And, Madam, there is order ta'en for you: And he fhall think, that thou, which know'it the way To pluck him headlong from th' ufurped Throne. North. My guilt be on my head, and there's an end! [To the Queen And yet not fo, for with a kifs 'twas made. Part us, Northumberland: I, towards the North, Where fhiv'ring cold and fickness pines the clime: My Queen to France; from whence, fet forth in pomp, She came adorned hither like fweet May; Sent back like Hollowmas, or fhortest day. Queen. And must we be divided? must we part? K. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my Love, and heart from heart. Queen. Banifh us both, and fend the King with me, Weep Weep thou for me in France; I for thee here: ; And piece the way out with a heavy heart. To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart. [Kifs again. That I may strive to kill it with a groan. K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay: Once more, adieu; the reft let forrow fay. Dutch. [Exeunt. The Duke of YORK's Palace. MY Y lord, you told me, you would tell the When Weeping made you break the story off, Dutch. At that fad ftop, my lord, Where rude mif-govern'd hands, from window-tops, Threw duft and rubbish on King Richard's head. York. Then, as I faid, the Duke, great Bolingbroke, • Mounted upon a hot and fiery fteed, • Which his afpiring Rider feem'd to know, • With flow, but ftately pace, kept on his course : • While all tongues cry'd, God fave thee, Bolingbroke! • You 'You wou'd have thought, the very windows fpake, 'So many greedy looks of young and old Through cafements darted their defiring eyes & Upon his visage; and that all the walls • With painted imag'ry had faid at once, Jefu, preferve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke! Whilft he, from one fide to the other turning, Bare-headed, lower than his proud fteed's neck, Bespoke them thus, I thank you, Country-men; And thus ftill doing, thus he past along.' Dutch. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while? York. As in a Theatre, the eyes of men, 'After a well-grac'd Actor leaves the Stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, 'Thinking his prattle to be tedious: Even fo, or with much more contempt, men's eyes 'Did fcowl on Richard; no man cry'd, God fave him! 'No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home; 'But duft was thrown upon his facred head; 'Which with fuch gentle forrow he fhook off, His face ftill combating with tears and smiles, 'The badges of his grief and patience; • That had not God, for fome ftrong purpose, steel'd 'The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted; 'And barbarifm it felf have pitied him.'. But heaven hath a hand in thefe events, To whofe high will we bound our calm contents. S C E N E IV. Enter Aumerle. Dutch Here comes my fon Aumerle. York. Aumerle that was, But that is loft, for being Richard's Friend. And, Madam, you must call him Rutland now: I am in parliament pledge for his truth, Dutch. Welcome, my fon; who are the Violets now, That ftrew the green lap of the new-come fpring? Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care: God knows, I had as lief be none, as one. Tork. Well, bear you well in this new Spring of time, Left you be cropt before you come to Prime. What news from Oxford? hold thofe Jufts and Triumphs? Aum. For aught I know, they do. Tork. You will be there? Aum. If God prevent me not, I purpose fo York. What Seal is that, which hangs without thy Yea, look'ft thou pale? let me fee the Writing. York. No matter then who fees it. Aum. I do befeech your Grace to pardon me, Which for fome reafons I would not have feen. Dutch. What should you fear, my lord? 'Tis nothing but fome bond he's enter'd into, For gay apparel, against the triumph. York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond, That he is bound to? wife, thou art a fool. Boy, let me fee the Writing. [fhew it. Aum. I do befeech you, pardon me; I may not York. I will be fatisfied, let me fee it, I fay. [Snatches it and reads. Treafon! foul treafon! villain, traitor, flave! Dutch. What's the matter, my lord? York. Hoa, who's within there? faddle my horse. Heav'n, for his mercy! what treachery is here? Dutch. Dutch. Why, what is't, my lord? York. Give me my boots, I fay: faddle my horfe. Now by my honour, by my life, my troth, I will appeach the villain. Dutch. What is the matter? York. Peace, foolish woman. Dutch. I will not Peace: what is the matter, fon? Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more Than my poor life must answer. Dutch. Thy life answer! SCENE V. Enter Servant with boots. York. Bring me my boots. I will unto the King. Dutch. Strike him, Aumerle. (Poor boy, thou art amaz'd.) Hence, villain, never more come in my fight. [Speaking to the Servant. York. Give me my boots. Wilt thou conceal this dark Confpiracy? A dozen of them here have ta'en the Sacrament, To kill the King at Oxford. Dutch. He fhall be none: We'll keep him here; then what is that to him? York. Away, fond woman were he twenty times My fon, I would appeach him." Dutch. Hadft thou groan'd for him, As I have done, thou'dft be more pitiful: G But |