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And then, betwixt me and my married wife.
Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me!
And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made. -
Part us, Northumberland! I towards the north,
Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime;
My wife to France'; from whence, set forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither, like sweet May,
Sent back like Hallowmas, or short'st of day.
Queen. And must we be divided? must we part?
K. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart
from heart.

Queen. Banish us both, and send the king with me!
North. That were some 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 sighs, I mine with groans.
Queen. So longest way shall have the longest moans.
K. Rich. Twice for one steep I'll groan, the way be-
ing short,

And piece the way out with a heavy heart.
Come, come, in wooing sorrow let's be brief,
Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief.
One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part;
Thus give I mine, and thus I take thy heart.

[They kiss.
Queen. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good part,
To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart. [Kiss again.
So, now I have mine own again, begone,
That I may strive to kill it with a groan.

K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay. Once more, adieu! the rest let sorrow say! [Exeunt. SCENE II.

The same.

A room in the Duke of York's palace.

Enter YORK, and his Duchess.


That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in these events;

To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow.
Enter AUMerle.

Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle.
York. Aumerle that was;

But that is lost, for being Richard's friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now:
am in parliament pledge for his truth,
And lasting fealty to the new-made king.
Duch. Welcome, my son! Who are the violets now,
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?
Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not:
God knows, I had as lief be none, as one.

York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime.
What news from Oxford? hold those justs and

Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do.
York. You will be there, I know.

Aum. If God prevent it not, I purpose so.

York. What seal is that, that hangs without thy bosom?

Yea, look'st thou pale? let me see the writing!
Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.

York. No matter then who sees it.

will be satisfied, let me see the writing!
Aum. I do beseech your grace to pardon me;
It is a matter of small consequence,

Which for some reasons I would not have seen.
York. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear,-

Duch. What should you fear?

Duch. My lord, you told me, you would tell the rest, 'Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter'd into When weeping made you break the story off

Of our two cousins coming into London.

York. Where did I leave?

Duch. At that sad stop, my lord,

Where rude misgovern'd hands, from window's tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head.
York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Boling-

Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,
With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course,
While all tongues cried: God save thee,

For gay apparel, 'gainst the triumph day.

York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond,
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool. -
Boy, let me see the writing!

Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me! I may not show it.
York. I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say.

[Snatches it, and reads. Treason! foul treason!- villain! traitor! slave! Duch. What is the matter, my lord?

York. Ho! who is within there? [Enter a Servant.]
Saddle my horse!

Boling-God for his mercy! what treachery is here!
Duch. Why, what is it, my lord?

You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls,
With painted imag'ry, had said at once:
Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower, than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus:-I thank you, countrymen:
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.
Duch. 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 idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God save him!
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,

York. Give me my boots, I say! saddle my horse! For by mine honour, by my life, my troth, I will impeach the villain!

Duch. What's the matter?

York. Peace, foolish woman!

[Exit Servant.

Duch. I will not peace! - What is the matter, son? Aum. Good mother, be content: it is no more Than my poor life must answer. Duch. Thy life answer!

Re-enter Servant, with boots. York. Bring me my boots! I will unto the king. Duch. Strike him, Aumerle! - Poor boy, thou art amaz'd: :

Hence, villain; never more come in my sight!
[To the Servant.

York. Give me my boots, I say.
Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?

Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?
York. Thou fond mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?

A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.

Duch. He shall be none;

We'll keep him here. Then what is that to him?
York. Away,

Fond woman! were he twenty times my son,
I would appeach him.

Duch. Hadst thou groan'd for him,
As I have done, thou'dst be more pitiful.

But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect,
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son.

Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind!
He is as like thee, as a man may be,

Not like to me, or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.

York. Make way, unruly woman!


Duch. After, Aumerle! mount thee upon his horse,
Spur, post, and get before him to the king,
And beg thy pardon, ere he do accuse thee!
I'll not be long behind; though I be old,

I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:
And never will I rise up from the ground,
Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away;


SCENE III.-Windsor. A room in the castle. Enter BOLINGBROKE as King; PERCY, and other Lords.

Boling. Can no man tell of my unthrifty son? 'Tis full three months, since I did see him last. If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.

I would to God, my lords, he might be found.
Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there!
For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,
With unrestrained loose companions;

Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes,
And beat our watch, and rob our passengers;
While he, young, wanton, and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour, to support
So dissolute a crew.

Percy. My lord, some two days since I saw the

And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford.
Boling. And what said the gallant?

Percy. His answer was, he would unto the stews;
And from the common'st creature pluck a glove,

And wear it as a favour; and with that

He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.

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Boling. What is the matter, uncle? speak!
Recover breath! tell us, how near is danger,
That we may arm us to encounter it.

York. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know
The treason, that my haste forbids me show.
I do repent me. Read not my name there!
Aum. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise past!

My heart is not confederate with my hand.

York. 'Twas, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.-
I tore it from the traitor's bosom, king;
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence;
Forget to pity him! lest thy pity prove

A sei pent, that will sting thee to the heart.
Boling. Oheinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!—
O loyal father of a treacherous son!

Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,
From whence this stream, through muddy passages,
Bath held his current, and defil'd himself!
Thy overflow of good converts to bad,
Aud thy abundant goodness shall excuse
This deadly blot in thy digressing 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 traitor lives, the true man's put to death.
Duch. [Within.] What ho, my liege! for God's sake
let me in!

Boling. What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes this
eager cry?

Duch. 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.

Boling. As dissolute, as desperate! yet, through both My dangerous cousin, let your mother in!

I see some sparkles of a better hope,

Which elder days may happily bring forth.

But who comes here?

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I know, she's come to pray for your foul sin.
York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
More sins, for this forgiveness, prosper may.
This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rests sound;
This, let alone, will all the rest confound.

Enter Duchess.

Duch. O king, believe not this hard-hearted man! Love, loving not itself, none other can.

York. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here?

Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?
Duch. Sweet York, be patient! Hear me,gentle liege!

Boling. Rise up, good aunt!
Duch. Not yet, I thee beseech.
For ever will I kneel upon my knees,
And never see e day, that the happy sees,
Till thou give joy, until thou bid me joy,
By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.

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Meaning, the king at Pomfret. Come, let's go!
[Kneels. I am the king's friend, and will rid his foe. [Exeunt.
SCENE V. — Pomfret. The dungeon of the castle.
Enter King RICHARD.

York. Against them both, my true joints bended be.

Ill may'st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!
Duch. Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face!
His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest ;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast.
He prays but faintly, and would be denied;
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 hypocrisy ;
Ours, of true zeal, and deep integrity.

Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have
That mercy, which true prayers ought to have!
Boling. Good aunt, stand up!

Duch. Nay, do not say: stand up;

But pardon first; and 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!
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 moi!
Duch. Dost thou teach pardon, pardon to destroy?
Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,
That set'st the word itself 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. Good aunt, stand up!
Duch. I do not sue to stand,
Pardon is all the suit, I have in hand.

Boling. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.
Duch. 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.

Boling. With all my heart

I pardon him.

Duch. A god on earth thou art.


K. Rich. I have been studying, how I may compare
This prison, where I live, unto the world:
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.
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 humours, like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented. The better sort,
As thoughts of things divine, are intermix'd
With scruples, and do set the word itself
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 passage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison 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 slaves,
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,
Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame,
That many have, and others must sit 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 I, in one person, many people,
And none contented: sometimes am I king;
Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am. Then crushing penury
Persuades me, I was better, when a king;
Then am I king'd again: and, by-art-by,
Think, that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing: — but, whate'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? [Music.
Ha, ha! keep time: - how sour sweet music is,

Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law, and the When time is broke, and no proportion kept!


With all the rest of that consorted crew,
Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.
Good uncle, help to order several powers
To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are!
They shall not live within this world, I swear,
But I will have them, if I once know where.
Uncle, farewell! and cousin too, adieu!
Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.
Duch. Come, my old son! I pray God make thee



Enter EXTON, and a Servant.

Exton. Didst thou not mark the king, what words he

Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?
Was it not so?

Serv. Those were his very words.

So is it in the music of men's lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To check time broke in a disorder'd string;
But, for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear, to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
For now hath time made me his numb'ring clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and, with sighs, they jar
Their watches on to mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointig still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, sir, the sound, that tells what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell: so sighs, and tears, and groans,
Show minutes, times, and hours:- - but
my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o'the clock.
This music mads me, let it sound no more!
For, though it have holpe madmen to their wits,
In me, it seems it will make wise men mad.

Exton. Have I no friend?quoth he: he spake it twice, Yet blessing on his heart, that gives it me!
And urg'd it twice together; did he not?

Serv. He did.

Exton. And, speaking it, he wistfully look'd on me;
As who should say: I would, thou wert the man,
That would divorce this terror from my heart!

For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.
Enter Groom.

Groom. Hail, royal prince!
K. Rich. Thanks, noble peer!

The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
What art thou? and how comest thou hither,
Where no man ever comes, but that sad dog
That brings me food, to make misfortune live?
Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometimes master's face.
O, how it yearn'd my heart, when I beheld
In London streets that coronation day,
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary!
That horse, that thou so often hast bestrid;
That horse, that I so carefully have dress'd!
K. Rich.Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,
How went he under him?

Groom. So proudly, as if he disdain'd the ground.
K. Rich. So proud, that Bolingbroke was on his back!
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down,
(Since pride must have a fall,) and break the neck
Of that proud man, that did usurp his back?
Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be aw'd by man,
Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;
And yet I bear a burden, like an ass,
Spur-gall'd, and tir'd, by jauncing Bolingbroke.
Enter Keeper, with a dish.
Keep. Fellow, give place! here is no longer stay.
[To the Groom.
K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time, thou wert away.
Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart
shall say.

Keep. My lord, will't please you to fall to? K. Rich. Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do! Keep. My lord, I dare not; sir Pierce of Exton, who Lately came from the king, commands the contrary. K. Rich. The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and thee!

Patience is stale, and I'm weary of it.

Keep. Help, help, help!

[Beats the Keeper.

Enter EXTON, and Servants, armed. K. Rich. How now? what means death in this rude assault? Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument. [Snatching a weapon, and killing one.

Go thou, and fill another room in hell!

[He kills another, then Exton strikes him down. That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire, That staggers thus my person.-Exton,thy fierce hand Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land. Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward here to die. [Dies.

Exton. As full of valour, as of royal blood! Both have I spilt. O, would the deed were good! For now the devil, that told me, I did well, Says, that this deed is chronicled in hell. This dead king to the living king I'll bear. Take hence the rest, and give them burial here! [Exeunt.

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[Presenting a paper.

Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains, And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. Enter FITZWater.

Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London The heads of Brocas, and Sir Bennet Seely; Two of the dangerous consorted traitors, That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow. Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot; Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

Enter PERCY, with the Bishop of CARLISLE. Percy.The grand conspirator, abbot of Westminster, With clog of conscience, and sour melancholy, Hath yielded up his body to the grave: But here is Carlisle living, to abide Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride. Boling. Carlisle, this is your doom: Choose out some secret place, some reverend room, More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life! So, as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife! For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.

Enter EXTON, with Attendants bearing a coffin.
Exton. Great king, within this coffin I present
Thy buried fear; herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bourdeaux, by me hither brought.
Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast

A deed of slander, with thy fatal hand,
Upon my head, and all this famous land.
Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did I this

Boling, They love not poison, that do poison need.
Nor do I thee; though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word, nor princely favour!
With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
And never show thy head by day nor light!
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow;
Come, mourn with me for what I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent!
I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. -
March sadly after; grace my mournings here,
In weeping after this untimely bier!


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A C T I.

Sir RICHARD Vernon.



PETO. BARdolph.

Lady PERCY, wife to HOTSPUR, and sister to MoR


Lady MORTIMER, daughter to GLENDOWER, and wife to MORTIMER.

Mrs QUICKLY, hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap. Lords, Officers,Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, Two Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants. SCENE,- England.

SCENE I.- London. A room in the palace. Enter King HENRY, WESTMORELAND, Sir WALTER BLUNT, and Others.

K. Hen. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant, And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenc'd in stronds afar remote. No more the thirsty Eriunys of this soil Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood; No more shall trenching war channel her fields, Nor bruise her flowrets with the armed hoofs Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes, Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven, All of one nature, of one substance bred, Did lately meet in the intestine shock And furious close of civil butchery, Shall now, in mutual, well-beseeming ranks, March all one way, and be no more oppos'd Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies. The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife, No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends, As far as to the sepulchre of Christ, Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross We are impressed and engaged to fight, Forthwith a power of English shall we levy; Whose arms were moulded in their mothers' womb, To chase these pagans, in those holy fields, Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet, Which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nail'd For our advantage on the bitter cross. But this our purpose is a twelve-month old, And bootless 'tis to tell you-we will go; Therefore we meet not now. - - Then let me hear Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland, What yesternight our council did decree, In forwarding this dear expedience.

West. My liege, this haste was hot in question,
And many limits of the charge set down
But yesternight: when, all athwart, there came
A post from Wales, loaden with heavy news,
Whose worst was,-that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Against the irregular and wild Glendower,
Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,
And a thousand of his people butchered:
Upon whose dead corps there was such misuse,
Such beastly, shameless transformation

By those Welshwomen done, as may not be,
Without much shame, re-told or spoken of.

K. Hen. It seems then, that the tidings of this broil
Brake off our business for the Holy Land.
West. This, match'd with other, did, my gracious

For more uneven and unwelcome news
Came from the north, and thus it did import.
On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there,
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon met,

Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour;
As by discharge of their artillery,

And shape of likelihood, the news was told;
For he, that brought them, in the very heat
And pride of their contention did take horse,
Uncertain of the issue any way.

K. Hen. Here is a dear and true-industrious friend,
Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,
Stain'd with the variation of each soil
Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours;
And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.
The earl of Douglas is discomfited;

Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights,
Balk'd in their own blood, did sir Walter see
On Holmedon's plains. Of prisoners, Hotspur took
Mordake the earl of Fife, and eldest son
To beaten Douglas; and the earls of Athol,
Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.
And is not this an honourable spoil?
A gallant prize? ha, cousin, is it not?
West. In faith,

It is a conquest for a prince to boast of.
K. Hen. Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, and makʼst

me sin

In envy, that my lord Northumberland
Should be the father of so blest a son;

A son, who is the theme of honour's tongue;
Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant;
Who is sweet fortune's minion, and her pride:
Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,
See riot and dishonour stain the brow
Of my young Harry. O, that it could be prov'd,
That some night-tripping fairy had exchang'd
In cradle-clothes our children, where they lay,"
And call'd mine- Percy, his -Plantagenet!
Then would I have his Harry, and he mine.
But let him from my thoughts!-What think you, coz,
Of this young Percy's pride? the prisoners,
Which he in this adventure hath surpriz'd,
To his own use he keeps, and sends me word,
I shall have none, but Mordake, earl of Fife.

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