K. Rich. A king of beasts, indeed; if aught but beasts, I had been still a happy king of men.

Good fometime queen, prepare thee hence for France:
Think, I am dead; and that even here thou tak’st,
As from my death-bed, my last living leave.
In winter's tedious nights, fit by the fire

With good old folks; and let them tell thee tales
Of woeful ages, long ago betid:

And, ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,

And fend the hearers weeping to their beds.
For why, the fenfelefs brands will fympathize
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,
And, in compaffion, weep the fire out:
And some will mourn in ashes, fome coal-black,
For the depofing of a rightful king.

Enter Northumberland, attended.

North. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd; You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.

And, madam, there is order ta'en for you;
With all swift speed, you must away to France.
K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke afcends my throne,-
The time fhall not be many hours of age
More than it is, ere foul fin, gathering head,
Shall break into corruption: thou fhalt think,
Though he divide the realm, and give thee half,

It is too little, helping him to all;

And he fhall think, that thou, which know'ft the way To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,

Being ne'er fo little urg'd, another way

to quit their grief,]-to match their mournful ftories.

Το

To pluck him headlong from the ufurped throne.
The love of wicked friends converts to fear;
That fear, to hate; and hate turns one, or both,
To worthy danger, and deferved death.

North. My guilt be on my head, and there an end.
Take leave, and part; for you must part forthwith.
K. Rich. Doubly divorc'd ?-Bad men, ye violate
A two-fold marriage; 'twixt my crown and me;
And then, betwixt me, and my married wife.—
Let me unkifs the oath 'twixt thee and me;

[To the Queen.

And yet not fo, for with a kifs 'twas made.-
Part us, Northumberland; I towards the north,
Where shivering cold and fickness pines the clime:
My wife to France; from whence, fet forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither like fweet May,

h

Sent back like Hollowmas, or shortest day.

Queen. And muft we be divided? muft we part ? K. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.

Queen. Banifh us both, and fend the king with me.
North. That were fome love, but little policy.
Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go.
K. Rich. So two, together weeping, make one woe,
Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here;
Better far off, than-" near, be ne'er the near'.
Go, count thy way with fighs; I, mine with groans.
Queen. So longest way fhall have the longest moans.
K. Rich. Twice for one ftep I'll groan, the way being
short,

And piece the way out with a heavy heart.
Come, come, in wooing forrow let's be brief,

Hollowmas,]-All Saints, the first day of November.
near, bo ne'er the near'.]-near, to no good purpose.

Since, wedding it, there is fuch length in grief.

One kifs shall stop our mouths, and 'dumbly part ;-
Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. [They kifs.
Queen. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good part,
To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart.
So, now I have mine own again, be gone,
That I may strive to kill it with a groan.

[Kifs again.

K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay: Once more, adieu; the rest let forrow fay.

[Exeunt.

Dutch. My lord, you told me, you would tell the reft, When weeping made you break the story off Of our two coufins coming into London. York. Where did I leave?

Dutch. At that fad ftop, my lord,

Where rude mifgovern'd hands, from window tops,
Threw duft and rubbish on king Richard's head.
York. Then, as I faid, the duke, great Bolingbroke,-
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

Which his afpiring rider feem'd to know,

With flow, but stately pace, kept on his course,
While all tongues cry'd-God fave thee, Bolingbroke !
You would have thought, the very windows fpake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through cafements darted their defiring eyes
Upon his vifage; and that all the walls,
With painted imag'ry, had said at once,-
Jefu preferve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!

i doubly.

Whilft he, from one fide to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud fteed's neck,
Befpake them thus,-I thank you, countrymen:
And thus ftill doing, thus he paft along.

Dutch. Alas, poor Richard! where rides he the while?
York. As, in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Even fo, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did fcowl on Richard; no man cry'd, God fave him;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But duft was thrown upon his facred head;
Which with fuch gentle forrow he shook off,—
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,-

That had not God, for fome strong purpose, fteel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.

But heaven hath a hand in thefe events;

To whofe high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whofe ftate and honour I for aye allow.

Enter Aumerle.

Dutch. Here comes my fon Aumerle.
York. Aumerle that was;

But that is loft, for being Richard's friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now:
I am in parliament pledge for his truth,
And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

k idly bent]-carelessly, inattentively turned.
Aumerle that was;]-being deprived of his Dukedom.

Dutch.

Dutch. Welcome, my for: "Who are the violets now, That ftrew the green lap of the new-come spring? Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not; God knows, I had as lief be none, as one.

York. Well, bear you well in this new fpring of time, Left you be cropt before you come to prime.

What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs?
Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do.
York. You will be there, I know.

Aum. If God prevent me not; I purpose fo.

York. What feal is that, that hangs without thy bofom? Yea, look'st thou pale? let me fee the writing.

Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.

York. No matter then who fees it:

I will be fatisfy'd, let me fee the writing.

Aum. I do befeech your grace to pardon me; It is a matter of fmall confequence,

Which for fome reasons I would not have seen.

York. Which for some reasons, fir, I mean to fee. I fear, I fear,

Dutch. What fhould you fear?

'Tis nothing but fome bond, that he is enter'd into For gay apparel, against the triumph.

York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.-.

Boy, let me fee the writing.

Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not fhew it. York. I will be fatisfied; let me fee it, I say.

[Snatches it and reads.

Treafon foul treafon !-villain, traitor! flave!

Dutch. What is the matter, my lord?

Who are the violets now, &c.]-The prime favourites with the new king.

Boy, look'ft thou pale? come let me fee the writing.

York.