Containing the depofing of a King,
And cracking the ftrong warrant of an oath,
Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heav'n.
Nay, all of you, that ftand and look upon me,
Whilft that my wretchednefs doth bait my felf,
Though fome of you with Pilate wafh your hands,
Shewing an outward pity; yet you Pilates
Have here deliver'd me to my fow'r cross,
And water cannot wash away your fin.
North. My lord, difpatch; read o'er thefe articles.
K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears: I cannot fee:
'And yet falt-water blinds them not fo much,
But they can fee a fort of traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon my felf,
I find my felf a traitor with the reft:
For I have given here my foul's confent,
T'undeck the pompous body of a King
Made glory bafe; a foveraign, a flave;
Proud Majefty, a fubject: state, a peafant.
North. My lord.
K. Rich. No lord of thine, infulting man ; Nor no man's I have no name, no title;
No, not that's lord : I h
sgiv'n me at the font,
But 'tis ufurp'd. Alack the heavy day,
That I have worn fo many winters out,
And know not now, what name to call my felf.
Oh, that I were a mockery King of fnow,
Standing before the fun of Bolingbroke,
To melt my felf away in water drops.
Ah if my word be sterling yet in England, [To Boling. Let it command a mirror hither freight,
That it may thew me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his Majefty.
Boling. Go fome of you and fetch a looking-glafs.
North. Read o'er this paper, while the glafs doth come,
Good King, great King, and yet not greatly good,
Ah if my,
K. Rich. Fiend, thou torment'ft me, ere I come to hell.
Boling. Urge it no more, my lord Nothumberland.
North. The commons will not then be fatisfy'd.
K. Rich. They fhall be fatisfy'd: I'll read enough,
When I do fee the very book indeed,
Where all my fins are writ, and that's my felf.
Give me that glafs, and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? hath forrow ftruck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds? oh flaut'ring glafs,
Like to my followers in profperity,
Thou doft beguile me. Was this face, the face
That every day under his houfhold-roof
Did keep ten thousand men was this the face,
That like the fun did make beholders wink ?
How foon my forrow hath deftroy'd my face?
Boling. The fhadow of your forrow hath destroy'd
The fhadow of your face.
K. Rich. Say that again.
The fhadow of my forrow! ha, let's fee,
'Tis very true, my grief lies all within,
And thefe external manners of laments
Are merely fhadows to the unfeen grief,
That fwells with filence in the tortur'd foul.
There lies the fubftance: and I thank thee, King,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv'ft
Me cause to wail, but teacheft me the way
How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,
Is this the face, which fac'd fo many follies,
That was at laft out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory fhineth in this face,
As brittle as the glory, is the face,
For there it is, crackt in an hundred shivers.
Mark, filent King, the moral of this fport,
How foon my forrow, &c.
And then be gone, and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?
Boling. Name it, fair coufin.
K. Rich. Fair coufin! I am greater than a King:
For when I was a King, my flatterers
Were then but fubjects; being now a fubject,
I have a King here to my flatterer:
Being fo great, I have no need to beg.
Boling. Yet ask.
K. Rich. And fhall I have?: 1
Boling. You fhall.
K. Rich. Then give me leave to go.
Boling. Whither.
K. Rich. Whither you will, fo I were from your fight. Boling. Go fome of you, convey him to the Tower. On Wednesday next we folemnly fet down.
Our coronation lords, prepare your felves.
[Ex. all but Abbot, Bishop of Carlisle and Aumerle.
Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here beheld.. Bishop. The woe's to come; the children yet unborn Shall feel this day as fharp to them as thorn.
Aum. You holy clergy-men, is there no plot
To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?
Abbot. Before freely fpeak my mind herein,
You fhall not only take the facrament, Jot of
To bury mine intents, but
Whatever I fhall happen to devife..
I fee your brows are full of difcontent,
Your hearts of forrow, and your eyes of tears.
Come home with me to fupper, and I'll lay
A Plot shall shew us all a merry day.
K. Rich. Oh good; convey: conveyers are you all, That rife thus nimbly by a true King's fall..
To Julius Cafar's ill-erected tow'r,
To whofe flint bofom, my condemned
lord!
Is doom'd a prifoner, by proud Boling
adddd. A Here let us reft, if this rebellious earthy, kurgjo Have any refting for her true King's Queen.
Enter King Richard and Guards,
But foft, but fee, or rather do not fee,
My fair rofe wither; yet look up; behold,..
That you in pity may diffolve to dew,
And wash him fresh again with true-love tears...
O thou the model where old Troy did stand,
d) [To K. Rich.
Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb,
And not King Richard; thou most beauteous Inny
Why fhould hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee,
When triumph is become an ale-house guests
K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not fo, A To make my end too fudden learn, good foul,GA To think our former ftate a happy dream,
From which awak'd, the truth of what we are
Shews us but this. I am fworn brother, sweet
To grim Neceffity; and he and I
Will keep a league till death. Hye thee to France,
And cloister thee in fome religious houfe;
Our holy lives muft win a new world's crown,
Which our profane hours here have ftricken down.
Queen. How, is my Richard both in shape and mind
Transform'd and weak? hath Bolingbroke depos'd
Thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart?
The Lion dying thrufteth forth his paw,,
And wounds the earth, if nothing elfe, with rage
To be o'erpow'r'd: and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take thy correction mildly, kifs the rod,
And fawn on rage with base humility,
Which art a Lion and a King of beasts?
K. Rich. A King of beafts indeed, if ought but beafts, I had been fill a happy King of men.
Good, † fometime Queen, prepare thee hence for France;
Think I am dead, and that ev'n here thou tak'ft,
As from my death bed, my last living leave.
In winter's tedious nights fit by the fire
With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales
Of woeful ages, long ago betide:
And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And fend the hearers weeping to their beds. *
tfometime, for formerly.
to their beds, lor!
For why? the fenfelefs brands will fympathize"
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue, des
And in compaffion weep the fire out on o
And fome will mourn in lathes, fome coal-black,
For the depofing of a rightful King.
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