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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 ashes, fome coal-black,
For the depofing of a rightful king.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, and others.

Noth. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd;
You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.-
And, madam, there is order ta'en for you;
With all swift speed you must away to France.
K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke afcends my throne,-
The time fhall not be many hours of age
More than it is, ere foul fin, gathering 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;

He shall think, that thou, which knoweft the way
To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,
Being ne'er fo little urg'd, another way
To pluck him headlong from the ufurped throne.
The love of wicked friends converts' to fear;
That fear to hate; and hate turns one, or both,
To worthy danger, and deferved death.

North. My guilt be on my head, and there an end.
Take leave, and part; for you must forthwith.
part
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;
And yet not fo, for with a kifs 'twas made.-

1- to quit their grief,] To retaliate their mournful ftories. JoENSON. 3 For why,-] The poet fhould have ended this fpeech with the foregoing line, and have spared his childish prattle about the fire.

G4

JOHNSON.
Part

Part us, Northumberland; I towards the north,
Where shivering cold and fickness pines the clime;
My wife to France; from whence set forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither like sweet May,

Sent back like Hallowmas 9, or fhort'ft of day.

Queen. And must we be divided? must 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 some 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'2. Go, count thy way with fighs: I mine with groans. Queen. So longeft way fhall have the longest moans. K. Rich. Twice for one ftep 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 kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part;
Thus give I mine, and thus I take thy heart. [They kifs.
Queen. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good part,
To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart 3. [Kifs again.
So, now I have mine own again, begone,

That I may ftrive to kill it with a groan.

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

[Exeunt.

9- - Hallowmas,] All-ballows, or all-ballowtide; the first of November.

STEEVENS.

1 That were fome love, &c.] The quartos give this fpeech to the king.

STEEVENS.

2 Better far off, than-near, be ne'er the near'.] To be never the nigber, or, as it is commonly fpoken in the mid-land counties, ne'er the ne-er, is, to make no advance towards the good defired. JOHNSON.

The meaning is, it is better to be at a great diftance, than being near each other, to find that we yet are not likely to be peaceably and hap pily united. MALONE.

3

and kill thy heart.] So in our author's Venus and Adonis :
"they have murder'd this poor beart of mine." MALONE.
SCENE

SCENE II.

The fame. A Room in the Duke of York's Palace.
Enter YORK and his Dutchefs.

Dutch. My lord, you told me, you would tell the rest,
When weeping made you break the ftory off
Of our two coufins coming into London.

York. Where did I leave?

Dutch. At that fad ftop, my lord,

Where rude misgovern'd hands, from windows' 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 fteed,

Which his afpiring rider feem'd to know,

With flow, but ftately pace, kept on his course,
While all tongues cry'd-God fave thee, Bolingbroke!
You would 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 4,-
Jefu, preferve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilft he, from one fide to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Befpake them thus,-I thank you, countrymen :
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,

4 With painted imagery, bad fail at once,] Our authour probably was thinking of the painted clothes that were hung in the streets, in the pageants exhibited in his own time; in which the figures fometimes had -labels iffuing from their mouths, containing fentences of gratulation.

MALONE.

5 Are idly bent-] That is, carelefly turned, thrown without at. tention. This the poet learned by his attendance and practice on the ftage. JOHNSON.

Thinking

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 save him;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But duft was thrown upon his facred head;
Which with fuch gentle forrow he fhook off,-
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,—

That had not God, for fome ftrong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself 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 fubjects now,

Whose state and honour I for aye allow.

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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 spring??

Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not;

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, my lord, they do.

• Aumerle that was ;] The dukes of Aumerle, Surrey, and Exeter, were by an act of Henry's firft parliament deprived of their dukedoms, but were allowed to retain their earldoms of Rutland, Kent, and Huntingdon. Holinfhed, p. 513, 514. STEEVENS.

7 That firew the green lap of the new-come Spring ?] So Milton in one of his fongs:

8

66

-who from her green lap throws

"The yellow cowflip and the pale primrofe." STEEVENS. -bear you well-] That is, conduct yourself with prudence.

JOHNSON.
York.

York. You will be there, I know.

Aum. If God prevent it not; I purpose so.

York. What feal is that, that hangs without thy bofom è 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 fatisfy'd, let me fee the writing.
Aum. I do befech your grace to pardon me ;
It is a matter of small confequence,

Which for fome reasons I would not have seen.
York. Which for some reasons, fir, I mean to fee.
I fear, I fear,-

Dutch. What should you fear?

'Tis nothing but fome bond, that he is enter'd into For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day'.

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 treafon !-villain, traitor! flave!

Dutch. What is the matter, my lord?

York. Ho! who is within there? [Enter a fervant.] Saddle my horse.

God for his mercy! what treachery is here!

Dutch. Why, what is it, my lord?

York. Give me my boots, I fay; saddle my horse :Now by mine honour, by my life, my troth,

I will appeach the villain.

Dutch. What's the matter?
York. Peace, foolish woman.

[Exit Jervant.

Dutch. I will not peace :-What is the matter, fon?

9 Yea, look'ft thou pale? let me see the writing.] Such harsh and defective lines as this, are probably corrupt, and might be eafily fupplied, but that it would be dangerous to let conjecture loose on such flight occafions. JOHNSON.

Perhaps Shakspeare wrote-Boy, let me fee the writing. York ufes thefe words a little lower. MALONE.

gainst the triumph day.] See Vol. II. p. 442, n. 4. MALONE.

Aum.

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