[Strikes the Keeper. Hath yielded up his body to the grave;
But here is Carlisle living, to abide
Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
[Snatching a weapon, and killing one. So, as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife: Go thou and fill another room in hell.
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
Enter Exton, with Attendants bearing a Coffin.
Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought
Upon my head, and all this famous land.
Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did Ithis deed.
Boling. They love not poison that do poison need, Take hence the rest, and give them burial here. Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,
[Exeunt with the bodies. I hate the murderer, love him murdered. SCENE VI.—Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle. The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour, Flourish. Enter BolinGBROKE, and York, with Lords With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
But neither my good word, nor princely favour:
And never show thy head by day nor light.-
That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow:
Come, mourn with me for that I do lament,
I'll make a voyage to the Holy land,
North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness: March sadly after: grace my mourning here,
In weeping after this untimely bier.
KING HENRY IV.
King HENRY THE FOURTH.
Owen GLENDOWER. Henry, Prince of Wales.
Sir Richard Vernon. PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER.
Sir John FALSTAFF. EARL OF WESTMORELAND.
Sir Michael, a friend of the Archbishop of York. Sir Walter BLUNT.
Poins. Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester.
GADSHILL. Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland :
Peto. Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his Son.
BARDOLPH. Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March.
Lady Percy, Wife to Hotspur. Scroop, Archbishop of York.
Lady MORTIMER, Daughter to Glendower. ARCHIBALD, Earl of Douglas.
Mrs. Quickly, Hostess of a Tavern in Eastcheap. Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.
ACT I. SCENE I.- London. An Apartment in the Palace.
And bootless 'tis to tell you we will go : Enter King Henry, Westmoreland, Sir Walter Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
Therefore we meet not now. Then, let me hear Blunt, and Others.
What yesternight our council did decree, Ki Hen. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, In forwarding this dear expedience. Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,
West. My liege, this haste was hot in question, And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
And many limits of the charge set down To be commenc'd in stronds afar remote.
But yesternight; when, all athwart, there came No more the thirsty entrance of this soil
A post from Wales loaden with heavy news; Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood;
Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Against the irregular and wild Glendower,
Was by the rude hands of that Welchman taken, Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven, a
A thousand of his people butchered ;
Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse, And furious close of civil butchery,
Such beastly, shameless transformation,
By those Welchwomen done, as may not be
Without much shame re-told or spoken of.
K. Hen. It seems, then, that the tidings of this broil The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
Brake off our business for the Holy Land. No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,
West. This, match'd with other, did, my gracious As far as to the sepulchre of Christ, Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross,
For more uneven and unwelcome news We are impressed, and engag'd to fight,
Came from the north, and thus it did import. Forth with a power of English shall we levy,
On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there
, Whose arms were moulded in their mother's womb
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald, To chase these pagans, in those holy fields,
That ever-valiant and approved Scot, Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet,
At Holmedon met;
Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour, For our advantage on the bitter cross.
As by discharge of their artillery,
And shape of likelihood, the news was told;
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd