Edw. Nay, start not; I have cause
To wonder most: I little thought, indeed,
When Warwick told me I might learn to love,
He was himself so able to instruct me:
But I've discover'd all.-
Too well I know thy breach of friendship there, Thy fruitless base endeavours to supplant me.
Edw. I scorn it, Sir, - Elizabeth hath charms, And I have equal right with you to admire them; Nor see I aught so godlike in the form, So all commanding in the name of Warwick, That he alone should revel in the charms Of beauty, and monopolize perfection. I knew not of your love.
War. By Heav'n 'tis false! You knew it all, and meanly took occasion, Whilst I was busy'd in the noble office Your grace thought fit to honour me withal, To tamper with a weak unguarded woman, To bribe her passions high, and basely steal A treasure which your kingdom could not pur
Edw. How know you that? But be it as it may, I had a right; nor will I tamely yield My claim to happiness, the privilege To choose the partner of my throne and bed; It is a branch of my prerogative.
War. Prerogative! what's that? the boast of
tyrants; A borrow'd jewel, glitt'ring in the crown With specious lustre, lent but to betray: You had it, Sir, and hold it from the people. Edw. And therefore do I prize it; I would
Their liberties, and they shall strengthen mine;
But when proud Faction and her rebel crew,
Insult their sov'reign, trample on his laws,
And bid defiance to his pow'r, the people,
In justice to themselves, will then defend
His cause, and vindicate the rights they gave.
War. Go to your darling people, then; for soon,
If I mistake not, 'twill be needful; try
Their boasted zeal, and see if one of them
Will dare to lift his arm up in your cause,
If I forbid them.
Edw. Is it so my lord?
Then mark my words: I've been your slave too
And you have rul'd me with a rod of iron;
But henceforth know, proud peer, I am thy master,
And will be so: the king who delegates
His pow'r to other's hands, but ill deservs
The crown he wears.
War. Look well then to your own;
It sits but loosely on your head; for know,
The man who injur'd Warwick never pass'd
Unpunish'd yet.
Edw. Nor he who threaten'd Edward-
You may repent it, Sir, -my guards there-sieze
This traitor, and convey him to the Tow'r;
There let him learn obedience.
CHAP. ΧΙΙ.
Orlando and Adam.
Orla. W no's there?
Adam. What, my young master ? Oh, my
Oh, my sweet master, Oh you memory
Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what makes you here?
Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and va-
Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bony priser of the humorous Duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do your's: : your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
Oh, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!
Orla. Why what's the matter!
Adam. O unhappy youth,
Come not within these doors; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives:
Your brother-(no; no brother; yet the son,-
Yet not the son; I will not call him son
Of him I was about to call his father,)
Hath heard your praises, and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you us'd to lie,
And you within it: if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off;
I overheard him, and his practices:
This is no palace; this house is but a butchery;
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.
Orla. Why, whither Adam wouldst thou have
me go? Adam. No matter whither, so you come not
Orla. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg
Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce
A thievish living on the common road?
This must I do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can;
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother.
Adam. But do not so; I have five hundred
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown:
Take that; and he that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! here is the gold;
All this I give you, let me be your servant:
The' I look old, yet I am strong and lusty
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;
Nor did I with unbashful forehead woo
'The means of weakness and debility; Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, Frosty, but kindly; let me go with you;
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.
Orla. Oh! good old man, how well in thee
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion;
And, having that, do choak their service up
Even with the having; it is not so with thee;
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
But come thy ways, we'll go along together,
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some settled low content.
Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow thee
To the last gasp with truth and loyalty;
From seventeen years till now, almost fourscore,
Here lived 1, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
But at fourscore it is too late a week;
Yet fortune cannot recompence me better
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.
Scroop and Richard.
ORE health and happiness betide my
Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him!
K. Rich. Mine ear is open, and my heart pre
The worst is wordly loss thou canst unfold.
Book viij. Say, is my kingdom lost? Why, 'twas my care; And what loss is it to be rid of care? Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we? Greater he shall not be; if he serve God, We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so. Revolt our subjects? That we cannot mend; They break their faith to God, as well as us. Cry woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay; The worst is death, and death will have his day. Scroop. Glad am I that your Highness is sa
To bear the tidings of calamity.
Like an unseasonable stormy day,
Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,
As if the world were all dissolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits swells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring your fearful land
With hard bright steel, and hearts more hard than
White beards have armed their thin and hairless
Against thy Majesty; boys, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clasp their female joints
In stiff unwieldy arms, against thy crown;
The very beadsmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal yew against thy state;
Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills.
Against thy seat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have pow'r to tell.
K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'st a tale
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
What is become of Busby? where is Green ?
-No matter where; of comfort no man speak.
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth!
Let's chuse executors, and talk of wills;
And yet not so for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all, are Bolingbrok's,
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