« PreviousContinue »
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 tine thou wert
away. Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say.
(Exit. 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 am weary of it.
[Beats the Keeper. Keep. Help, help, help!
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 apother room in bell.
(He kills another, then Extou strikes him
down. That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire, That staggers thus my person.- Exton, thy fierce
haud 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 sivks downward, here to die.
Erton. As full of valour, as of royal blood :
Windsor. A room in the Castle.
Flourish. Enter Boling broke, and York, with
lords and attendants.
Welcome, my lord : What is the news?
[Presenting a paper. Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy
pains ; And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London The heads of Brocas, and Sir Bennet Seely;
Two of the dangerous consorted traitors,
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 West
Enter Exton, with attendants bearing a coffin.
Exton. Great king, within this coffiu 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
wrought A deed of slander, with thy fatal hand, Upon my head, and all this famous land. Exton. From your owu mouth, my lord, did I
this deed. 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 nie, to make me grow:
Come, mouru with me for what I do lament,
This play is one of those which Shakspeare has ap. parently revised ; but as success in works of inven. tion is not always proportionate to labour, it is not finished at last with the happy force of some other of his tragedies, nor can be said much to affect the pas sions, or enlarge the understanding.