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Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king
Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remifs ;
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;
Sal. Nor near, nor further off, my gracious lord,
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 ?
K. Rich. Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar'd;
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?] –
KING RICHARD III, A& V. S. 3. K. Rich. s prikes ) mathe Aag, vails to.
Against thy majesty ; boys, with women's voices,
K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell’st a tale so ill.
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. 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