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Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilft we were wand'ring with the Antipodes,
Shall fee us rifing in our Throne, the east;
His treafons will fit blufhing in his face,
Not able to endure the fight of day;
But, felf-affrighted, tremble at his fin,
Not all the water in the rough rude fea
Can wash the balm from an anointed King;
The breath of worldly men cannot depofe
The Deputy elected by the Lord.
For every man that Bolingbroke hath prest,
To lift fharp fteel against our golden Crown,
Heav'n for his Richard hath in heav'nly Pay
A glorious Angel; then if angels fight,

Weak men must fall, for heav'n ftill guards the Right.

SCENE III.

Enter Salisbury.

Welcome, my lord, how far off lies your Power?
Salif. Nor near, nor further off, my gracious lord,
Than this weak arm: Difcomfort guides my tongue,
And bids me speak of nothing but Despair:
One day too late, I fear, my noble lord,
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.
Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou shalt have twelve thoufand fighting men.
To day, to day, -unhappy day, too late
O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state.
For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, difperft and fled.

"The breath of worldly men.] Here is the doctrine of indefeafible right expreffed in the ftrongest terms; but our poet did not learn it in the reign of King James, to which it is now the practice of

all writers, whofe opinions are regulated by fashion or interest, to impute the original of every tenet which they have been taught to think falfe or foolish.

Аит.

Aum. Comfort, my Liege, why looks your Grace fo pale?

K. Rich. But now the blood of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face, and they are fled, And till fo much blood thither come again,,

Have I not reafon to look pale, and dead? All fouls, that will be fafe, fly from my fide; For time hath set a blot upon my pride,

Aum. Comfort, my Liege; remember, who you are. K. Rich. I had forgot myfelf. Am I not King? Awake, thou coward Majefty, thou fleepest; Is not the King's name forty thousand names? Arm, arm, my Name; a puny Subject strikes At thy great glory. Look not to the ground, Ye fav'rites of a King, are we not high? High be our thoughts. I know, my uncle York Hath pow'r to ferve our turn. But who comes here?

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Scroop. More health and happiness betide my Liege, Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him!

K. Rich. 'Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar'd. The worst is worldly lofs thou canft unfold. Say, is my Kingdom loft? why, 'twas my care, And what lofs is it, to be rid of care? Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we? Greater he shall not be; if he ferve God, We'll ferve him too, and be his fellow fo. Revolt our Subjects? that we cannot mend;

7 Mine ear is open,] It feems to be the defign of the poet to raife Richard to efteem in his fall, and confequently to intereft the reader in his favour. He gives him only paffive fortitude,

E 4

the virtue of a confeffor rather than of a king. In his profperity we faw him imperious and oppreffive, but in his diftrefs he is wife, Įatient, and pious.

They

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They break their faith to God, as well as us.
Cry, Woe, Destruction, Ruin, Lofs, Decay;
The worst is death, and death will have his day.
Scroop. Glad am I, that your Highness is so arm'd
To bear the tidings of calamity.

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 steel, and hearts more hard than steel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairlefs fcalps
Against thy Majefty; boys with women's voices
Strive to speak big, and clafp their female joints
In ftiff unwieldy arms, against thy Crown.

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Thy very Beadfmen learn to bend their bows
"Of double-fatal Ewe, against thy State.
Yea, diftaff-women manage rusty 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 Bagot?

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What is become of Bufby? where is Green?
That they have let the dang'rous enemy
Measure our confines with fuch peaceful steps?
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 redemption !

Dogs, eafily won to fawn on any man!

Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that fting my heart! Three Judaffes, each one thrice worle 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
curse,

Have felt the worst of death's destroying hand,
And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow'd 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?

Why, with the Lofs of their Heads. This being explained, Aumerle fays, Is Bufhy, Green, and th Earl of Wiltshire dead? So that Bagot ought to be left out of the Queftion: and, indeed, he had made the best of his way for Chefter, and from thence had efcap'd into Ireland. And fo we find him, in the zd Act, determining to do.

Bagot. No: I'll to Ireland, to bis Majefty. The Poet could not be guilty of fo much Forgetfulness and Ab: furdity. The Tranfcribers must

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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;
And that fmall model of the barren earth,
3 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 Ghosts they difpoffefs'd;
Some poifon'd by their wives, fome fleeping kill'd;
All murther'd.-For within the hollow Crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a King,

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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 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 brafs impregnable; and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin

Bores through his caftle-walls, and farewel King!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood

And that small model of the barren earth.] He uses model here, as he frequently does elsewhere, for part, portion.

WARBURTON. He uses it rather for mould. That earth, which clofing upon the body, takes its form. This interpretation the next line feems

to authorise.

3 A metaphor, not of the moft fublime kind, taken from a pie.

4 There the Antick fits.] Here is an allufion to the antick or fool of old farces, whofe chief part is to deride and disturb the graver and more fplendid perfonages.

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