K. Rich. No lord of thine, thou haught-infulting

man;

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 meit my felf away in water-drops!

Good King,great King, (and yet not greatly good,)
An if my word be fterling yet in England, [To Boling.
Let it command a mirror hither ftreight,

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 glafs.
North. Read o'er this paper, while the glafs doth

come.

K. Rich. Fiend, thou torment'ft me, ere I come to hell.

Boling. Urge it no more, my lord Northumberland. North. The Commons will not then be fatisfy'd.

K. Rich. They thall 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 Glafs, 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;

[Dashes the Glafs against the Ground.

As

1

As brittle, as the glory, is the face;

For there it is, crackt in an hundred fhivers,
Mark, filent King, the Moral of this sport;
How foon my forrow hath deftroy'd my face.
Boling. The fhadow of your forrow hath deftroy'd
The fhadow of your face.

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'st
Me caufe to wail, but teacheft 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:

you all,

- Conveyers are

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 sharp to them as thorn.

Aum.

Aum. You holy Clergy-men, is there no Plot
To rid the Realm of this pernicious blot?

Abbot. Before I freely fpeak my mind herein,
You fhall 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 discontent,
Your hearts of forrow, and your eyes of tears.
Come home with me to fupper, and I'll lay
A Plot, fhall fhew us all a merry day.

AC TV.

[Exeunt.

SCENE, a Street in LONDON.
Enter Queen, and Ladies.

T

QUEEN.

HIS way the King will come: this is the way
To Julius Cæfar's ill-erected Tow'r ;

To whofe flint bofom my condemned lord
Is doom'd a prifoner, by proud Bolingbroke.
Here let us reft, if this rebellious earth
Have any Resting 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 stand,

[To K. Rich.
Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb,
And not King Richard; thou most beauteous Inn,
Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee,
When Triumph is become an ale-houle Guest ?

K. Rich.

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 House; Our holy lives muft win a new world's Crown, Which our profane hours here have stricken down. Queen. What, is my Richard both in shape 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 else, with rage To be o'erpow'r'd: and wilt thou, pupil-like, Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod, And fawn on rage with bafe humility, Which art a Lion and a King of beafts?

K. Rich. A King of beafts, indeed; if aught but beafts,

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 laft 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 fympathize
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.

And,

1

And, Madam, there is order ta'en for you:
With all swift fpeed, you must away to France.

K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke afcends my Throne,
The time shall not be many hours of age

More than it is, ere foul fin, gath'ring head,

Shall break into corruption; thou shalt think,
Though he divide the Realm, and give thee half,
It is too little, helping him to all :

And he shall think, that thou, which know'ft the way
To plant unrightful Kings, wilt know again,
Being ne'er fo little urg'd, another way

To pluck him headlong from th' ufurped Throne.
The love of wicked friends converts to fear;
That fear to hate; and hate turns one, or both,
To worthy danger, and deserved death.

North. My guilt be on my head, and there's an end! Take leave and part, for you must part

forthwith.
K. Rich. Doubly divorc'd? Bad men, ye violate
A two-fold marriage; 'twixt my crown and me:
And then betwixt me and my married wife.
Let me unkifs the oath 'twixt thee and me:

[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 sweet May ;

Sent back like Hollowmas, or shortest day.

Queen. And muft we be divided ? muft we part?
K. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my Love, and heart
from heart.

Queen. Banish us both, and fend the King with me.
North. That were fome Love, but little Policy.
Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go.
K. Rich. So two together weeping, make one woe.
Weep thou for me in France; I for thee here:
Better far off; than near, be ne'er the near.
Go, count thy way with fighs, I mine with groans:
Queen. So longest way fhall have the longest moans.

K. Rich.