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Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth.
Would God, that any in this noble presence
Were enough noble to be upright judge
Of noble Richard; then true nobless would
Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong.
What subject can give sentence on his king?
And who sits here that is not Richard's subject?
Thieves are not judg'd, but they are by to hear,
Although apparent guilt be seen in them.
And shall the figure of God's majesty,
His captain, steward, deputy elect,
Anointed, crowned, planted many years,
Be judg'd by subject and inferior breath,
And he himself not present? O, forbid it, God,
That, in a Christian climate, soul's refin'd
Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed!
I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks,
Stirr'd up by heaven thus boldly for his king.
My lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,
Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king:
And if you crown him, let me prophesy,-
The blood of English shall manure the ground,
And future ages groan for this foul act;
Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,
And, in this seat of peace, tumultuous wars
Shall kin with kin, and kind with kind confound;
Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny,
Shall here inhabit, and this land be call'd
The field of Golgotha, and dead men's sculls.
O, if you rear this house against this house,
It will be the woefullest division prove,
That ever fell upon this cursed earth:
Prevent, resist it, let it not be so,
Lest child, child's children, cry against you-woe!
North. Well have you argu'd, sir; and, for your

Of capital treason we arrest you here:-
My lord of Westminster, be it your charge
To keep him safely till his day of trial.-
May it please you, lords, to grant the commons' suit?
Boling. Fetch hither Richard, that in common view
He may surrender; so we shall proceed
Without suspicion.

York. I will be his conduct. [Exit. Boling. Lords, you that are here under our arrest, Procure your sureties for your days of answer :Little are we beholden to your love, (To Carlisle) And little look'd for at your helping hands.

Re-enter YORK, with King RICHARD, and Officers bearing the crown, &c.

K. Rich. Alack, why am I sent for to a king, Before I have shook off the regal thoughts Wherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee :Give sorrow leave a while to tutor me To this submission. Yet I well remember The favours of these men: Were they not mine? Did they not sometime cry, all hail! to me? So Judas did to Christ: but he, in twelve, Found truth in all, but one; I, in twelve thousand,


God save the king!-Will no man say amen? Am I both priest and clerk? well then, amen. God save the king! although I be not he; And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me.To do what service am I sent for hither?

York. To do that office, of thine own good will, Which tired majesty did make thee offer,The resignation of thy state and crown To Henry Bolingbroke.

Boling. I thought you had been willing to resign. K. Rich. My crown I am; but still my griefs are You may my glories and my state depose, [mine: But not my griefs; still am I king of those.


Boling. Part of your cares you give me with your [down. K. Rich. Your cares, set up, do not pluck my cares My care is-loss of care, by old care done; Your care is gain of care, by new care won: The cares I give, I have, though given away; They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.

Boling. Are you contented to resign the crown? K. Rich. Ay, no;-no, ay :-for I must nothing Therefore no no, for I resign to thee. [be; Now mark me how I will undo myself:I give this heavy weight from off my head, And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand, The pride of kingly sway from out my heart; With mine own tears I wash away my balm, With mine own hands I give away my crown, With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, With mine own breath release all duteous oaths: All pomp and majesty I do forswear; My manors, rents, and revenues, I forego; My acts, decrees, and statutes, I deny: God pardon all oaths, that are broke to me! God keep all vows unbroke, are made to thee! Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd; And thou with all pleas'd, that hast all achiev'd! Long mayst thou live in Richard's seat to sit, And soon lie Richard in an earthy pit! God save king Henry, unking'd Richard says, And send him many years of sunshine days! What more remains? North.

[seize the crown;

K. Rich. Give me the crown-Here, cousin,
Here, on this side, my hand; on that side, thine.
Now is this golden crown like a deep well,
That owes two buckets filling one another;
The emptier ever dancing in the air,

The other down, unseen, and full of water:
The bucket down, and full of tears, am I,

No more, but that you read (Offering a paper) These accusations, and these grievous crimes, Committed by your person, and your followers, Against the state and profit of this land; That, by confessing them, the souls of men May deem that you are worthily depos'd.

K. Rich. Must I do so? and must I ravel out
My weav'd-up follies? Gentle Northumberland,
If thy offences were upon record,
Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop,
To read a lecture of them? If thou would'st,
There should'st thou find one heinous article,-
Containing the deposing of a king,

Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heaven:-
And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,-
Nay, all of you, that stand and look upon me,
Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,—
Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands,
Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates
Have here deliver'd me to my sour cross,
And water cannot wash away your sin.

North. My lord, despatch; read o'er these articles. K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see: And yet salt water blinds them not so much, But they can see a sort of traitors here. Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself, I find myself a traitor with the rest: For I have given here my soul's consent, To undeck the pompous body of a king; Make glory base; and sovereignty, a slave; Proud majesty, a subject; state, a peasant.

North. My lord,


K. Rich. No lord of thine, thou haught, insulting Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no title,No, not that name was given me at the font,But 'tis usurp'd:-Alack the heavy day, That I have worn so many winters out, And know not now what name to call myself! O, that I were a mockery king of snow, Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke, To melt myself away in water-drops!Good king,-great king,-(and yet not greatly An if my word be sterling yet in England,


Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high. Let it command a mirror hither straight;


That it may show me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.
Boling. Go some of you, and fetch a looking-
[Exit an Attendant.
North. Read o'er this paper, while the glass doth
[to hell.
K. Rich. Fiend! thou torment'st me ere I come
Boling. Urge it no more, my lord Northumberland.
North. The commons will not then be satisfied.
K. Rich. They shall be satisfied; I'll read enough,
When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ, and that's-myself.
Re-enter Attendant, with a glass.

Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears;
Come home with me to supper; I will lay
A plot, shall show us all a merry day.


Give me that glass, and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds?-O, flattering glass,
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face,
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face,
That, like the sun, did make beholders wink?
Was this the face, that fac'd so many follies,
And was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face:
As brittle as the glory is the face;

(Dashes the glass against the ground)
For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.-
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,-
How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.
Boling. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd
The shadow of your face.

K. Rich.

Say that again. The shadow of my sorrow? Ha! let's see:'Tis very true, my grief lies all within; And these external manners of lament

Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,
That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul;
There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st
Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,
And then be gone, and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?


Name it, fair cousin.

K. Rich. Fair cousin? Why, I am greater than a king:

For, when I was a king, my flatterers

Were then but subjects; being now a subject,
I have a king here to my flatterer.
Being so great, I have no need to beg.
Boling. Yet ask.

K. Rich. And shall I have?

Boling. You shall.


K. Rich. Then give me leave to go.
Boling. Whither?
K. Rich. Whither you will, so I were from your
Boling. Go, some of you, convey him to the
[you all,

K. Rich. O, good! Convey?-Conveyers are That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall.

[Exeunt K. Richard, some Lords, and a Guard. Boling. On Wednesday next, we solemnly set down

Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves. [Exeunt all but the Abbot, Bishop of Carlisle, and Aumerle.

Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here beheld. Car. The woe's to come; the children yet unborn

Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.

Aum. You holy clergymen, is there no plot To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?

Abbot. Before I freely speak my mind herein, You shall not only take the sacrament To bury mine intents, but to effect Whatever I shall happen to devise:I see your brows are full of discontent,


SCENE I.-London. A Street leading to the Tower. Enter QUEEN and Ladies.

Queen. This way the king will come; this is the To Julius Cæsar's ill-erected tower, [way To whose flint bosom my condemned lord Is doom'd a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke: Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth Have any resting for her true king's queen.

Enter King RICHARD, and Guards. But soft, but see, or rather do not see, My fair rose wither: Yet look up; behold; That you in pity may dissolve to dew, And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand; Thou map of honour; thou king Richard's tomb, And not king Richard; thou most beauteous inn, Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee, When triumph is become an alehouse guest?

K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair woman, do

not so,

To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul,
To think our former state a happy dream;
From which awak'd, the truth of what we are
Shows us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet,
To grim necessity; and he and I

Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France,
And cloister thee in some religious house:
Our holy lives must win a new world's crown,
Which our profane hours here have stricken down.
Queen. What, is my Richard both in shape and
Transform'd, and weaken'd? Hath Bolingbroke
Depos'd thine intellect? Hath he been in thy heart?
The lion, dying, thrusteth forth his paw,
And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o'erpower'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take thy correction mildly? kiss the rod;
And fawn on rage with base humility,
Which art a lion, and a king of beasts?

K. Rich. A king of beasts, indeed; if aught but I had been still a happy king of men. [beasts, Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France:

Think, I am dead; and that even here thou tak'st,
As from my death-bed, my last living leave.
In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire

With good old folks; and let them tell thee tales
Of woeful ages, long ago betid:

And, ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds.
For why, the senseless brands will sympathize
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,
And, in compassion, weep the fire out:
And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,
For the deposing of a rightful king.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, attended. North. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd;

You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.-
And, madam, there is order ta'en for you;
With all swift speed you must away to France.
K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder, where-

The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,-
The time shall not be many hours of age
More than it is, ere foul sin, gathering head,
Shall break into corruption: thou shalt think,
Though he divide the realm, and give thee half,
It is too little, helping him to all;


And he shall think, that thou, which know'st the
To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,
Being ne'er so little urg'd, another way
To pluck him headlong from the usurp'd throne.
The love of wicked friends converts to fear;
That fear, to hate; and hate turns one, or both,
To worthy danger, and deserved death.

North. My guilt be on my head, and there an end.


Take leave, and part; for you must part forth-
K. Rich. Doubly divorc'd?--Bad men, ye violate
A twofold marriage; 'twixt my crown and me;
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
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



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
[being short,
K. Rich. Twice for one step I'll groan, the way
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. [delay: K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond 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.

Duch. My lord, you told me, you would tell the rest, 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 Bolingbroke,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, Boling



You would have thought the very window
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,-
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.


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; I am in parliament pledge for his truth, And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

Duch. Welcome, my son: Who are the violets


That strew the green lap of the new-come spring? Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care God knows, I had as lief be none, as one. [not: 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 triumphs?

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

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

No matter then who sees it:

I 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,-

What should you fear? "Tis nothing but some bond that he is enter'd into 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.

[show it. Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me ; I may not 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.

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

York. Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse:

For by mine honour, by my life, my troth,
I will impeach the villain.

[Exit Servant.
What's the matter?
York. Peace, foolish woman.
Duch. I will not peace:-What is the matter,
Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.



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.

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.

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:

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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 prince;

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.

Boling. As dissolute, as desperate: yet, through I see some sparkles of a better hope, Which elder days may happily bring forth. But who comes here!


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Aum. God save your grace. I do beseech your To have some conference with your grace alone. majesty, Boling. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.[Exeunt Percy and Lords. What is the matter with our cousin now? Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth, (Kneels)

My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth,
Unless a pardon, ere I rise, or speak.

Boling. Intended, or committed, was this fault?
If but the first, how heinous ere it be,
To win thy after-love, I pardon thee.


Aum. Then give me leave, that I may turn the That no man enter till my tale be done.

Boling. Have thy desire. (Aumerle locks the door.) York. (Within.) My liege, beware; look to thyself;

Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.
Boling. Villain, I'll make thee safe. (Drawing.)
Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand;

Thou hast no cause to fear.

York. (Within.) Open the door, secure, foolhardy king: Shall I, for love, speak treason to thy face? Open the door, or I will break it open. (Bolingbroke opens the door.)

Enter YORK.

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

[know York. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt The treason that my haste forbids me show. Aum. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise past:

I do repent me; read not my name there,
My heart is not confederate with my hand.
York. 'Twas, villain, ere thy hand did set it

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 serpent, 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,
Hath held his current, and defil'd himself!
Thy overflow of good converts to bad;
And 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.-
My dangerous cousin, let your mother in;
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, with 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. (Kneels.)

Boling. Rise up, good aunt. Duch. Not yet, I thee beseech: For ever will I kneel upon my knees, And never see day, that the happy sees, Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy, By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy. Aum. Unto my mother's prayers, bend my knee. (Kneels.) York. Against them both, my true joints bended be. (Kneels.) 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.
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 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


Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy? Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord, That sett'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.

With all my heart

A god on earth thou art. Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law,-and the abbot,

Boling. I pardon him. Duch.

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 new.


Enter EXTON, and a Servant.

Exton. Didst thou not mark the king, what words he spake? Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear? Was it not so?

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SCENE V.-Pomfret. The Dungeon of the Castle. Enter King RICHARD.

K. Rich. I have been studying how I may compare

This prison where I live, unto the world:
And, for because the world is populons,
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 and 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,
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 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 pointing 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.
Yet blessing on his heart, that gives it me!

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