And ftain'd the beauty of a fair Queen's cheeks
With tears drawn from her eyes, by your foul wrongs,
My felf a Prince, by fortune of my birth,
Near to the King in blood, (and near in love,
'Till you did make him mif-interpret me,)
Have ftoopt my neck under your injuries,
And figh'd my English breath in foreign clouds,
Eating the bitter bread of banishment:
While you have fed upon my figniories;
Dif-park'd my parks, and fell'd my foreft-woods:
From mine own windows torn my houshold-coat,
Raz'd out my Imprefs; leaving me no fign,
Save mens opinions and my living blood,

To fhew the world I am a gentleman.

This, and much more, much more than twice all this. 'Condemns you to the death. See them deliver'd To execution, and the hand of death.

Busby. More welcome is the ftroke of death to me, Than Bolingbroke to England.

Green. My comfort is, that heav'n will take our fouls, And plague injuftice with the pains of hell.

Boling. My Lord Northumberland, fee them dispatch'd. Uncle, you fay the Queen is at your house; For heav'n's fake fairly let her be intreated; Tell her I send to her my kind commends; Take special care my greetings be deliver'd. York. A gentleman of mine I have dispatch'd With letters of your love to her at large.

Boling. Thanks, gentle uncle; come, my Lords, away, A while to work; and after, holiday.

[Exeunt. SCENE II. Changes to the Coaft of Wales. Flourish; Drums and Trumpets.

Enter King Richard, Aumerle Bishop of Carlisle, and Soldiers. K. Rich.Barkloughly-caftle call you this at hand?

Aum.Yea, my good Lord,how brooks your Grace the air, After your toffing on the breaking feas?

K. Rich. Needs must I like it well; I weep for joy To ftand upon my kingdom once again.

Dear earth, I do falute thee with my hand,

Though rebels wound thee with their horfes hoofs:

As

As a long-parted mother with her child

Plays fondly with her tears and fmiles in meeting;
So weeping, fmiling, greet I thee, my earth,
And do thee favour with my royal hands.
Feed not thy Sov'reign's foe, my gentle earth,
Nor with thy fweets comfort his rav'nous fenfe
But let thy fpiders that fuck up thy venom,
And heavy-gaited toads, lye in his way,
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet
Which with ufurping fteps do trample thee.
Yield ftinging nettles to mine enemies;
And when they from thy bofom pluck a flower,
Guard it, I pry'thee, with a lurking adder;
Whose double-tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy Sovereign's enemies.
Mock not my fenfelefs conjuration, Lords;
This earth fhall have a feeling, and these ftones
Prove armed foldiers, ere her native King
Shall faulter under foul rebellious arms.

Carl, Fear not, my Lord, that Pow'r that made you King Hath pow'r to keep you King, in spight of all. The means that heav'n yields must be embrac'd, And not neglected; elfe if heav'n would And we would not, heav'n's offer we refuse, The proffer'd means of fuccour and redress.

Aum. He means, my Lord, that we are too remifs, Whilft Bolingbroke, through our fecurity,

Grows ftrong and great, in fubftance and in power.
K. Rich. Difcomfortable coufin, know'st thou not,
That when the fearching eye of heav'n is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world;
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unfeen,
In murders, and in outrage bloody here:
But when from under this terreftrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every guilty hole;
Then murders, treafons, and detefted fins,
The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?
So when this thief, this traitor Bolingbroke,

Whe

Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilft we were wand'ring 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 depose
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.
SCENE III. Enter Salisbury.

C

Welcome, my Lord, how far off lyes your power?
Sal. Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious Lord,
Than this weak arm; discomfort, guides my tongue,
And bids me fpeak of nothing but despair :
One day too late, I fear, my noble Lord,
Hath clouded all the happy days on earth.
Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return,

And thou fhalt have twelve thousand 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, difpers'd and fled.

Aum. Com'ort, my Liege, why looks your Grace fo pale? K. Rich. But now the blood of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face, and they are fled. *

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?

...and they are fled

And till fo much blood thither come again,
Have I not reafon to look pale, and dead?
All fouls

Arm,

Arm, arm, my name! a puny fubject ftrikes
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'da 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, deftruétion, ruin, lofs, decay? The worst is death, and death will have his day. Scroop. Glad am I, that your Highnefs is fo arm'd To bear the tidings of calamity.

Like an unfeasonable stormy 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 fteel, and hearts more hard than steel.

White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy Majefty; boys with womens voice.
Strive to speak big, and clasp their female joints
In ftiff unwieldly arms against thy crown:
The very beadfmen learn to bend their bows
Of doubly-fatal yew *, against thy state:
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?

The Tew is faid to be doubly fatal, from a poisonous quality in it, and from affording inftruments of death in war. VOL. IV.

What

What is become of Busby? where is Green?
That they have let the dang'rous enemy
Measure our confines with fuch peaceful fteps?
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, easily won to fawn on any man;

Snakes in my heart blood warm'd, that fting my heart;
Three Judaffes, 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 Bufby, Green, and th' Earl of Wilbire 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 chufe executors, and talk of wills; And yet not fo-for what can we bequeath, Save our depofed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own, but death; And that small model of the barren earth, Which ferves as paste and cover to our bones. For heav'ns fake let us fit upon the ground, And tell fad ftories of the death of Kings: How fame 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