Prove armed foldiers, ere her native king

Shall faulter under foul rebellious arms.

Bishop. Fear not, my lord; that Power, that made you king,

Hath power to keep you king, in spight of all.
The means that heaven yields must be embrac'd,
And not neglected; else, if heaven would,
And we would not heaven's offer, we refufe
The proffer'd means of fuccour and redress.

Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remifs;
Whilft Bolingbroke, through our fecurity,
Grows ftrong and great, in fubftance, and in friends.
K. Rich. Discomfortable coufin! know'st thou not,
That, when the searching 'eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders, and in outrage, bloody here,
But when, from under this terrestrial ball,
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treafons, and detefted fins,

The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,
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 the antipodes,-
Shall fee us rifing in our throne the east,
His treasons 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 preft,
To lift fhrewd fteel againft our golden crown,
God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay

A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,

Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards the right.
Enter Salisbury.

Welcome, my lord; How far off lies your power?
Sal. Nor near, nor further off, my gracious lord,
Than this weak arm: Difcomfort guides my tongue,
And bids me fpeak of nothing but defpair.
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 state;
For all the Welfhmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, difpers'd, and fled.
Aum. Comfort, my liege; Why looks your grace so 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 reason 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 fluggard majefty! thou sleepest.

"the lalm]-oil of confecration.

• coward.

* Is not the king's name forty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my name! a puny fubject 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?
And what lofs is it, to be

why, 'twas my care; 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, destruction, ruin, loss, 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, covering your fearful land

With hard bright fteel, and hearts harder than steel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairlefs fcalps

* Is not the king's name forty thousand names?]—
"Befides, the king's name is a tower of ftrength."

KING RICHARD III. A&t V. S. 3. K. Rich. Arikes]the flag, vails to.

Against

Against thy majefty; boys, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clasp their female joints
In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown:

a

Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows
' Of double-fatal yew against thy state;

Yea, distaff women manage ruity bills
Against thy feat: both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have power to tell.

K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'st a tale fo ill. "Where is the earl of Wiltshire?

What is become of Bufhy? where is Green?
That they have let the dangerous enemy
Measure our confines with fuch peaceful steps?
If we prevail, their heads fhall pay for it.

I warrant, they have made peace with Bolingbroke.
Scroop. Peace have they 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 sting my heart!
Three Judaffes, each one thrice worse 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 fourest and most deadly hate:—
Again uncurse their fouls; their peace is made
With heads, and not with, hands: those whom you curse,
Have felt the worst of death's deftroying wound,
And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.

Aum. Is Bufhy, Green, and the earl of Wiltshire, dead?
Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.
Aum. Where is the duke my father with his power?

clap.
a Thy very beadsmen]-Almfmen fed by thy bounty.
Of double-fatal yew]-Its leaves are poisonous, and its branches,
when converted into bows, the inftruments of death.
Where is the earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?

K. Rich.

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 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,
Which ferves as paste and cover to our bones.
For heaven'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 have depos'd;
Some poifon'd by their wives, fome sleeping kill'd;
All murder'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;
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

Bores through his castle wall, and-farewell king!
Cover your head, and mock not flesh and blood
With folemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,

Small model of the barren earth,]-mould, that takes the form of the body. e depos'd;]-difpoffefs'd.

bumour'd thus,]-having fo far indulged his mirth.

Tradition,]-Customary homage, eftablished practice-Additionhonourable title.

VOL. III.

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