If thy offences were upon record,
Would it not fhame thee, in fo fair a troop,
To read a lecture of them? if thou would'st,
There should'ft thou find one heinous article,
Containing the depofing of a King;
And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,
Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heav'n,
Nay, all of you, that stand and look upon me,
Whilft that my wretchedness doth bait my self,
Though fome of you with Pilate wafh your hands,
Shewing an outward pity; yet you Pilates
Have here deliver'd me to my fow'r Crofs,
And water cannot wash away your fin.
North. My lord, dispatch; read o'er thefe articles. K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears: I cannot fee: And yet falt-water blinds them not so much,
5 But they can fee a Sort of traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon my self,
I find my felf a traitor with the reft:
For I have given here my foul's confent,
T'undeck the pompous body of a King;
Made Glory base; a Sovereign a flave;
Proud Majefty, a fubject: State, a peasant.
North. My lord-
K. Rich. No lord of thine, thou haught-infulting
Nor no man's lord: I have no Name, no Title;
No, not that Name was giv'n me at the Font,
But 'tis ufurp'd. Alack, the heavy day,
That I have worn fo many winters out,
And know not now, what name to call my felf!
Oh, that I were a mockery-King of fnow,
Standing before the Sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt my self away in water-drops!
Good King,-great King,-(and yet not greatly good,)
An if my word be fterling yet in England, [To Boling.
5 But they can fee a Soft] i. e. a pack, a company.
Let it command a mirror hither straight,
That it may fhew me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his Majefty.
Boling. Go fome of you, and fetch a looking-glass. North. Read o'er this paper, while the glass doth [hell.
K. Rich. 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 fhall be fatisfy'd: I'll read enough, When I do fee the very Book, indeed,
Where all my fins 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 ftruck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds? oh, flatt'ring Glass!
Like to my Followers in profperity,
Thou doft beguile me. Was this face, the face
That every day under his houfhold 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 fo many follies,
That was at laft out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A brittle Glory fhineth in this face;
[Dafhes the Glafs against the Ground.
As brittle, as the glory, is the face;
For there it is, crackt in an hundred shivers.
Mark, filent King, the Moral of this fport;
How foon my forrow hath deftroy'd my face.
Boling. The fhadow of your forrow hath destroy'd
The fhadow of your
K. Rich. Say That again.
The shadow of my forrow! ha, let's fee; 'Tis very true, my grief lies all within ;
And these external manners of laments
Are merely fhadows to the unfeen grief,
That fwells with filence in the tortur'd foul.
There lies the fubftance; and I thank thee, King,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv'ft
Me caufe to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the caufe. I'll beg one boon;
And then be gone, and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?
Boling. Name it, fair Coufin.
K. Rich. Fair Coufin! I am greater than a King:
For when I was a King, my flatterers
Were then but Subjects; being now a Subject,
I have a King here to my flatterer :
Being fo great, I have no need to beg.
Boling. Yet ask.
K. Rich. And fhall I have?
Boling. You fhall.
K. Rich. Then give me leave to go.
Boling. Whither?
K. Rich. Whither you will, fo I were from your fight.
Boling. Go Some of you, convey him to the Tower.
K. Rich. Oh, good! convey:
That rife thus nimbly by a true King's Fall.
Boling. On Wednesday next we folemnly fet 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 fharp 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
Whatever I fhall happen to devife.
I fee, your brows are full of difcontent,
Your hearts of forrow, and your eyes of tears.
Come home with me to fupper, and I'll lay
A Plot, shall fhew us all a merry day.
A Street in LONDON.
Enter Queen, and Ladies.
HIS way the King will come: this is the way
To Julius Cæfar's ill-erected Tow'r;
To whose flint bofom my condemned lord
Is doom'd a prifoner, by proud Bolingbroke.
Here let us reft, if this rebellious earth
Have any Refting for her true King's Queen.
Enter King Richard, and Guards.
But foft, but fee, or rather do not fee,
My fair rofe wither; yet look up; behold,
That you in pity may diffolve to dew,
And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.
O thou, the model where old Troy did ftand,
[To K. Rich. Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb, And not King Richard; thou moft beauteous Inn, Why fhould hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee, When Triumph is become an ale-house Gueft?
K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair Woman, do not fo, To make my End too fudden: learn, good foul, To think our former state a happy dream, From which awak'd, the truth of what we are
Shews us but this. I am fworn brother, Sweet,
To grim Neceffity; and he and I
Will keep a league till death. Hye thee to France,
And cloifter thee in fome Religious Houfe;
Our holy lives must win a new world's Crown,
Which our profane hours here have stricken down.
Queen. What, is my Richard both in fhape and mind
Transform'd and weak? hath Bolingbroke depos'd
Thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart?
The Lion, dying, thrufteth forth his paw,
And wounds the earth, if nothing elfe, with rage
To be o'erpower'd: and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take thy correction mildly, kifs the rod,
And fawn on rage with bafe humility,
Which art a Lion and a King of beasts?
K. Rich. A King of beasts, indeed; if aught but
I had been still a happy King of men.
Good fometime 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 fit 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 fend the hearers weeping to their beds."
For why? the fenfelefs brands will sympathize
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,
And in compaffion weep the fire out:
And fome will mourn in afhes, fome coal-black,
For the depofing of a rightful King.
Enter Northumberland attended.
North. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd: You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.
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