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Thy life answer!


[Erit Serrant


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.

Duch. Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now, As I have done, thou would'st be more pitiful

. 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.
York. You will be there, I know.

Aum. If God prevent it not, I purpose so.
York. What seal is that, that hangs without thy Spur, post, and get before him to the king,

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 :
I will be satisfied, let me see the writing;

No matter, then, who sees it: And never will I rise up from the ground,
Aum. I do beseech your grace to pardon me.

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



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'Tis full three months, since I did see him last : Hath held his current, and defil'd himself!
If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.

Thy overflow of good converts to bad;
I would to God, my lords, he might be found. And thy abundant goodness shall excuse
Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there, This deadly blot in thy digressing son.
For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,

York. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd,
With unrestrained loose companions ;

And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,
Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes, As thriftiess sons their scraping fathers' gold.
And beat our watch, and rob our passengers ;

Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,
While he, young wanton, and effeminate boy, Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies :
Takes on the point of honour to support

Thou kill'st me in his life ; giving him breath,
So dissolute a crew.

The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.
Percy. My lord, some two days since I saw the prince, Duch. [Within.] What ho! my liege! for God's
And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford.

sake let me in.
Boling. And what said the gallant?

Boling. What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes this Percy. His answer was,-he would unto the stews;

eager cry?
And from the common'st creature pluck a glove, Duch. A woman, and thine aunt, great king; 'tis I.
And wear it as a favour; and with that

Speak with me, pity me, open the door:
He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.

A beggar begs, that never begg'd before.
Boling. As dissolute, as desperate: yet through both Boling. Our scene is altered, from a serious thing,
I see some sparks of better hope , which elder days And now chang'd to “The Beggar and the King."-
May happily bring forth. But who comes here? My dangerous cousin, let your mother in :
Enter AUMERLE, in great haste.

I know, she's come to pray for your foul sin.
Aum. Where is the king ?

York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
Boling. What means our cousin, that he stares and More sins for this forgiveness prosper may.

This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rest sound;
So wildly?

This, let alone, will all the rest confound.
Aum. God save your grace.
I do beseech your

Enter Duchess.

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 we may arm us to encounter it.

That mercy which true prayers ought to have.
York. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know Boling. Good aunt, stand up.
The treason that my haste forbids me show.


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,
My heart is not confederate with my hand.

Pardon should be the first word of thy speech.
York. It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.- .- I never long'd to hear a word till now;
I tore it from the traitor's bosom, king :

Say—pardon, king; let pity teach thee how:
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence.

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,
Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there, Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,
Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear,

Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame
That hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce, That many have, and others must sit there :
Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse.

And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Boling. Good aunt, stand up.

Bearing their own misfortune on the back

I do not sue to stand : Of such as have before endur'd the like.
Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.

Thus play I, in one person, many people,
Boling. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.

And none contented : sometimes am I king;
Duch. O, happy vantage of a kneeling knee! Then, treason makes me wish myself a beggar,
Yet am I sick for fear : speak it again ;

And so I am : then, crushing penury
Twice saying pardon doth not pardon twain,

Persuades me I was better when a king:
But makes one pardon strong.

Then, am I king'd again; and, by and by,
Boling. I pardon him with all my heart.

Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,

A god on earth thou art. [Rises. And straight am nothing.-But whate'er I am,
Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law, and the Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,

With nothing shall be pleas’d, till he be eas'd
With all the rest of that consorted crew,

With being nothing.-Music do I hear? [Music.
Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels. Ha, ha ! keep time.--How sour sweet music is,
Good uncle, help to order several powers

When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
To Oxford, or where else these traitors be:

So is it in the music of men's lives :
They shall not live within this world, I swear, And here have I the daintiness of ear,
But I will have them, so I once know where.

To check time broke in a disorder'd string,
Uncle, farewell --and cousin mine, adieu:

But for the concord of my state and time,
Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true, Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
Duch. Come, my old son ; I pray God' make thee I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;

[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,
Enter Sir Pierce of Exton, and a Servant. Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Exton. Didst thou not mark the king, what words he is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.

Now, for the sound, that tells what hour it is,
“ Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?” Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Was it not so?

Which is the bell : so sighs, and tears, and groans,
Those were his very words.

Show minutes, times, and hours ; but my time
Exton. “Have I no friend ?" quoth he: he spake it Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,

While I stand fooling here, his Jack o' the clock.
And urg'd it twice together, did he not?

This music mads me : let it sound no more,
Serv. He did.

For though it hath holpe madmen to their wits,
Exton. And, speaking it, he wishtly look'd on me; In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.
As who should say, -I would thou wert the man Yet, blessing on his heart that gives it me!
That would divorce this terror from my heart; For 'tis a sign of love, and love to Richard
Meaning the king at Pomfret. Come, let's go: Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.
I am the king's friend, and will rid his foe. [Exeunt.

Enter Groom.
SCENE V.-Pomfret. The Dungeon of the Castle.

Groom. Hail, royal prince !
K. Rich,

Thanks, noble peer;
Enter King Richard.

The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
K. Rich. I have been studying how I may compare What art thou ? and how comest thou hither,
This prison, where I live, unto the world :

Where no man never comes, but that sad dog
And, for because the world is populous,

That brings me food to make misfortune live?
And here is not a creature but myself,

Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
I cannot do it: yet I'll hammer't out.

When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul;

With much ado, at length have gotten leave
My soul, the father : and these two beget

To look upon my sometime royal master's face.
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,

O! how it yern'd my heart, when I beheld
And these same thoughts people this little world ; In London streets that coronation day,
In humours like the people of this world,

When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary !
For no thought is contented. The better sort, That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,
As thoughts of things divine, are intermix'd

That horse that I so carefully have dress'd !
With scruples, and do set the word itself

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,
Against the word :

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?
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride. Forgiveness, horse ! why do I rail on thee,
Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves, Since thou, created to be aw'd by man,


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Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse; The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent:
And yet I bear a burden like an ass,

The manner of their taking may appear
Spur-gall’d and tir'd by jauncing Bolingbroke. At large discoursed in this

paper here.
Enter Keeper, with a Dish.

[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.
K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away.

Enter FitzwATER.
Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my

heart Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London

[Exit. The heads of Brocas, and Sir Bennet Seely,
Keep. My lord, will't please you to fall to? Two of the dangerous consorted traitors,
K. Rich. Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do. That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

Keep. My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton, who Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
lately came from the king, commands the contrary. Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.
K. Rich. The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and Enter Percy, with the Bishop of Carlisle.

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;
Keep. Help, help, help!

But here is Carlisle living, to abide
Enter Sir Pierce of Exton, and Servants, armed. Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride.
K. Rich. How now! what means death in this rude Boling. Bishop of Carlisle, this shall be your doom :-

Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
Villain, thine own hand yields thy death's instrument. More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;

[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,
[He kills another : Exton strikes him down. High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.
That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire,

Enter Exton, with Attendants bearing a Coffin.
That staggers thus my person.-Exton, thy fierce hand Exton. Great king, within this coffin I present
Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land. Thy buried fear: berein all breathless lies
Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high, The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die. [Dies. Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.
Exton. As full of valour, as of royal blood :

Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought
Both have I spilt: 0, would the deed were good! A deed of slander with thy fatal hand
For now the devil, that told me I did well,

Upon my head, and all this famous land.
Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.

Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did Ithis deed.
This dead king to the living king I'll bear.-

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 Attendants.

And never show thy head by day nor light.-
Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
Is, that the rebels have consum'd with fire

That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow:
Our town of Ciceter in Glostershire ;

Come, mourn with me for that I do lament,
But whether they be ta’en, or slain, we hear not. And put on sullen black. Incontinent

I'll make a voyage to the Holy land,
Welcome, my lord. What is the news with you? To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.

North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness: March sadly after: grace my mourning here,
The next news is,- I have to London sent

In weeping after this untimely bier.







Owen GLENDOWER. Henry, Prince of Wales.



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.

SCENE, England.

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,
No more shall trenching war channel her fields,

Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Nor bruise her flowrets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,

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 ;
All of one nature, of one substance bred,
Did lately meet in the intestine shock

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
Shall now, in mutual, well-beseeming ranks,
March all one way, and be no more oppos’d

Without much shame re-told or spoken of.
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies :

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,
But this our purpose is a twelve-month old,

And shape of likelihood, the news was told;
For he that brought them, in the very heat

lord ;

Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd

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