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 women's voices
Strive to fpeak big, and clafp their female joints
In ftiff unwieldy arms, against thy Crown:
Thy very Beadsmen learn to bend their bows
Of double fatal Ewe, against thy State:
Yea, diftaff-women manage rufty bills.
Against thy Seat 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? where is he got? (7)
What is become of Bushy? where is Green?
That they have let the dang'rous enemy
Measure our confines with fuch peaceful steps?

(7) Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?

What is become of Bushy where is Green?] Here are four of them named; and, within a very few Lines, the King, hearing they had made their Peace with Bolingbroke, calls them THREE Judas's. But how was their Peace made? Why, with the Lofs of their Heads. This being explain'd, Aumerle says, Is Bushy, Green, and th' Earl of Wiltshire dead? So that Bagot ought to be left out of the Question: and, indeed, he had made the best of his way for Chester, and from thence had escap'd into Ireland. And so we find him, in the 2d Act, determining to do.

Bagot. No: I'll to Ireland, to his Majesty.

The Poet could not be guilty of fo much Forgetfulness and Abfurdity. The Tranfcribers must have blunder'd. It seems probable to me that He wrote, as I have conje&urally alter'd the Text.

Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is He got ?

i. e. Into what Corner of my Dominions is He flunk, and abfconded?

If

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 redemp

tion!

Dogs, eafily 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'rest 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 lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.

Aum. Is Bufby, Green, and th' Earl of Wiltshire 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
speak:

Let's talk of Graves, of Worms, and Epitaphs,
Make duft our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write forrow on 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;
nd that fmall model of the barren earth,
Which ferves as paste and cover to our bones.
For heav'n's fake, let us fit upon the ground,
And tell fad ftories of the death of Kings:
How fome have been depos'd, fome flain in war:
Some haunted by the Ghofts they difpoffefs'd:
Some poison'd by their wives, fome fleeping kill'd:
All murther'd. For within the hollow Crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a King,
VOL. IV.

C

Keeps

Keeps Death his Court; and there the Antick fits,
Scoffing his State, and grinning at his Pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little fcene,

To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infufing him with felf and vain conceit,
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable: and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the laft, and with a little pin

Bores through his caftle-walls, and farewel King!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With folemn Rev'rence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while :
I live on bread like you, feel want like

you,

Tafte grief, need friends, like you: fubjected thus,
How can you fay to me, I am a King?

Carl. My lord, wife men ne'er wail their prefent

woes,

But presently prevent the ways to wail :

To fear the foe, fince fear oppreffeth ftrength,
Gives, in your weakness, ftrength unto your foe;
And fo your follies fight against your self.

Fear, and be flain; no worfe can come from fight;
And fight and die, is death deftroying death:
Where fearing, dying, pays death fervile breath.
Aum. My father hath a power, enquire of him,
And learn to make a body of a limb.

K. Rich. Thou chid't me well: proud Bolingbroke,
I come

To change blows with thee, for our day of doom;
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown;

An eafie task it is to win our own.

Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his Power?
Speak fweetly, man, although thy looks be fower.
Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the sky
The state and inclination of the day;
So may you, by my dull and heavy eye,
My tongue hath but a heavier tale to fay.
I play the torturer, by fmall and small
To lengthen out the worst, that must be spoken.

Your

Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke,
And all your northern caftles yielded up,
And all your fouthern gentlemen in arms
Upon his faction.

K. Rich. Thou haft faid enough.

Befhrew thee, Coufin, which didst lead me forth

Of that sweet way I was in to Defpair,

[To Aumerle.

What fay you now? what comfort have we now?
By heav'n, I'll hate him everlastingly,
That bids me be of comfort any more.
Go to Flint-caftle, there I'll pine away :
A King, woe's flave, fhall kingly woe obey:
That Pow'r I have, difcharge; and let 'em go
To ear the land, that hath fome hope to grow:
For I have none. Let no man speak again
To alter this, for counfel is but vain.

Aum. My Liege, one word.

K. Rich. He does me double wrong,

That wounds me with the flatt'ries of his tongue.
Discharge my Foll'wers: let them hence, away,
From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day.

[Exeunt.

SCENE, Bolingbroke's Camp, near Flint.

Enter with drum and colours, Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, and Attendants.

Boling. The Welfomen are difpers'd; and Salisbury So

O that by this intelligence we learn,

Is gone to meet the King, who lately landed
With fome few private friends upon this Coast.

North. The news is very fair and good, my lord,
Richard, not far from hence, hath hid his head.
York. It would befeem the lord Northumberland,
To fay, King Richard. Ah, the heavy day,
When fuch a facred King fhould hide his head!
North. Your Grace mistakes me; only to be brief,
Left I his Title out.

C 2

York.

York. The time hath been,

Would you have been fo brief with him, he would
Have been fo brief with You, to shorten you,
For taking fo the Head, the whole Head's Length.
Boling. Miftake not, uncle, farther than you fhould.
York. Take not, good coufin, farther than you should,
Left you mistake, the heav'ns are o'er your head.

Boling. I know it, uncle, nor oppose my self
Against their will. But who comes here?

Enter Percy.

Welcome, Harry; what, will not this castle yield?
Percy. The caftle royally is mann'd, my lord,
Against your entrance.

Boling. Royally? why, it contains no King?
Percy. Yes, my good lord,

It doth contain a King: King Richard lies
Within the limits of yond lime and stone;
And with him lord Aumerle, lord Salisbury,
Sir Stephen Scroop, befides a clergy man.
Of holy reverence: who, I cannot learn.
North. Belike, it is the bishop of Carlisle.
Boling. Noble lord,

[To North.

Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle,
Through brazen trumpet fend the breath of Parle
Into his ruin'd ears, and thus deliver:

Henry of Bolingbroke upon his knees

Doth kifs King Richard's hand, and fends allegiance
And faith of heart unto his royal person:
Ev'n at his feet I lay my arms and pow'r,
Provided, that my banishment repeal'd,
And lands reftor'd again, be freely granted:
If not, I'll use th' advantage of my pow'r,
And lay the fummer's duft with show'rs of blood,
Rain'd from the wounds of flaughter'd Englishmen.
The which, how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke
It is, fuch crimson tempeft fhould bedrench
The fresh green lap of fair King Richard's Land,
My ftooping duty tenderly fhall fhew.

Go fignifie as much, while here we march

Upon