This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king Shall falter under foul rebellion's arms. Bishop. Fear not, my lord; that Power, that made you king, Hath power to keep you king, in spite of all. Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss; 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 revell'd in the night, Whilst we were wand'ring with the antipodes,Shall see us rising in our throne the east, His treasons will sit blushing in his face, Not able to endure the sight of day, But, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin. Not all the water in the rough-rude sea Can wash the balm from an anointed king: For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd, 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? And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men! O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state; Are so pale? K. Rich. But now, the blood of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; Have I not reason to look pale and dead? Aum. Comfort, my liege; remember who you are. K. Rich. I had forgot myself: Am I not king? Awake, thou sluggard majesty! thou sleep'st. Is not the king's name forty thousand names? Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes 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! The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold. 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, So high above his limits swells the rage With hard bright steel, and hearts harder than steel. scalps Against thy majesty; boys, with women's voices, ill. Where is the earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot? What is become of Bushy? 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 warm'd, that sting my heart! Three Judases, 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. Aum. 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? K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; |