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Thou clear, immaculate, and silver fountain,
From whence this stream, through muddy passages,
Hath had his current, and defil'd himself.
Thy overflow of good converts to bad; (22)
And thine abundant goodness shall excuse
This deadly blot, in thy digrefsing son.
York. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd,
And he shall spend mine honour with his shame;
As thriftless sons their scraping fathers gold.
Mine honour lives, when his dishonour dies :
Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies:
Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath,
The traytor lives, the true man's put to death.
[Dutchess within. Dutch. What ho, my Liege! for heav'n's fake, let
Boling. What shrill-voic'd Suppliant makes this ea
Dutch. A woman, and thine aunt, great King, 'tis I.
Speak with me, pity me, open the door;
A beggar begs, that never begg'd before.
Boling. Our Scene is alter'd from a serious thing,
And now chang'd to the Beggar, and the King:
My dang’rous Cousin, let your mother in;
I know, she's come to pray for your foul sin.
York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
More fins for his forgiveness prosper may;
This fefter'd joint cut off, the rest is sound;
This, let alone, will all the rest confound.
Enter Dutchefs. Dutch. O King, believe not this hard-hearted man; Love, loving not it felf, none other can. York. Thou frantick woman, what doft thou do
here? Shall thy old dugs once more a traytor rear?
(22) Thy Overflow of Good converts to Bad] This alludes to that Observation of the Naturalists. That the Extream of any Thing is eafily converted to its Contrary.
Dutch. Sweet York, be patient; hear me, gentle Liege.
[Kneels. Boling. Rise up, good aunt.
Dutch. Not yet, 1 thee beseech; For ever will I kneel upon my knees, And never see day that the happy fees, Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy, By pard’ning Rutland, my transgressing boy. Aum. Unto my mother's prayers, I bend my knee.
Kneels. York. Against them Both, my true joints bended be.
[Kneels. Ill may'st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!
Dutch. Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face;
His eyes do drop no tears, his pray’r's in jest;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:
prays but faintly, and would be deny’d;
We pray with heart and soul, and all beside.
His weary joints would gladly rise, I know ;
Our knees shall kneel, till to the ground they grow.
His prayers are full of false hypocrisie,
Ours of true zeal, and deep integrity;
Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them crave
That mercy, which true prayers ought to have.
Boling Good aunt, stand up.
Dutch. Nay, do not say stand up,
But pardon first; fay afterwards, stand up.
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon should be the first word of thy speech.
I never long'd to hear a word till now :
Say, Pardon, King; let pity teach thee how.
Boling. Good aunt, stand up.
Dutch. I do not sue to stand, Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.
Boling. I pardon him, as heav'n shall pardon me.
Dutch. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
Yet am I sick for fear; speak it again:
Twice saying pardon, doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon strong.
The word is short, but not so short as sweet ;
No word like pardon, for Kings mouths so meet.
York, Speak it in French, King; say, Pardonnez moy.
Dutch. Dost thou teach pardon, pardon to destroy? Ah, my sow'r husband, my hard-hearted lord, That fet'st the word ir self, against the word. Speak pardon, as 'tis current in our Land; The chopping French we do not understand. Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there : Or, in thy piteous heart, plant thou thine ear; That, hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce, Pity may move thee Pardon to rehearse.
Boling. With all my heart I pardon him. Dutch. A God on earth thou art. Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law, the
Abbot, (23) With all the rest of that consorted crew, Destruction freight shall dog them at the heels. Good Uncle, help to order several Powers To Oxford, or where-e'er these traytors are. They shall not live within this world, I swear; But I will have them, if I once know where. Uncle, farewel ; and cousin too, adieu Your mother well hath pray’d, and prove you true. Dutch. Come, my old son; I pray heav'n make thee
[Exeunt. Enter Exton and a Servant. Exton. Didit thou not mark the King, what words
he spake? “ Have I no friend wilt rid me of this living fear?, Was it not so?
(23) But for our trusty Brother-in-law, the Abbot,
-] With. out these Marks of Disjun&ion, which I have thought proper to add, the Abbot here mention'd and Bolingbroke's Brother-in-law seem to be one and the same Person: but this was not the case. The Abbot of Westminster was an Ecclefiaftic; but' the Brother-in-law, meant, was John Duke of Exeter and Earl of Huntingdon, (own Brother to King Richard II.) and who had married with the Lady Elizabeth Sister to Henry of Bolingbroke.
Serv. Those were his very words.
Exton. “Have I no friend? quoth he; he fpakc
And urg'd it twice together; did he not?
Serv. He did.
Exton. And speaking it, he wiftly look'd on mo,
As who shall say, - I would, thou wert the man,
That would divorce this terror from my heart,
Meaning the King at Pomfret. Come, let's go :
I am the King's friend, and will rid his foe. '[Exeunt.
SCENE changes to the Prison at Pomfret
Enter King Richard.
Have been ftudying, how to compare
This prison, where I live, unto the world;
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but my self,
I cannot do it, yet I'll hammer on't.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul,
My soul, the father; and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts ;
And these same thoughts people this little world
In humour, like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented. The better fort,
As thoughts, of things divine,) are intermixt
With scruples, and do set the word it self
Against the word; as thus ; Come, little ones; and then
It is as bard to come, as for a Camel
To thread the postern of a needle's eye.
Thoughts, tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders; how these vain weak nails
May tear a passage through the Ainty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison-walls :
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to Content, Aatter themselves,
That they are not the first of fortune's flaves,
And shall not be the laft: (Like filly beggars,
Who, fitting in the Stocks, refuge their Ihame
That many have, and others must fit there;)
And, in this thought, they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of such as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play 1, in one prison, many people,
And none contented. Sometimes am I King,
Then treason makes me with my self a beggar,
And so I am. Then crushing penury
Perswades me, I was better when a King;
Then am I king'd again; and by and by,
Think, that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And streight am nothing - but what-e'er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
With being nothing - Music do I hear?
Ha, ha; keep time: how sow'r sweet music is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept?
So is it in the music of men's lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To check time broke in a disorderd string;
But for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke:
I wafted time, and now doth time waste me.
For now hath time made me his numbring clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar,
Their watches to mine eyes the outward watch;
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, Sir, the sounds, that tell what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell; fo sighs, and tears, and groans,
Shew minutes, hours, and times — 0, but my time
Runs posting on, in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his jack o'th' clock.
This music mads me, let it sound no more;
For though it have help'd mad man to their wits,
In me it leems, it will make wise men mad.
Yet Blessing on his heart, that gives it me!