Thou clear, immaculate, and filver fountain,
From whence this ftream, through muddy paffages,
Hath had his current, and defil'd himself,
Thy overflow of good converts to bad; (22)
And thine abundant goodness fhall excufe.
This deadly blot, in thy digreffing fon.

York. So fhall my virtue be his vice's bawd,
And he shall spend mine honour with his fhame;
As thriftless fons their scraping fathers gold.
Mine honour lives, when his dishonour dies:
Or my fham'd life in his difhonour lies:
Thou kill'ft 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
me in.

Boling. What fhrill-voic'd Suppliant makes this eager cry?

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 ferious thing,
And now chang'd to the Beggar, and the King:
My dang'rous Coufin, let your mother in;
I know, fhe's come to pray for your foul fin.
York. If thou do pardon, whofoever pray,
More fins for his forgiveness profper may;
This fefter'd joint cut off, the rest is found;
This, let alone, will all the reft confound.

Enter Dutchess.

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 Obfervation of the Naturalifts. That the Extream of any Thing is eafily converted to its Contrary. Mr. Warburton.

Dutch.

Dutch. Sweet York, be patient; hear me, gentle Liege.

Boling. Rife up, good aunt.

Dutch. Not yet, I thee befeech;

For ever will I kneel upon my knees,

And never fee day that the happy fees,
Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,
By pard'ning Rutland, my tranfgreffing boy.

[Kneels.

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 earneft? look upon his face;
His eyes do drop no tears, his pray'r's in jeft;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:
He
prays but faintly, and would be deny'd;

We pray with heart and foul, and all befide.

His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;
Our knees fhall kneel, till to the ground they grow.
His prayers are full of falfe hypocrifie,

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, ftand up.

Dutch. Nay, do not fay ftand up,

But pardon firft; fay afterwards, stand up.
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon fhould be the firft word of thy fpeech.
I never long'd to hear a word till now:
Say, Pardon, King; let pity teach thee how.
Boling. Good aunt, ftand up.

Dutch. I do not fue to ftand,

Pardon is all the fuit I have in hand.

Boling. I pardon him, as heav'n fhall pardon me.
Dutch. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!

Yet am I fick for fear; fpeak it again:
Twice faying pardon, doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon ftrong.

The word is fhort, but not so short as sweet;

No

No word like pardon, for Kings mouths fo meet.
York. Speak it in French, King, fay, Pardonnez moy.
Dutch. Doft thou teach pardon, pardon to destroy?
Ah, my fow'r husband, my hard-hearted lord,
That fet'ft the word it felf, against the word.
Speak pardon, as 'tis current in our Land;
The chopping French we do not understand.
Thine eye begins to fpeak, fet 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 rehearfe.

Boling. With all my heart

I pardon him..

Dutch. A God on earth thou art.

Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law,
Abbot,

(23)

the

With all the rest of that conforted crew,
Destruction freight thall dog them at the heels.
Good Uncle, help to order feveral Powers
To Oxford, or where-e'er these traytors are.
They fhall not live within this world, I fwear;
But I will have them, if I once know where.
Uncle, farewel; and coufin too, adieu
Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.
Dutch. Come, my old fon; I pray heav'n make thee
[Exeunt.

new.

Enter Exton and a Servant.

Exton Didit thou not mark the King, what words he fpake?

"Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?, Was it not fo?

(23) But for our trufty Brother-in-law, - the Abbot, -] Without thefe Marks of Disjunction, which I have thought proper to add, the Abbot here mention'd and Bolingbroke's Brother-in-law feem to be one and the fame Perfon: but this was not the Cafe. 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.

it twice,

quoth he; he fpake

And urg'd it twice together; did he not?
Serv. He did.

Exton. And speaking it, he wiftly look'd on me,
As who fhall fay, 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 Caftle.

Enter King Richard.

Have been ftudying, how to compare,
This prifon, where I live, unto the world;
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but my felf,
I cannot do it; yet I'll hammer on't.
My brain I'll prove the female to my foul,
My foul, the father; and these two beget
A generation of ftill-breeding thoughts;
And these fame 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 fcruples, and do fet the word it felf

Against the word; as thus; Come, little ones; and then again,

It is as hard 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 paffage through the flinty ribs.
Of this hard world, my ragged prifon-walls:
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to Content, flatter themselves,
That they are not the first of fortune's flaves,

And

And shall not be the laft: (Like filly beggars,
Who, fitting in the Stocks, refuge their fhame
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 fuch as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play I, in one prison, many people,
And none contented. Sometimes am I King,
Then treafon makes me with my felf a beggar,
And fo I am. Then crushing penury

[Mufic.

Perfwades 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 fhall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
With being nothing-Mufic do I hear?
Ha, ha, keep time: how fow'r fweet mufic is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept?
So is it in the mufic of men's lives.
And here have I the daintinefs of ear,
To check time broke in a disorder'd ftring;
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 fighs they jar,
Their watches to mine eyes the outward watch;
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,

Is pointing ftill, in cleanfing them from tears.
Now, Sir, the founds, that tell what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that ftrike upon my heart,
Which is the bell; fo fighs, and tears, and groans,
Shew minutes, hours, and times- O, but my time
Runs pofting on, in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I ftand fooling here, his jack o'th' clock.
This mufic mads me, let it found no more;
For though it have help'd mad man to their wits,
In me it feems, it will make wife men mad.
Yet Bleffing on his heart, that gives it me!

For