Heav'n for his Richard hath in heav'nly Pay

A glorious Angel; then if Angels fight,

Weak Men muft fall, for Heav'n ftill guards the Right.
Enter Salisbury.

Welcome, my Lord, how far off lyes your Power?
Salis. Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious Lord,
Than this weak Arm; Discomfort guides my Tongue,
And bids me fpeak of nothing but Despair:
One Day too late, I fear, my noble Lord,
Hath clouded all my happy Days on Earth.
Oh call back Yesterday, bid Time return,
And thou shalt have twelve thousand 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 Bullingbroke, difperft and fled.

Aum. Comfort, my Liege; why looks your Grace fo pale? K. Rich. But now the Blood of twenty thoufand 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 Souls that will be fafe, fly from my Side,
For Time hath fet a Blot upon my Pride.

Aum. Comfort, my Liege, remember who you are.
K. Rich. I had forgot my felf: Am I not King?
Awake thou fluggard Majefty, thou sleepest:
Is not the King's Name, forty thousand Names ?
Arm, arm my Name; a puny Subje& ftrikes
At thy great Glory. Look not to the Ground,
Ye Favourites of a King; are we not high?
High be our Thoughts: I know my Uncle York
Hath Power enough to ferve our Turn.
But who comes here?

Enter Scroop.

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 canst unfold:
Say, is my Kingdom loft? Why 'twas my Care:
And what lofs is it to be rid of Care?

Strives Bullingbroke to be as great as we?

Greater

Greater he shall not be; if he ferve God,
We'll ferve him too, and be his Fellow fo.
Revolt our Subje&s? That we cannot mend;
They break their Faith to God as well as us:
Cry Wo, Destruction, Ruin, Lofs, Decay;
The worst is Death, and Death will have his Day.
Scroop. Glad am I, that your Highness is fo arm'd
To bear the Tidings of Calamity.

Like an unfeasonable stormy Day,

Which makes the filver Rivers drown their Shores,
As if the World were all diffolv'd to Tears:
So high above his Limits, fwells the Rage
Of Bullingbroke, covering your fearful Land
With hard bright Steel, and Hearts harder than Steel.
White Beans have arm'd their thin and hairless Sealps
Against thy Majefty, and Boys with Womens Voices,
Strive to fpeak big, and clap their female Joints
In ftiff unweildy Arms, against thy Crown;
The very Beadímen learn to bend their Bows
O double fatal Ewe, against thy State;
Yea diftaff-Women manage rufty Bills;
Against thy Seat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worfe than I have Power to tell.

K. Rich. Too well, too well thou tell'ft a Tale fo ill.
Where is the Eatl of Wilt fhire? Where is Baget?
What is become of Bushy? Where is Green?
That they have let the dangerous Enemy
Measure our Confines with fuch peaceful Steps?
If we prevail, their Hands fhall pay for it.

I warrant they have made Peace with Bullingbroke.

Scroop. Peace they have made with him, indeed, my Lord. K. Rich. Oh Villains, Vipers, damn'd without Redemption, Dogs, eafily wop to fawn on any Man,

Snakes in my Heart-blood warm'd, that fting my Heart,
Three Judaffes, each one thrice worfe 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 fowreft, and moft deadly Hate:
Again uncurfe their Souls; their Peace is made
With Heads, and not with Hands: Thofe whom

you

curfe

Have felt the worst of Death's deftroying Hand,
And lye full low, grav'd in the hollow Ground.
Aum. Is Busby, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?
Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristow loft their Heads.
Aum. Where is the Duke, my Father, with his Power?
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 Sorrow in 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 Bullingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own; but Death,
And that fmall Model of the barren Earth,
Which ferves as Pafte, and cover to our Bones :
For Heav'ns fake let us fit upon the Ground,
And tell fad Stories of the Death of Kings:
How fome have been depos'd, fome flain in War;
Some haunted by the Ghosts they have depos'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.
Keeps Death his Court, and there the Antique 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,
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 laft, and with a little Pin

Boars through his Caftle Walls, and farewel King.
Cover your Heads, and mock not Flesh and Blood
With folemn Reverence: Throw away Refpect,
Tradition, Form, and ceremonious Duty,
For you have but miftook me all this while:
I live with Bread like you, feel Want,
Tafte Grief, need Friends; fubje&ed thus,
How can you say to me, I am a King ?

Carl. My Lord, wife Men ne'er wail their prefent Woes, But prefently prevent the Ways to wail:

VOL. III.

I

To

To fear the Foe, fince Fear oppreffeth Strength,
Gives in your Weakness, Strength unto your Foe;
Fear, and be flain, no worfe can come to fight,
And fight and die, is Death destroying Death.
Where fearing, dying, pays Death fervile Breath.
My Father hath a Power, enquire of him,

And learn to make a Body of a Limb.

K. Rich. Thou chid'ft me well: Proud Bullingbroke, I come To change Blows with thee, for our Day of Doom;

This Ague-fit of Fear is over-blown,

An eafie Task it is to win our own.

Say, Scroop, where lyes our Uncle with his Power?
Speak fweetly 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 fay:
I play the Torturer, by fmall and fmall-
To lengthen out the worft, that must be spoken.
Your Uncle York is join'd to Bullingbroke,
And all your northern Caftles yielded up,
And all your fouthern Gentlemen in Arms
Upon his Faction.

K. Rich. Thou haft faid enough.

Befhrew thee, Coufin, which didft lead me forth
Of that fweet way I was in to Despair.

What fay you now? what Comfort have we now?
By Heav'n I'll hate him everlaftingly

That bids me be of comfort any more.
Go to Flint-Castle, there I'll pine away,
A King, Wo's Slave, fhall kingly Wo obey :
That Power I have, difcharge, and let 'em go
To ear the Land, that hath fome Hope to grow.
For I have none. Let no Man fpeak again
To alter this, for Counsel is but in vain.
Aum. My Liege, one Word.

K. Rich. He does me double Wrong,
That wounds me with the Flatteries of his Tongue
Difcharge my Followers: let them hence away,
From Richard's Night, to Ballingbroke's fair Day.

[Exeunt. SCENE

Enter with Drum and Colours, Bullingbroke, York, Northumberland, and Attendants.

Bulling. So that by this Intelligence we learn
The Welchmen are difpers'd, and Salisbury
Is gone to meet the King, who lately landed
With fome few private Friends upon this Coaft.
"North. The News is very fair and good, my Lord,
Richard not far from hence, hath hid his Head.
Tork. It would befeem the Lord Northumberland,
To fay King Richard. Alack the heavy Day,
When fuch a facred King should hide his Head.
North. Your Grace mistakes me; only to be brief,
Left I his Title out.

York. The time hath been,

Would you have been fo brief with him, he would
Have been fo brief with you, to fhorten you,
For taking fo the Head, your whole Head's length.
Bulling. Miftake not, Uncle, farther than you fhould.
Tork. Take not, good Coufin, farther than you fhould,
Left you mistake; the Heav'ns are o'er your Head.
Bulling. I know it, Uncle, and oppofe not my felf
Against their Will. But who comes here?

Enter Percy.

Welcome Harry; what, will not this Castle yield?
Percy. The Caftle royally is mann'd, my Lord,
Against thy Entrance.

Bulling. Royally? Why, it contains no King?
Percy. Yes, my good Lord,

It doth contain a King: King Richard lyes
Within the Limits of yond Lime and Stone,
And with him the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury,
Sir Stephen Croop, befides a Clergy-man

Of holy Reverence: who, I cannot learn.
North. Oh, belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle.

Bulling. Noble Lord,

Go to the rude Ribs of that ancient Castle,

[To North.

Through brazen Trumpet fend the breath of Parle
Into his ruin'd Ears, and thus deliver: