This, and much more, much more than twice all this, Condemns you to the death. See them deliver'd T'execution, and the hand of death.

Bufhy. More welcome is the ftroke of death to me, Than Bolingbroke to England.Lords, farewel. Green. My comfort is, that heav'n will take our fouls, And plague injuftice with the pains of hell. [patch'd. Boling. My Lord Northumberland, fee them dif Uncle, you fay the Queen is at your house; For heav'n's fake, fairly let her be intreated. Tell her, I fend to her my kind commends; Take fpecial care my greetings be deliver'd. York. A gentleman of mine I have dispatch'd With letters of your love to her at large.

[away.

Boling. Thanks, gentle uncle: come, my Lords, To fight with Glendower and his complices; A while to work, and, after, holiday.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II. Changes to the coast of Wales.

Flourish: Drums, and Trumpets.

Enter King Richard, Aumerle, Bishop of Carlisle, and Soldiers.

K. Rich. Barloughly caftle call you this at hand? Aum. Yea, my good Lord; how brooks your Grace After your toffing on the breaking feas? [the air,

K. Rich. Needs must I like it well. I weep for joy

To ftand upon my Kingdom once again.
Dear earth, I do falute thee with my hand,

Though rebels wound thee with their horfes' hoofs.
As a long-parted mother with her child

Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting;
So weeping, fmiling, greet I thee my earth,
And do thee favour with my royal hands.
Feed not thy fovereign's foe, my gentle earth,
Nor with thy fweets comfort his rav'nous fenfe :
But let thy fpiders that fuck up thy venom,
And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way;
Doing annoyance to the treach'rous feet,
Which with ufurping fteps do trample thee.
Yield ftinging nettles to mine enemies;

And, when they from thy bofom pluck a flower,

Guard

Guard it, I pr'ythee, with a lurking adder;
Whofe double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy fovereign's enemies.
Mock not my fenfeless conjuration, Lords:
This earth fhall have a feeling; and these stones
Prove armed foldiers, ere her native King
Shall faulter under foul rebellious arms.

Carl. Fear not, my Lord; that pow'r that made you King,

Hath pow'r to keep you King, in fpight of all.
The means that heav'n yields must be embrace'd,
And not neglected: elfe if heaven would,
And we would not heav'n's offer, we refuse
The profer'd means of fuccour and redrefs.

Aum. He means, my Lord, that we are too remifs; Whilft Bolingbroke, through our fecurity,

Grows ftrong and great, in fubftance and in power.
K. Rich. Discomfortable coufin, know'st thou not,
"That when the fearching eye of heav'n is hid
"Behind the globe, and lights the lower world;
"Then thieves and robbers range abroad unfeen,
"In murders, and in outrage bloody here?
"But when from under this terreftrial ball
"He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
"And darts his light through ev'ry guilty hole;
"Then murders, treasons, and detefted fins, [backs,
"The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves."
So when this thief, this traitor Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilft we were wand'ring with th' 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 prefs'd,
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 still guards the right.

SCENE III. Enter Salisbury.

Welcome, my Lord, how far off lies your power?
Salif. Nor near, nor farther 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 fhalt have twelve thousand fighting men.
To-day, to-day, unhappy day too late
O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy ftate.
For all the Welchmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, difpers'd and fled.

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. * 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 myfelf. Am I not King? Awake, thou coward majesty, 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, 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? SCENE IV. 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 Bolingbroke to be as great as we ?
Greater he fhall not be; if he ferve God,
We'll ferve him too, and be his fellow fo.
Revolt our fubjects that we cannot mend;
They break their faith to God, as well as us.
Cry, woe, deftruction, ruin, loss, 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 unfeafonable ftormy 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 womens' voices
Strive to speak big, and clafp their female joints
In ftiff unwieldy arms, against thy crown
Thy very beadfmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal yew *, against thy ftate:
Yea, diftaff-women manage rusty bills.
Against thy feat 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 he got?
What is become of Bufhy? where is Green?
That they have let the dang'rous enemy
Measure our confines with fuch peaceful fteps?
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 redempDogs, easily won to fawn on any man! [tion! Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that fting my heart! Three Judafes, each one thrice-worfe than Judas! Would they make peace? terrible hell make war Upon their spotted fouls for this offence!

Called fo, because the leaves of yew are poifon, and the word is

employed for inftruments of death.

Scroop.

Scroop. Sweet love, I fee changing his property, Turns to the foureft 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 deftroying hand,
And lie full low, grav'd in the hallow'd ground.
Aum. Is Bufhy, Green, and th' Earl of Wiltshire, dead?
Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost 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 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 small model * of the barren earth, 'Which ferves as palte 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,

Keeps Death his court; and there the antic fits,
Scoffing his ftate, 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 lait, and with a little pin

'Bores through his caftle-walls, and farewel King! 'Cover your heads, and mock not fleth and blood With folemn rev'rence: throw away respect, Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty, For you have but miftook me all this while. I live on bread like you, feel want like you; * Model, for part, portion

F 2

Tafle