Imatges de pÓgina

Which on thy Royal party granted once,
His glittering Arms he will commend to Ruft;
His barbed Steeds to Stables, and his Heart
To faithful Service of your Majefty:

This fwears he, as he is a Prince, is just,
And as I am a Gentleman, I credit him.

K. Rich. Northumberland, fay thus: The King returns,
His noble Coufin is right welcome hither,
And all the Number of his fair Demands
Shall be accomplish'd without Contradiction;
With all the gracious Utterance thou haft,
Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends.
We do debafe our felf, Coufin, do we not,
To look fo poorly, and to fpeak fo fair?
Shall we call back Northumberland, and fend
Defiance to the Traitor, and fo die?"

[7. Aum.

Aum. No, good my Lord, let's fight with gentle Words, 'Till time lend Friends, and Friends their hopeful Swords. K. Rich. Oh God, oh God that e'er this Tongue of mine, That laid the Sentence of dread Banishment

On yond proud Man, fhould take it off again
With Words of footh; oh that I were as great
As is my Grief, or leffer than my Name;
Or that I could forget what I have been,
Or not remember what I must be now.

Swell'ft thou, proud Heart? I'll give thee Scope to beat,
Since Foes have Scope to beat both thee and me.

Aum. Northumberland comes back from Bullingbroke.
K. Rich. What must the King do now? Must hefubmit ?
The King fhall do it: Muft he be depos'd?

The King fhall be contented: Must he lose
The Name of King? o'God's Name let it go.
I'll give my Jewels for a Set of Beads;
My gorgeous Pallace, for a Hermitage;
My gay Apparel, for an Alms-man's Gown;
My figur'd Goblets, for a Difh of Wood;
My Scepter, for a Palmer's walking Staff,
My Subjects, for a Pair of carved Saints,
And my large Kingdom, for a little Grave,
A little little Grave, an obfcure Grave.
Or I'll be bury'd in the King's Highway;


Some way of common Trade, where Subjects Feet
May hourly trample on their Soveraign's Head;
For on my Heart they tread now, whilft I live;
And bury'd once, why not upon my Head?
Aumerle, thou weep'ft, my tender hearted Coufin,
We'll make foul Weather with defpifed Tears.
Our Sighs, and they, fhall lodge the Summer Corn,
And make a Dearth in this revolting Land.

Or fhall we play the Wantons with our Woes,
And make fome pretty Match with shedding Tears?
As thus, to drop them ftill upon one Place,
'Till they have fretted us a Pair of Graves,
Within the Earth; and therein laid, there lyes
Two Kinsmen digg'd their Graves with weeping Eyes?
Would not this ill do well? Well, well, I fee
I talk but idely, and you mock at me.

Moft mighty Prince, my Lord Northumberland,
What fays King Bullingbroke? Will his Majefty
Give Richard leave to live, 'till Richard die?
You make a Leg, and Bullingbroke fays I.

North. My Lord, in the bafe Court he doth attend To speak with you, may it please you to come down. K. Rich. Down, down I come, like glift'ring Phaeton, Wanting the Manage of unruly Jades.

In the bafe Court? bafe Court where Kings grow base,
To come at Traitors Calls, and do them Grace.

In the base Court come down; down Court, down King,
For Night Owls fhriek, where mounting Larks fhould fing.
Bulling. What fays his Majefty?

North. Sorrow, and Grief of Heart

Makes him fpeak fondly like a frantick Man ;

Yet he is come.

Bulling. Stand all apart,

And fhew fair Duty to his Majesty.

My gracious Lord.

K. Rich. Fair Coufin,

You debase your Princely Knee,

To make the bafe Earth proud with kiffing it.
Me rather had, my Heat might feel your Love,
Than my un-pleas'd Eve fee your Courtefie.
Up Coufin, up, your Heart is up, I know,
I 4



Thus high at least, although your Knee be low.

Bulling. My gracious Lord, I come but for mine own. K. Rich. Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all. Bulling. So far be mine, my moft redoubted Lord, As my true Service fhall deferve your Love.

K. Rich. Well you deferv'd:

They well deferve to have,

That know the ftrong'ft and fureft way to get.
Uncle, give me your Hand; nay, dry your Eyes,
Tears thew their Love, but want their Remedies.
Coufin, I am too young to be your Father,
Though you are old enough to be my Heir.
What you will have, I'll give, and willing too,
For do we muft, what Force will have us do.
Set on towards London:

Coufin, is it fo?

Bulling. Yea, my good Lord.

K. Rich. Then I muft not fay no.


[Flourish, Exeunt •


Enter Queen, and two Ladies.

Queen. What Sport fhall we devife here in this Garden, To drive away the heavy thought of Care?

Lady. Madam, we'll play at Bow's.

Queen. 'Till make me think the World is full of Rubs, And that my Fortune runs against the Bias.

Lady. Madam, we'll dance.

Queen. My Legs can keep no Measure in Delight,

When my poor Heart no Measure keeps in Grief.

Therefore no dancing, Girl; fome other Sport.
Lady. Madam, we'll tell Tales.

Queen. Of Sorrow, or of Grief?
Lady. Of either, Madam,

Queen. Of neither, Girl.

For if of Joy, being altogether wanting,
It doth remember me the more of Sorrow:
Or if of Grief, being altogether had,
It adds more Sorrow to my want of Joy:
For what I have, I need not to repeat:
And what I want, it boots not to complain.


Lady. Madam, I'll fing.

Queen. 'Tis well that thou haft Cause;

But thou should'st please me better, would't thou weep.
Lady. I could weep, Madam, would it do you good?
Queen. And I could fing, would weeping do me good,
And never borrow any Tear of thee.

Enter a Gardiner, and two Servants.
But ftay, here comes the Gardiners;
Let's ftep into the Shadow of these Trees.
My Wretchednefs, unto a row of Pines,
They'll talk of State; for every one doth fo,
Against a Change; wo is fore-run with wo.

Gard. Go bind thou up yond dangling Apricocks,
Which like unruly Children, make their Syre
Stoop with oppreffion of their prodigal weight:
Give fome fupportance to the bending Twigs.
Go thou, and like an Executioner

Cut off the Heads of too faft growing sprays,
That look too lofty in our Commonwealth:
All must be even in our Government.
You thus imploy'd, I will go root away
The noisom Weeds that without profit fuck
The Soil's fertility from wholfom Flowers.

Serv. Why fhould we in the compass of a Pale,
Keep Law and Form, and due Proportion,
Shewing, as in a Model, our firm State?
When our Sea-walled Garden, the whole Land,
Is full of Weeds, her faireft Flowers choakt up,
Her Fruit-trees all uprun'd, her Hedges ruin'd,
Her Knots diforder'd, and her wholfom Herbs
Swarming with Caterpillers.

Gard. Hold thy Peace,

He that hath fuffer'd this disorder'd Spring,
Hath now himself met with the fall of Leaf,

The Weeds that his broad-fpreading Leaves did shelter,
That feem'd in eating him, to hold him up,
Are puli'd up, Root and all, by Bullingbroke;
I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bufby, Green.
Serv. What, are they dead?

Gard. They are,

And Bullingbroke hath feiz'd the wafteful King.


What pity is it, that he had not trimm'd

And dreft his Land, as we this Garden at time of Year;
And wound the Bark, the Skin of our Fruit-trees,
Left being over proud with Sap and Blood,
With too much Riches it confound it felf?
Had he done fo, to great and growing Men,
They might have liv'd to bear, and he to tafte
Their Fruits of Duty. All fuperfluous Branches
We lop away, that bearing Boughs may live:
Had he done fo, himfelf had born the Crown,
Which waste and idle Hours hath quite thrown down.
Serv. What think you the King fhall be depos'd ?
Gard. Depreft he is already, and depos'd
'Tis doubted he will be. Letters came laft Night
To a dear Friend of the Duke of York,

That tell black Tidings.

Queen. Oh Iampreft to Death through want of speaking; Thou old Adam's likeness, fet to drefs this Garden,

How dares thy harth Tongue found this unpleafing News? What Eve? What Serpent hath fuggefted thee,

To make a fecond fall of curfed Man?

Why doft thou fay, King Richard is depos'd?
Dar'ft thou, thou little better thing than Earth,
Divine his downfal? Say, where, when, and how
Cam'st thou by this ill Tidings? Speak, thou Wretch.
Gard. Pardon me, Madam. Little joy have I
To breath these News; yet what I fay is true;
King Richard, he is in the mighty hold

Of Bullingbroke, their Fortunes both are weigh'd:
In your Lord's Scale, is nothing but himself,
And fome few Vanities that make him light:
But in the Ballance of great Bullingbroke,
Befides himself, are all the English Peers,
And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.
Poft you to London, and you'll find it fo;

I fpeak no more, than every one doth know.

Queen. Nimble Mifchance, that art fo light of Foot,
Doth not thy Embaffage belong to me?
And am I laft that knows it? Oh thou think'ft
To ferve me last, that I may longest keep.
Thy Sorrow in my Breaft. Come Ladies, go,


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