With mine own tears I wash away my Balm;
With mine own hands I give away my Crown;
With mine own tongue deny my facred State;
With mine own breath release all duteous oaths;
All pomp and Majefty I do forfwear;
My manors, rents, revenues, I forego;
My acts, decrees, and ftatutes I deny;
God pardon all oaths, that are broke to me!
God keep all vows unbroke, are made to thee!
Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd,
And thou with all pleas'd, that haft all atchiev'd!
Long may'ft thou live in Richard's Seat to fit,
And foon lye Richard in an earthy pit!
God fave King Henry, unking'd Richard fays,
And fend him many years of fun-fhine days!
What more remains?
North. No more; but that you read
These accufations, and thefe grievous crimes
Committed by your perfon, and your followers,
Against the State and Profit of this Land:
That, by confeffing them, the fouls of men
May deem that you are worthily depos'd.
K. Rich. Muft I do fo? and must I ravel out
My weav'd-up follies? Gentle Northumberland,
If thy offences were upon record,
Would it not fhame thee, in so fair a troop,
To read a lecture of them? if thou would'ft,
There fhould'ft thou find one heinous article,
Containing the depofing of a King;
And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,
Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heav'n.
Nay, all of you, that stand and look upon me,
Whilft that my wretchedness doth bait myself,
Though fome of you with Pilate wash your hands,
Shewing an outward pity; yet you Pilates
My Balm.] The oil of confecration. He has mentioned it before.
2 If thou would't. That is, if thou would't read over a lift of thy own deeds.
Have here deliver'd me to my fow'r Cross,
And water cannot wash away your fin.
North. My lord, difpatch; read o'er thefe articles.
K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot fee
And yet falt-water blinds them not fo much,
But they can fee a Sort of traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,
I find myself a traitor with the reft;
For I have given here my foul's confent,
T'undeck the pompous body of a King;
Made Glory bafe, a Sovereign a flave;
Proud Majefty, a fubject; State, a peasant.
North. My lord-
K. Rich. No lord of thine, thou haught-infulting
Nor no man's lord, I have no Name, no Title;
No, not that Name was giv'n me at the Font,
But 'tis ufurp'd. Alack, the heavy day,
That I have worn fo many winters out,
And know not now, what name to call myself!
Oh, that I were a mockery-King of fnow,
Standing before the Sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt myself away in water-drops!
Good King,-great King,- and yet not greatly good,
An if my word be fterling yet in England, [To Boling.
Let it command a mirror hither straight,
That it may fhew me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his Majefty.
Boling. Go fome of you, and fetch a looking-glafs
North. Read o'er this paper, while the glass doch
K. Rich. Flend, thou torment'ft me, ere I come to hell.
Boling. Urge it no more, my lord Northumberland.
3 A Sort] A pack, a company. fort in this fenfe was, perhaps,
WARBURTON. Waller.
The laft who used the word
VOL. IV.
A fort of lufy Diepherds frive.
North.
North. The Commons will not then be fatisfy'd. K. Rich. They fhall be fatisfy'd; I'll read enough, When I do fee the very Book, indeed,
Where all my fins are writ, and that's myself.
Enter One, with a Glass.
Give me that Glafs, and therein will I read.
-No deeper wrinkles yet? hath Sorrow ftruck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds? oh, flatt'ring Glafs,
Like to my Followers in profperity,
Thou doft beguile me. Was this face, the face
That every day under his houfhold roof
Did keep ten thousand men? was this the face,
That, like the Sun, did make beholders wink?
Is this the face, which fac'd fo many follies,
That was at laft out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A brittle Glory fhineth in this face;
[Dafbes the Glafs against the Ground. As brittle, as the glory, is the face;
For there it is, crackt in an hundred fhivers.
Mark, filent King, the Moral of this fport;
How foon my forrow hath deftroy'd my face.
Boling. The thadow of your forrow hath destroy'd
The fhadow of your face.
The fhadow of my forrow! ha, let's fee;
'Tis very true, my grief lies all within;
And thefe external manners of laments
Are merely fhadows to the unfeen grief,
That fwells with filence in the tortur'd foul;
There lies the fubftance. And I thank thee, King,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv❜st
Me caufe to wail, but teacheft me the way
How to lament the caufe. I'll beg one boon;
And then be gone, and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?
Boling. Name it, fair Coufin.
K. Rich. Fair Coufin! I am greater than a King: For when I was a King, my flatterers
Were then but Subjects; being now a Subject,
I have a King here to my flatterer:
Being fo great, I have no need to beg.
Boling. Yet afk.
K. Rich. And fhall I have?
Boling. You fhall.
K. Rich. Then give me leave to go.
Boling. Whither?
K. Rich. Whither you will, fo I were from your fight. Boling. Go fome of you, convey him to the Tower. K. Rich. Oh, good! convey:
That rife thus nimbly by a true King's fall.
Boling. On Wednesday next we folemnly fet down.
Our Coronation: lords, prepare yourselves.
Let it be fo, and lo be ready all.
[Ex. all but Abbot, Bishop of Carlisle and Aumerle.
Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here beheld. Carl. The woe's to come; the children yet unborn Shall feel this day as fharp to them as thorn 3. Aum. You holy Clergy-men, is there no Plot, To rid the Realm of this pernicious blot. Abbot. Before I freely fpeak my mind herein, You fhall not only take the Sacrament,
Conveyers are ye all.] To convey is a term often ufed in an ill fenfe, and fo Richard underftands it here. Piftol fays of fealing, convey the wife it call; and to convey is the word for flight of hand, which feems to be alluded to here. Ye are all,
fays the depofed Prince, jugglers who rife with this nimble dexterity by the fall of a good king.
As fharp as thorn.] This pathetick denunciation fhews that Shakespeare intended to imprefs his auditors with dislike of the depofal of Richard. G 2
*To bury mine intents, but to effect
Whatever I shall happen to devife.
I fee, your brows are full of discontent,
Your hearts of forrow, and your eyes of tears.
Come home with me to fupper, and I'll lay
A Plot, fhall fhew us all a merry day.
THIS way the King will come: this is the way.
To Julius Cæfar's ill-erected Tower;
To whofe flint-bofom my condemned lord
Is doom'd a prifoner, by proud Bolingbroke.
Here let us reft, if this rebellious earth
Have any Refting for her true King's Queen.
Enter King Richard, and Guards.
But foft, but fee, or rather do not fee,
My fair rofe wither; yet look up; behold,
That you in pity may diffolve to dew,
And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.
"O thou, the model where old Troy did stand,
To bury, to conceal; to keep faid to have been the work of
9 In the first edition there is no perfonal appearance of King Richard, fo that all to the line at which he leaves the flage was inferted afterwards.
7 To Julius Cæfar's, &c.] The Tower of London is traditionally
Here let us reft, if, &c.] Here reft, if any reft can harbour bere. MILTON. 9 O thou, the model where
old Troy did ftand.] The Queen ufes comparative terms abfolutely. Instead of faying,
|