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 fet a blot upon my pride.

Aum. Comfort, my Liege; remember, who you are. K. Rich. I had forgot myself. Am I not King? Awake, thou coward Majefty, thou sleepest; 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, av'rites of a King, are we not high?

gh be our thoughts. I know, my uncle Tork fath pow'r to ferve our turn. But who comes here?

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;

? Mine ear is open,] It feems to be the defign of the poet to raife Richard to esteem 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 distress he is wife, patient, and pious.

They

They break their faith to God, as well as us.
Cry, Woe, Deftruction, 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 hairless scalps
Against thy Majefty; boys with women's voices
Strive to fpeak big, and clafp their female joints
In ftiff unwieldy arms, against thy Crown."
s Thy very Beadfmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal Ewe, against thy State.
Yea, diftaff-women manage rufty bills.
Against thy Seat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have pow'r to tell.

3

K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'ft a Tale fo

ill.

Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?

What is become of Bufhy? 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 worfe 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'reft and most deadly hate.
Again uncurse their fouls; their peace is made
With heads, and not with hands; thofe, whom you
curfe,

Have felt the worst of death's deftroying hand,
And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow'd ground.
Aum. Is Bufby, Green, and th' Earl of Wiltshire dead?
Scroop. Yea, all of them at Briflol 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 Question: and, indeed, he had made the beft 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

his Majefty. The Poet could not be guilty of fo much Forgetfulness and Abfurdity. The Tranfcribers muft

K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man

fpeak;

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 chuse 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 pafte 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 Ghofts 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,
Keeps Death his Court; and there the Antick 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;
Infusing 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 castle-walls, and farewel King!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood

With folemn Rev'rence; throw away refpect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while;
I live on bread like you, feel want like you,
Tafte grief, need friends, like you; fubjected thus,
How can you fay to me, I am a King?

Carl. My lord, wife men ne'er wail their prefent woes, But presently prevent the ways to wail: To fear the foe, fince fear oppreffeth ftrength, Gives, in your weakness, ftrength unto your foe; And fo your follies fight against yourself. Fear, and be flain; no worfe can come from fight; And fight and die, is death deftroying death: Where fearing dying, pays death fervile breath. Aum. 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 Bolingbroke,
I come

To change blows with thee, for our day of doom.
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown;

An eafy task it is to win our own.

Say, Scroop, where lies 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 worst, that must be spoken.
Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke,
And all your northern caftles yielded up,
And all your fouthern gentlemen in arms
Upon his faction.

s Tradition.] This word feems here used in an improper fenfe, for traditional practices: That is, eftablished or customary homage.

Death deftroying death ]That

is, to dye fighting, is to return the evil that we fuffer, to destroy the destroyers. I once read death defying death, but deftroying is as well.

K. Rich.