For I have given here my soul's consent
To undeck the pompous body of a king;
Made glory base and sovereignty a slave,
Proud majesty a servant, state a peasant.
Northumberland. My lord, -

K. Richard. No lord of thine, thou haught1 insult

ing man,

Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no title,

No, not that name was given me at the font,
But 'tis usurp'd. — Alack the heavy day,

That I have worn so many winters out,
And know not now what name to call myself!
O that I were a mockery king of snow,
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 sterling yet in England,
Let it command a mirror hither straight,
That it may show me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his 2 majesty.

Bolingbroke. Go some of you and fetch a looking-
glass.
[Exit an Attendant.
Northumberland. Read o'er this paper while the
glass doth come.

K. Richard. Fiend, thou torment'st me ere I come to hell!

Bolingbroke. Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

Northumberland. The commons will not then be satisfied.

K. Richard. They shall be satisfied: I'll read

enough,

When I do see the very book indeed

Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.

(Reënter Attendant with a glass.)

Give me the glass, and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds?

O flattering glass,

Was this the face

Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men?
That, like the sun, did make beholders wink?
Was this the face that faced so many follies,
And was at last out-faced by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face :

As brittle as the glory is the face;

(Dashes the glass against the ground.)

For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,

How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.

Bolingbroke. The shadow of your sorrow hath de

'Tis very true, my grief lies all within; And these external manners of lament

Are merely shadows to the unseen grief

That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul;
There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st
Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,
And then begone and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?

Bolingbroke.

Name it, fair cousin.

K. Richard. "Fair cousin"? 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 so great, I have no need to beg.

Bolingbroke. Yet ask.

K. Richard. And shall I have?

Bolingbroke. You shall.

K. Richard. Then give me leave to go.
Bolingbroke. Whither?

K. Richard. Whither you will, so I were from your sights.

Bolingbroke. Go, some of you, convey him to the Tower.

ACT V

SCENE IV. WINDSOR. A Room in the Castle.

(Enter Bolingbroke as King, York, Lords, and AttenEnter Exton, with Attendants bearing a

dants. coffin.)

Exton. Great king, within this coffin I present

Thy buried fear herein all breathless lies.

The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.
Bolingbroke. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast
wrought

A deed of slander, with thy fatal hand,

Upon my head and all this famous land.

Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.

Bolingbroke. They love not poison that do poison need,

Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murtherer, love him murtherèd.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word nor princely favour:
With Cain go wander thorough1 shades of night,
And never show thy head by day nor light.
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,

That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow :
Come, mourn with me for that I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent.2

I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,

To wash this blood off from my guilty hand :
March sadly after; grace my mournings here;
In weeping after this untimely bier.

[Exeunt.

THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURNE

THE standing feud with Scotland gave rise to numberless raids across the Border. The following old ballad tells of a famous encounter between those two hot-headed young chieftains, James, Earl of Douglas, and the redoubtable Hairy Percy. In 1388 Douglas, at the head of three thousand Scottish spears, made a raid into Northumberland and, before the walls of Newcastle, engaged Percy in single combat, capturing his lance with the attached pennon. Douglas retired in triumph, but Hotspur mustered the full force of the Border and, following hard on the Scottish rear, made a night attack upon the camp of Douglas at Otterburne, about twenty miles from the frontier. Then ensued a moonlight battle, fought on either side with unflinching bravery, and ending in the defeat of the English, Percy being taken prisoner. the Douglas was slain in the midst of the fray.

It fell about the Lammas tide,1
When muirmen2 win their hay,

That the doughty Earl of Douglas rade
Into England to fetch a prey.

And he has ta'en the Lindsays light,
With them the Gordons gay;

But the Jardines wad not with him ride,
And they rue it to this day.

Then they hae harried3 the dales o' Tyne,
And half o' Bambrough-shire,

And the Otter-dale they burned it haill,4
And set it a' on fire.

Then he cam' up to New Castel,

And rade it round about :

But