I have a King here to my flatterer:
Being fo great, I have no need to beg.
Boling. Yet ask.

K. Rich. And fhall I have?
Boling. You fhall.

K. Rich. Then give me leave to go.
Boling. Whither.

K. Rich. Whither you will, fo I were from your fight.
Boling. Go Some of you, convey him to the Tower.
K. Rich. Oh, good! convey:

all, (19)

Conveyers are you

That rife thus nimbly by a true King's Fall.

Boling. On Wednesday next we folemnly fet down Our Coronation: lords, prepare your felves.

[Ex. all but Abbot, Bishop of Carlisle and Aumerle.
Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here beheld.
Bishop. The woe's to come; the children yet unborn
Shall feel this day as fharp to them as thorn.

Aum. You holy Clergy-men, is there no Plot
To rid the Realm of this pernicious blot?
Abbot. Before I freely speak my mind herein,
You shall not only take the Sacrament,
To bury mine intents, but to effect
Whatever I fhall happen to devise.

I fee, your brows are full of discontent,
Your hearts of forrow, and your eyes of tears.
Come home with me to fupper, and I'll lay
A Plot, fhall fhew us all a merry day.

(19) O, good!- Convey:

[Exeunt.

Conveyers are you all,] i. e. Thieves. This will be explain'd by a Paffage quoted from the Merry Wives of

Windfor.

Falf.

Time.

-his Filching was like an unskilful Singer, he kept not

Nym. The good Humour is to fteal at a Minute's Reft.

Pift. Convey, the Wife it call. Steal?- fob! a Fico for the Phrafe.

ACT

ACT V.

SCENE, a Street in London.

T

Enter Queen, and Ladies.

QUEEN.

HIS way the King will come: this is the way
To Julius Cæfar's ill-erected Tow'r;

To whofe flint bofom my condemned lord
Is doom'd a prisoner, by proud Bolingbroke.
Here let us reft, if this rebellious earth
Have any Refting for her true King's Queen.

Enter King Richard, and Guards.

But foft, but fee, or rather do not fee,
My fair rofe wither; yet look up; behold,
That you in pity may diffolve to dew,
And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.
O thou, the model where old Troy did ftand,

To K. Rich.
Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb,
And not King Richard; thou most beauteous Inn,
Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee,
When Triumph is become an ale-house Gueft?

K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair Woman, do not fo,
To make my End too fudden: learn, good foul,
To think our former ftate a happy dream,
From which awak'd, the truth of what we are
Shews us but this. I am fworn brother, Sweet,
To grim Neceffity; and he and I

Will keep a league till death. Hye thee to France,
And cloifter thee in fome Religious Houfe;
Our holy lives muft win a new world's Crown,
Which our profane hours here have ftricken down.

Queen. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind Transform'd and weak? hath Bolingbroke depos'd Thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart? The Lion, dying, thrufteth forth his paw, And wounds the earth, if nothing elfe, with rage To be o'erpow'r'd: and wilt thou, pupil-like, Take thy correction mildly, kifs the rod, And fawn on rage with base humility, Which art a Lion and a King of beafts?

K. Rich. A King of beasts, indeed; if ought but beafts,

I had been still a happy King of men.

Good fometime Queen, prepare thee hence for France;
Think, I am dead; and that ev'n here thou tak'st,
As from my death-bed, my laft 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 betide:

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 fome will mourn in afhes, 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 fpeed, 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, gath'ring 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 thall think, that thou, which know'ft the way

Το

To plant unrightful Kings, wilt know again,
Being ne'er fo little urg'd, another way

To pluck him headlong from th' 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's 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 fhiv'ring cold and fickness pines the clime:
My Queen to France; from whence, fet forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither like fweet May,

Sent back like Hollowmas, or fhortest 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 longeft way fhall have the longest moans.
K. Rich. Twice for one step I'll groan, the way being
fhort,

And piece the way out with a heavy heart.
Come, come, in wooing forrow let's be brief,
Since, wedding it, there is fuch length in grief:
One kifs fhall ftop our mouths, and dumbly part;
Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. [They kiss.
Queen. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good
part,

To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart. [Kifs again.
Y 3

So2

So, now I have mine own again, be gone,
That I may ftrive to kill it with a groan.

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

[Exeunt.

SCENE, the Duke of York's Palace.

Enter York, and his Dutchess.

Dutch. MY lord, you told me, you would tell the

rest,

When Weeping made you break the ftory off,
Of our two Coufins coming into London.
York. Where did I leave?

Dutch. At that fad ftop, my lord,

Where rude mif-govern'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 ftately pace, kept on his courfe :
While all tongues cry'd, God fave thee, Bolingbroke!
You wou'd 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 faid at once,
Jefu, preferve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilft he, from one fide to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud fteed's neck,
Bespoke them thus; I thank you, Country-men;
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 idley bent on him that enters next,

Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Even fo, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did fcowle on Richard; no man cry'd, God fave him! No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;

But