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If thy offences were upon record,
North. My lord, dispatch; read o'er these articles.
K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears: I cannot see : And yet falt-water blinds them not so much, s But they can see a Sort of traitors here. Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon my felf, I find my self a traitor with the rest : For I have given here my soul's consent, T’undeck the pompous body of a King; Made Glory base ; a Sovereign a slave; Proud Majesty, a subject : State, a peasant. North. My lord
[man; K. Rich. No lord of thine, thou hąught-insulting Nor no man's lord : I have no Name, no Title ; No, not that Name was giv'n me at the Font, But 'tis usurp’d. Alack, the heavy day, That I have worn so many winters out, And know not now, what name to call my felf! Oh, that I were a mockery-King of snow, Standing before the Sun of Boling broke, To melt my self away in water-drops ! Good King, -great King, ---(and yet not greatly good,) An if my word be sterling yet in England, (To Boling. .
s But they can see a Sort
) i. e. 2 pack, a company.
Let it command a mirror hither straight,
Boling. Go fome of you, and fetch a looking-glass.
[hell. K. Ricb. Fiend, thou torment’st me, ere I come to Boling. Urge it no more, my lord Northumberland, North. The Commons will not then be satisfy'd.
K. Rich. They shall be satisfy'd: I'll read enough, When I do see the very Book, indeed, Where all my sins are writ, and that's my self.
Enter One, with a Glass. Give me that Glass, and therein will I read. No deeper wrinkles yet? hath Sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine, And made no deeper wounds? oh, fatering Glass! Like to my Followers in prosperity, Thou dost beguile me. Was this face, the face That every day under his houshold roof Did keep ten thousand men? was this the face, That, like the Sun, did make beholders wink? Is this the face, which fac'd so many follies, That was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke? A brittle Glory shineth in this face ;
[Dashes the Glass against the Ground. As brittle, as the glory, is the face; For there it is, crackt in an hundred shivers. Mark, silent King, the Moral of this sport; How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face,
Boling. The shadow of your fórrow hath destroy'd The shadow of
face. K. Ricb. Say That again. The shadow of my forrow! ha, let's see ; 'Tis very true, my grief lies all within ; And these external manners of laments
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,
Boling. Name it, fair Cousin.
K. Rich. Fair Cousin! I am greater than a King:
Boling. Yet ask.
That rise thus nimbly by a true King's Fall.
Boling. On Wednesday next we folemnly let down Our Coronation : lords, prepare your felves.
[Ex, all but Abbot, Bishop of Carlisle and Aumerle.
Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here beheld.
Bishop. The woe's to come ; the children yet unborn Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.
Aum. You holy Clergy-men, is there no Plot, To rid the Realm of this pernicious blot?
Abbot. Before I freely speak my mind herein, You shall not only take the Sacrament,
To bury mine intents, but to effect
A CT V. SCENE I.
A Street in LONDON.
is the way
Enter King Richard, and Guards.
[To K. Rich. Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb, And not King Richard; thou moft beauteous Inn, Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee, When Triumph is become an ale-house Guest?
K. Ricb. Join not with grief, fair Woman, do not so, To make my End too sudden: learn, good soul, To think our former state a happy dream, From which awak'd, the truth of what we are
Shews us but this. I am sworn brother, Sweet,
Queen. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind
paw, And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage To be o'erpower'd : and wilt thou, pupil-like, Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod, And fawn on rage with base humility, Which art a Lion and a King of beasts? (beasts,
K. Rich. A King of beasts, indeed; if aught but I had been still a happy King of men. Good sometime Queen, prepare thee hence for France ; Think, I am dead, and that ev'n here thou tak'st, As from my death-bed, my last living Leave. “ In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire “ With good old folks, and let them tell thee Tales « Of woeful ages, long ago betid:
: “ And ere thou bid good Night, to quit their grief, « Tell thou the lamentable Fall of me, “ And send the hearers weeping to their beds." For why? the senseless brands will sympathize The heavy accent of thy moving tongue, And in compassion weep the fire out : And some will mourn in alhes, fonie coal-black, For the deposing of a rightful King.
S с EN E II.
Enter Northumberland attended, North. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang’d: You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower,