A CT III. SCENE, Bolingbroke's Camp at Bristol. Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Rofs, Percy, Willoughby, with Buthy and Green Prisoners. BOLINGBROKE. RING forth these men. B Buby and Green, I will not vex your fouls (Since presently your fouls muft part your bodies) And ftain'd the Beauty of a fair Queen's cheeks This, and much more, much more than twice all this, Con Condemns you to the death. See them deliver'd Bushy. More welcome is the ftroak of death to me, Than Bolingbroke to England. Lords, farewel. 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 difpatch'd. Uncle, you fay the Queen is at your house; For heav'n's fake, fairly let her be intreated; Tell her, I fend to her my kind Commends ; Take fpecial 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; (6) A while to Work; and, after, Holy-day. (6) Thanks, gentle Uncle; Come, my Lords, away, To fight with Glendower and his Complices, [Exeunt. A while to Work, and after Holyday.] Tho' the intermediate Line has taken Poffeffion of all the old Copies, I have great Sufpicion of its being an Interpolation; and have therefore ventur'd to throw it out. The first and third Line rhyme to each other; nor, do I imagine, This was cafual, but inten ded by the Poet. Were we to acknowledge the Line genuine, it muft argue the Poet of Forgetfulness in his own Plan; and Inattention to Hiftory, of which he was most observant. Bolingbroke is, as it were, yet but juft arriv'd; He is now at Bristol; weak in his Numbers; has had no Meeting with a Parliament; nor is fo far affur'd of the Succeffion, as to think of going to fupprefs Infurrections before he is planted in the Throne. Befides, we find, the Oppofition of Glendower begins the First Part of K. Henry IV; and Mortimer's Defeat by that hardy Welshman is the Tidings of the firft Scene of that Play. Again, tho' Glendower, in the very firft Year of K. Henry IV, began to be troublesome, put in for the Supremacy of Wales, and imprison'd Mortimer; yet it was not till the fucceeding Year, that the King employ'd any Force against him SCENE SCENE changes to the Coaft of Wales. Flourish: Drums and Trumpets. Enter King Richard, Aumerle, Bishop of Carlisle, and Soldiers. K. Rich. Aum. Yea, my good lord; how brooks your Grace the air, for joy After your toffing on the breaking Seas? Plays fondly with her tears, and fmiles in meeting; Shall faulter under foul rebellious arms. Bibop. Fear not, my lord; that Pow'r, that made you King, Hath pow'r to keep you King, in fpight of all. And And we would not heav'n's offer, we refufe Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remifs; Grows ftrong and great, in fubftance and in power. For every man that Bolingbroke hath preft, Weak men must fall, for heav'n still guards the Right. Welcome, my lord, how far off lies your Power? Oh, Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return, Aum. Comfort, 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. And till fo much blood thither come again, Have I not reafon to look pale, and dead? 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? Arm, arm, my Name; a puny Subject strikes 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 ferve our turn. But who comes here? 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'd: The worst is worldly loss 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 shall not be; if he ferve God, We'll ferve him too, and be his fellow fo. Revolt our Subjects? that we cannot mend ; They break their faith to God, as well as us. Cry, Woe, Destruction, Ruin, Lofs, Decay; The worst is death, and death will have his day. Scroop. Glad am I, that your Highness is fo arm'd To bear the tidings of calamity. |