K. Rich. Twice for one step I'll groan, the way being
fhort,

And piece the way out with a heavy heart.
Come, come, in wooing forrow let's be brief;
Since, wedding it, there is fuch length in grief:
One kifs fhall stop our mouths, and dumbly part;
Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. [They kifs.
Queen. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good
part,
To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart. [Kifs again.
So, now I have mine own again, be gone,

That I may ftrive to kill it with a groan.

K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay: Once more, adieu; the rest let forrow say.

[Exeunt.

SCENE, the Duke of York's Palace.

Enter York, and his Dutchess.

Dutch. My lord, you told me, you would tell the

reft,

When Weeping made you break the story off,
Of our two Coufins coming into London.
York. Where did I leave?

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 steed,

Which his afpiring Rider feem'd to know,
With flow, but ftately pace, kept on his courfe:
While all tongues cry'd, God fave thee, Bolingbroke !
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 vifage; 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 steed's neck,
VOL. IV.
D

Be

Bespoke them thus; I thank you, Country-men;
And thus ftill doing, thus he paft 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 shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience;

That had not God, for fome strong purpose, fteel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted;
And barbarism it self have pitied him.

But heaven hath a hand in these events,

To whofe high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we fworn Subjects now,
Whofe State, and Honour, I for aye allow..

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,

And lafting fealty to the new-made King.

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.

York. Well, bear you well in this new Spring of time,

Left you be cropt before you come to Prime.

What news from Oxford? hold those Jufts and Triumphs? Aum. For aught I know, they do.

York. You will be there?

Aum. If God prevent me not, I purpose fo.

York.

York. What Seal is that, which hangs without thy bo

fom?

Yea, look'ft thou pale? let me fee the Writing.

Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.

York. No matter then who fees it.
I will be fatisfied, let me fee the Writing.
Aum. I do befeech your Grace to pardon me,
It is a matter of fmall confequence,

Which for fome reafons I would not have seen.
York. Which, for fome reasons, Sir, I mean to fee.
I fear, I fear

Dutch. What fhould 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.

Aum. I do befeech you, pardon me; I may not

fhew it.

York. I will be fatisfied, let me fee it, I fay.

[Snatches it and reads. Treafon! foul treason ! 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. Why, what is't, my lord?

York. Give me my boots, I fay: faddle my horse. 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 !

Enter Servant with boots.

York. Bring me my boots. I will unto the King. Dutch. Strike him, Aumerle. (Poor boy, thou art

amaz'd.)

D 2

Hence,

Hence, villain, never more come in my fight.

York. Give me my boots.

[Speaking to the Servant.

Dutch. Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trefpafs of thine own?
Have we more fons? or are we like to have ?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair fon from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?

Is he not like thee

is he not thine own?

York. Thou fond mad-woman,

Wilt thou conceal this dark Confpiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the Sacrament,
And interchangeably have fet their hands,
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'dit be more pitiful :
But now I know thy mind; thou doft fufpect,
That I have been difloyal to thy bed,

And that he is a baftard, not thy fon:

Sweet York, fweet husband, be not of that mind :
He is as like thee as a man may be,

Nor like to me, nor any of my kin,

And yet I love him..

York. Make way, unruly woman.

[Exit.

Dutch. After, Aumerle; mount thee upon his horse;

Spur poft, and get before him to the King,

And beg thy pardon, ere he do accufe thee.
I'll not be long behind; though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:
And never will I rife up from the ground,

'Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away. [Exeunt.

SCENE

-(10) SCENE changes to the Court at Windfor

Caftle.

Enter Bolingbroke, Percy, and other Lords.

AN no man tell of my unthrifty fon?.

Boling CA

'Tis full three months, fince I did fee him laft. If any plague hang over us, 'tis he:

I would to heav'n, my lords, he might be found.
Enquire at London, 'mong the taverns there:
For there, they fay, he daily doth frequent,
With unrestrained loose Companions:

Even fuch, they fay, as stand in narrow lanes,
And beat our watch, and rob our paffengers:
While he, young, wanton, and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour, to fupport
So diffolute a Crew.

Percy. My lord, fome two days fince I faw the
Prince,

And told him of thefe Triumphs held at Oxford.
Boling. And what faid the Gallant ?

Percy. His answer was, he would unto the Stews,
And from the common'ft Creature pluck a glove
And wear it as a favour, and with that

He would unhorfe the luftieft Challenger.

Boling. As diffolute, as defp'rate; yet through both

(10) Scene changes to Oxford.] This Diftinction of Scenary, which is mark'd in none of the former Copies, we owe to the happy Efforts of Mr. Pope in his Editions. But Indolence and Industry work the fame Effects upon this Gentleman in his Discoveries, and are both the Parents of Error. 'Tis true, the Turnaments, prepar'd for the Destruction of Bolingbroke, were appointed at Oxford, and thither Bolingbroke was invited by the Confpirators. But the Plot was discover'd early enough to prevent his fetting out for Oxford; and the Duke of Tork impeach'd his Son to him, and Aumerle likewife accus'd himself, at the Caftle of Windfer, where Bolingbroke then refided, as Mr. Pope might have feen in our English Chronicles: and therefore thither I have remov'd the Scene,