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Like an unseasonable stormy day,
Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,
As if the world were all diffolv'd to tears ;
So high above his limits swells the

rage
Of Boling broke, cov’ring your fearful Land
With hard bright steel, and hearts more hard than steel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps
Againft thy Majesty ; boys with women's voices
Strive to speak big, and clasp their female joints
In fiff unwieldy arms, against thy Crown:
Thy very Beadlmen learn to bend their bows
Of double fatal Ewe, against thy State :
Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills.
Against thy Seat both young and old rebel,

А And all

goes

worse than I have pow'r to tell. K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'ít a Tale

so ill. Where is the Earl of Wiltfhire? where is he got? (7)

A What is become of Busby? where is Green? That they have let the dang'rous enemy Measure our confines with such 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, M hearing they had made their Peace with Bolingbroke, calls them

W THREE Judas's. But how was their Peace made? Why, with the Loss of their Heads. This being explain'd, Aumerle says, Is Bushy, Green, and th' Earl of Wiltshire dead? So that Bagot

A ought io be left out of the Question: and, indeed, he has fa made the best of his way for Chester, and from thence had escap'd 0 into Ireland. And so we find him, in the ad Ad, determining A

Bagot. No: I'll to Ireland, to his Majesty. The Poet could not be guilty of so much Forgetfuloess and i Absurdity. The Transcribers 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 Wil thirc? where is He got? j. 6. Into what Corner of my Dominions is He jonk, and abe fconded ?

to do.

H Sc Sc

If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.
I warrant, they've made peace with Boling broke.
Scroop. Peace they have made with him, indeed, my

lord. K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemp1.

tion !
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!
Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that fting my heart !
Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas !
Would they make peace ? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted souls for this offence !

Scroop. Sweet love, I fee, changing his property,
Turns to the sow'rest and most deadly hate :
Again uncurse their souls ; their

peace

is made With heads, and not with hands: those, whom

you
curse,
Have felt the worst of death's destroying hand,
And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.

Aum. Is Busby, 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 :
all Let's talk of Graves, of Worms, and Epitaphs,
#ng! Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
nem Write forrow on the bosom of the earth!
ith Let's chuse executors, and talk of wills ;
av And yet not so for what can we bequeath,

Cave our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Boling broke's,
And nothing can we call our own, but death ;
ind that small model of the barren earth,

Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
and For heav'n's fake, let us fit upon the ground,
ems And tell fad stories of the death of Kings :
er'd How some have been depos’d, fome slain in war :

Some haunted by the Ghosts they dispoffefs'd:
Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd:
All murther'd. For within the hollow Crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a King,
Vol. IV.

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Keeps Death his Court; and there the Antick fits,
Scoffing his State, and grinning at his Pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks ;
Infusing 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 last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle-walls, and farewel King !
Cover your heads, and mock not fesh 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 : subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a King ?
Carl. My lord, wise men ne'er wail their present

woes,
But presently prevent the ways to wail :
To fear the foe, fince fear oppresseth strength,
Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe ;
And so your follies fight against your self.
Fear, and be slain ; no worse can come from fight;
And fight and die, is death destroying death :
Where fearing, dying, pays death servile breath.

Aum. My father hath a power, enquire of him,
And learn to make a body of a limb.
K, Rich. Thou chid'it me well : proud Boling broke,

I come
To change blows with thee, for our day of doom ;
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown;
An easie task it is to win our own.
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his Power ?
Speak sweetly, 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 lay.
I play the torturer, by small and small
To lengthen out the worst, that must be spoken.

Your

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

K. Rich. Thou haft said enough.
Beshrew thee, Cousin, which didît lead me forth

[To Aumerle.
Of that sweet way I was in to Despair,
What say 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, shall kingly woe obey :
That Pow'r I have, discharge; and let 'em go
To ear the land, that hath some hope to grow :
For I have none. Let no man speak again
To alter this, for counsel 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 Boling broke's fair day.

[ Exeunt. SCENE, Bolingbroke's Camp, near Flint.

Enter with drum and colours, Bolingbroke, York,

Northumberland, and Attendants.

O by this
Is gone to meet the King, who lately landed
With some 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 beseem the lord Northumberland,
To say, King Richard: Ah, the heavy day,
When such a sacred King should 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 so brief with him, he would
Have been so brief with You, to shorten you,
For taking fo the Head, the whole Head's Length.

Boling. Miftake not, uncle, farther than you should.

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 castle 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, besides 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 send the breath of Parle
Into his ruin'd ears, and thus deliver:
Henry of Boling broke upon his knees
Doth kiss King Richard's hand, and sends 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 repeald,
And lands restor'd again, be freely granted :
If not, I'll use th’advantage of my pow'r,
And lay the summer's duft with show'ss of blood,
Rain'd from the wounds of slaughter'd Englishmen.
The which, how far off from the mind of Boling broke
It is, such crimson tempeit should bedrench
The fresh green lap of fair King Richard's Land,
My stooping duty tenderly shall

shew.
Go fignifie as much, while here we march

Upon

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