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Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king
Shall faulter under foul rebellious arms.
Bishop. Fear not, my lord; that Power, that made you

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 refuse
The proffer'd means of succour and redress.

Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remifs ;
Whilft Bolingbroke, through our security,
Grows strong and great, in substance, and in friends.

K. Rich. Discomfortable cousin ! 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, treasons, and detested sins, 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 revelld in the night, Whilst we were wand'ring with the antipodes, Shall see us rising in our throne the east, His treasons will fit blushing in his face, Not able to endure the sight of day, But, self-affrighted, tremble at his fin. Not all the water in the rough rude sea

eye of heaven, tbat lights Tbe loccer world, 'is hid bebind the globe.


Can wash the balm from an anointed king;
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord :
For every man that Bolingbroke hath prest,
To lift shrewd steel against 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 : Discomfort 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 shalt 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 Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers’d, and Aed.

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 filed ; And, 'till so much blood thither come again,

Have I not reason to look pale and dead ? All souls that will be safe, fly from my side ; For time hath set 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 "sluggard majesty! thou Neepest.

utbe lalm]-oil of confecration.


* Is not the king's name forty thousand names ?
Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject ' 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 serve 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 loss, thou canst unfold.
Say, is my kingdom loft? why, 'twas my care ;
And what loss is it, to be rid of care ?
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?
Greater he shall not be ; if he serve God,
We'll serve him too, and be his fellow fo :
Revolt our subjects 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 unseasonable stormy day, Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores, As if the world were all diffolv'd to tears; So high above his limits swells the rage Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land With hard bright steel, and hearts harder than steel. White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps

* Is not the king's name forty obousand names?] –
6. Besides, obe king's name is a tower of strength.”

KING RICHARD III, A& V. S. 3. K. Rich. s prikes ) mathe Aag, vails to.



Against thy majesty ; boys, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clasp their female joints
In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown:
Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal yew against thy state ;
Yea, distaff women manage rusty bills
Against thy seat : 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 so ill.
Where is the earl of Wiltshire ?
What is become of Bulhy? where is Green?
That they have let the dangerous enemy
Measure our confines with such peaceful steps ?
If we prevail, their heads shall 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, easily won to fawn on any man! Snakes, in my heart-blood warmd, that sting my heart ! Three Judasses, each one thrice worse than Judas! Would they make peace ? terrible hell make war Upon their spotted souls for this offence!

Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his property, Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate :Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made With heads, and not with hands : those whom you curse, Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound, And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.

Aun. Is Bushy, 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 ?

a Tby very bead/mex]-Almsmen fed by thy bounty. o Of double-fatal gew]-Its leaves are poisonous, and its branches, when converted into bows, the instruments of death. * Where is the earl of Wiltshire ? where is Bagol?

K. Ricb.

z clap.

K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man speak : Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ; Make dust 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 so,-for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground ? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own, but death; And that a small model of the barren earth, Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For heaven's fake, let us sit upon the ground, And cell sad stories of the death of kings :: How some have been depos’d, some Nain in war ; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d; Some poison'd by their wives, some Neeping killid; 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 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 self and vain conceit, As if this flesh, which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable ; and, 'humour'd thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin · Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king ! Cover your head, and mock not flesh and blood With solemn 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; ]-difpoffels'd. bumour'dibus,-having so far indulged his mirth.

! Tradition, )--Cultomary homage, eltablished practice- Additionhonourable title. VOL. III. Еe


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