Richard II First Folio

Old Iohn of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaſter,

Haſt thou according to thy oath and band

Brought hither Henry Herford thy bold ſon:

Heere to make good ˝ boiſtrous late appeale,

Which then our leyſure would not ſet vs heare,

Againſt the Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Mowbray?

I haue my Liege.

Tell me moreouer, haſt thou ſounded him,

If he appeale the Duke on ancient malice,

Or worthily as a good ſubieƈt ſhould

On ſome knowne ground of treacherie in him.

As neere as I could ſiſt him on that argument,

On ſome apparant danger ſeene in him,

Aym’d at your Highneſſe, no inueterate malice.

Then call them to our preſence face to face,

And frowning brow to brow, our ſelues will heare

Th’accuſer, and the accuſed, freely ſpeake;

High ſtomack’d are they both, and full of ire,

In rage, deafe as the ſea; haſtie as fire.

Many yeares of happy dayes befall

My gracious Soueraigne, my moſt louing Liege.

Each day ſtill better others happineſſe,

Vntill the heauens enuying earths good hap,

Adde an immortall title to your Crowne.

We thanke you both, yet one but flatters vs,

As well appeareth by the cauſe you come,

Namely, to appeale each other of high treaſon.

Cooſin of Hereford, what doſt thou obieƈt

Againſt the Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Mowbray?

Firſt, heauen be the record to my ſpeech,

In the deuotion of a ſubieƈts loue,

Tendering the precious ſafetie of my Prince,

And free from other miſbegotten hate,

Come I appealant to this Princely preſence.

Now Thomas Mowbray do I turne to thee,

And marke my greeting well: for what I ſpeake,

My body ſhall make good vpon this earth,

Or my diuine ſoule anſwer it in heauen.

Thou art a Traitor, and a Miſcreant;

Too good to be ſo, and too bad to liue,

Since the more faire and chriſtall is the skie,

The vglier ſeeme the cloudes that in it flye:

Once more, the more to aggrauate the note,

With a foule Traitors name ſtuffe I thy throte,

And wiſh (ſo pleaſe my Soueraigne) ere I moue,

What my tong ſpeaks, my right drawn ſword may proue

Let not my cold words heere accuſe my zeale:

’Tis not the triall of a Womans warre,

The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,

Can arbitrate this cauſe betwixt vs twaine:

The blood is hot that muſt be cool’d for this.

Yet can I not of ſuch tame patience boaſt,

As to be huſht, and nought at all to ſay.

Firſt the faire reuerence of your Highneſſe curbes mee,

From giuing reines and ſpurres to my free ſpeech,

Which elſe would poſt, vntill it had return’d

Theſe tearmes of treaſon, doubly downe his throat.

Setting aſide his high bloods royalty,

And let him be no Kinſman to my Liege,

I do defie him, and I ſpit at him,

Call him a ſlanderous Coward, and a Villaine:

Which to maintaine, I would allow him oddes,

And meete him, were I tide to runne afoote,

Euen to the frozen ridges of the Alpes,

Or any other ground inhabitable,

Where euer Engliſhman durſt ſet his foote.

Meane time, let this defend my loyaltie,

By all my hopes moſt falſely doth he lie.

Pale trembling Coward, there I throw my gage,

Diſclaiming heere the kindred of a King,

And lay aſide my high bloods Royalty,

Which feare, not reuerence makes thee to except.

If guilty dread hath leſt thee ſo much ſtrength,

As to take vp mine Honors pawne, then ſtoope.

By that, and all the rites of Knight-hood elſe,

Will I make good againſt thee arme to arme,

What I haue ſpoken, or thou canſt deuiſe.

I take it vp, and by that ſword I ſweare,

Which gently laid my Knight-hood on my ſhoulder,

Ile anſwer thee in any faire degree,

Or Chiualrous deſigne of knightly triall:

And when I mount, aliue may I not light,

If I be Traitor, or vniuſtly fight.

What doth our Coſin lay to Mowbraies charge?

It muſt be great that can inherite vs,

So much as of a thought of ill in him.

Looke what I ſaid, my life ſhall proue it true,

That Mowbray hath receiu’d eight thouſand Nobles,

In name of lendings for your Highneſſe Soldiers,

The which he hath detain’d for lewd employments,

Like a falſe Traitor, and iniurious Villaine.

Beſides I ſay, and will in battaile proue,

Or heere, or elſewhere to the furtheſt Verge

That euer was ſuruey’d by Engliſh eye,

That all the Treaſons for theſe eighteene yeeres

Complotted, and contriued in this Land,

Fetch’d from falſe Mowbray their firſt head and ſpring.

Further I ſay, and further will maintaine

Vpon his bad life, to make all this good.

That he did plot the Duke of Glouſters death,

Suggeſt his ſoone beleeuing aduerſaries,

And conſequently, like a Traitor Coward,

Sluc’d out his innocent ſoule through ſtreames of blood:

Which blood, like ſacrificing Abels cries,

(Euen from the toongleſſe cauernes of the earth)

To me for iuſtice, and rough chaſticement:

And by the glorious worth of my diſcent,

This arme ſhall do it, or this life be ſpent.

How high a pitch his reſolution ſoares:

Thomas of Norfolke, what ſayeſt thou to this?

Oh let my Soueraigne turne away his face,

And bid his eares a little while be deafe,

Till I haue told this ſlander of his blood,

How God, and good men, hate ſo foule a lyar.

Mowbray, impartiall are our eyes and eares,

Were he my brother, nay our kingdomes heyre,

As he is but my fathers brothers ſonne;

Now by my Scepters awe, I make a vow,

Such neighbour-neereneſſe to our ſacred blood,

Should nothing priuiledge him, nor partialize

The vn-ſtooping firmeneſſe of my vpright ſoule.

He is our ſubieƈt (Mowbray) ſo art thou,

Free ſpeech, and feareleſſe, I to thee allow.

Then Bullingbrooke, as low as to thy heart,

Through the falſe paſſage of thy throat; thou lyeſt:

Three parts of that receipt I had for Callice,

Disburſt I to his Highneſſe ſouldiers;

The other part reſeru’d I by conſent,

For that my Soueraigne Liege was in my debt,

Vpon remainder of a deere Accompt,

Since laſt I went to France to fetch his Queene:

Now ſwallow downe that Lye. For Glouſters death,

I ſlew him not; but (to mine owne diſgrace)

Negleƈted my ſworne duty in that caſe:

For you my noble Lord of Lancaſter,

The honourable Father to my fœ,

Once I did lay an ambuſh for your life,

A treſpaſſe that doth vex my greeued ſoule:

But ere I laſt receiu’d the Sacrament,

I did confeſſe it, and exaƈtly begg’d

Your Graces pardon, and I hope I had it.

This is my fault: as for the reſt appeal’d,

It iſſues from the rancour of a Villaine,

A recreant, and moſt degenerate Traitor,

Which in my ſelfe I boldly will defend,

And interchangeably hurle downe my gage

Vpon this ouer-weening Traitors foote,

To proue my ſelfe a loyall Gentleman,

Euen in the beſt blood chamber’d in his boſome.

In haſt whereof, moſt heartily I pray

Your Highneſſe to aſſigne our Triall day.

Wrath-kindled Gentlemen be rul’d by me:

Let’s purge this choller without letting blood:

This we preſcribe, though no Phyſition,

Deepe malice makes too deepe inciſion.

Forget, forgiue, conclude, and be agreed,

Our Doƈtors ſay, This is no time to bleed.

Good Vnckle, let this end where it begun,

Wee’l calme the Duke of Norfolke; you, your ſon.

To be a make-peace ſhall become my age,

Throw downe (my ſonne) the Duke of Norfolkes gage.

And Norfolke, throw downe his.

When Harrie when? Obedience bids,

Obedience bids I ſhould not bid agen.

Norfolke, throw downe, we bidde; there is no boote.

My ſelfe I throw (dread Soueraigne) at thy foot.

My life thou ſhalt command, but not my ſhame,

The one my dutie owes, but my faire name

Deſpight of death, that liues vpon my graue

To darke diſhonours vſe, thou ſhalt not haue.

I am diſgrac’d, impeach’d, and baffel’d heere,

Pierc’d to the ſoule with ſlanders venom’d ſpeare:

The which no balme can cure, but his heart blood

Which breath’d this poyſon.

Rage muſt be withſtood:

Giue me his gage: Lyons make Leopards tame.

Yea, but not change his ſpots: take but my ſhame,

And I reſigne my gage. My deere, deere Lord,

The pureſt treaſure mortall times afford

Is ſpotleſſe reputation: that away,

Men are but gilded loame, or painted clay.

A Iewell in a ten times barr’d vp Cheſt,

Is a bold ſpirit, in a loyall breſt.

Mine Honor is my life; both grow in one:

Take Honor from me, and my life is done.

Then (deere my Liege) mine Honor let me trie,

In that I liue; and for that will I die.

Cooſin, throw downe your gage,

Do you begin.

Oh heauen defend my ſoule from ſuch foule ſin.

Shall I ſeeme Creſt-falne in my fathers ſight,

Or with pale beggar-feare impeach my hight

Before this out-dar’d daſtard? Ere my toong,

Shall wound mine honor with ſuch feeble wrong;

Or ſound ſo baſe a parle: my teeth ſhall teare

The ſlauiſh motiue of recanting feare,

And ſpit it bleeding in his high diſgrace,

Where ſhame doth harbour, euen in Mowbrayes face.

We were not borne to ſue, but to command,

Which ſince we cannot do to make you friends,

Be readie, (as your liues ſhall anſwer it)

At Couentree, vpon S. Lamberts day:

There ſhall your ſwords and Lances arbitrate

The ſwelling difference of your ſetled hate:

Since we cannot attone you, you ſhall ſee

Iuſtice deſigne the Viƈtors Chiualrie.

Lord Marſhall, command our Officers at Armes,

Be readie to direƈt theſe home Alarmes.

Alas, the part I had in Glouſters blood,

Doth more ſolicite me then your exclaimes,

To ſtirre againſt the Butchers of his life.

But ſince correƈtion lyeth in thoſe hands

Which made the fault that we cannot correƈt,

Put we our quarrell to the will of heauen,

Who when they ſee the houres ripe on earth,

Will raigne hot vengeance on offenders heads.

Findes brotherhood in thee no ſharper ſpurre?

Hath loue in thy old blood no liuing fire?

Edwards ſeuen ſonnes (whereof thy ſelfe art one)

Were as ſeuen violles of his Sacred blood,

Or ſeuen faire branches ſpringing from one roote:

Some of thoſe ſeuen are dride by natures courſe,

Some of thoſe branches by the deſtinies cut:

But Thomas, my deere Lord, my life, my Glouſter,

One Violl full of Edwards Sacred blood,

One flouriſhing branch of his moſt Royall roote

Is crack’d, and all the precious liquor ſpilt;

Is hackt downe, and his ſummer leafes all vaded

By Enuies hand, and Murders bloody Axe.

Ah Gaunt! His blood was thine, that bed, that wombe,

That mettle, that ſelfe-mould that faſhion’d thee,

Made him a man: and though thou liu’ſt, and breath’ſt,

Yet art thou ſtaine in him: thou doſt conſent

In ſome large meaſure to thy Fathers death,

In that thou ſeeſt thy wretched brother dye,

Who was the modell of thy Fathers life.

Call it not patience (Gaunt) it is diſpaire,

In ſuffring thus thy brother to be ſlaughter’d,

Thou ſhew’ſt the naked pathway to thy life,

Teaching ſterne murther how to butcher thee:

That which in meane men we intitle patience

Is pale cold cowardice in noble breſts:

What ſhall I ſay, to ſafegard thine owne life,

The beſt way is to venge my Glouſters death.

Heauens is the quarrell: for heauens ſubſtitute

His Deputy annointed in his ſight,

Hath caus’d his death, the which if wrongfully

Let heauen reuenge: for I may neuer liſt

An angry arme againſt his Miniſter.

Where then (alas may I) complaint my ſelfe?

To heauen, the widdowes Champion to defence

Why then I will: farewell old Gaunt.

Thou go’ſt to Couentrie, there to behold

Our Coſine Herford, and fell Mowbray fight:

O ſit my husbands wrongs on Herfords ſpeare,

That it may enter butcher Mowbrayes breſt:

Or if misfortune miſſe the firſt carreere,

Be Mowbrayes ſinnes ſo heauy in his boſome,

That they may breake his foaming Courſers backe,

And throw the Rider headlong in the Liſts,

A Caytiffe recreant to my Coſine Herford:

Farewell old Gaunt, thy ſometimes brothers wife

With her companion Greefe, muſt end her life.

Siſter farewell: I muſt to Couentree,

As much good ſtay with thee, as go with mee.

Yet one word more: Greefe boundeth where it falls,

Not with the emptie hollownes, but weight:

I take my leaue, before I haue begun,

For ſorrow ends not, when it ſeemeth done.

Commend me to my brother Edmund Yorke.

Lœ, this is all: nay, yet depart not ſo,

Though this be all, do not ſo quickly go,

I ſhall remember more. Bid him, Oh, what?

With all good ſpeed at Plaſhie viſit mee.

Alacke, and what ſhall good old Yorke there ſee

But empty lodgings, and vnfurniſh’d walles,

Vn-peopel’d Offices, vntroden ſtones?

And what heare there for welcome, but my grones?

Therefore commend me, let him not come there,

To ſeeke out ſorrow, that dwels euery where:

Deſolate, deſolate will I hence, and dye,

The laſt leaue of thee, takes my weeping eye.

My L. Aumerle, is Harry Herford arm’d.

Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.

The Duke of Norfolke, ſprightfully and bold,

Stayes but the ſummons of the Appealants Trumpet.

Why then the Champions, are prepar’d, and ſtay

For nothing but his Maieſties approach.

Marſhall, demand of yonder Champion

The cauſe of his arriuall heere in Armes,

Aske him his name, and orderly proceed

To ſweare him in the iuſtice of his cauſe.

In Gods name, and the Kings ſay who ӳ art,

And why thou com’ſt thus knightly clad in Armes?

Againſt what man thou com’ſt, and what’s thy quarrell,

Speake truly on thy knighthood, and thine oath,

As ſo defend thee heauen, and thy valour.

My name is Tho. Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,

Who hither comes engaged by my oath

(Which heauen defend a knight ſhould violate)

Both to defend my loyalty and truth,

To God, my King, and his ſucceeding iſſue,

Againſt the Duke of Herford, that appeales me:

And by the grace of God, and this mine arme,

To proue him (in defending of my ſelfe)

A Traitor to my God, my King, and me,

And as i truly fight, defend me heauen.

Marſhall: Aske yonder Knight in Armes,

Both who he is, and why he commeth hither,

Thus placed in habiliments of warre:

And formerly according to our Law

Depoſe him in the iuſtice of his cauſe.

What is thy name? and wherfore comſt ӳ hither

Before King Richard in his Royall Liſts?

Againſt whom com’ſt thou? and what’s thy quarrell?

Speake like a true Knight, ſo defend thee heauen.

Harry of Herford, Lancaſter, and Derbie,

Am I: who ready heere do ſtand in Armes,

To proue by heauens grace, and my bodies valour,

In Liſts, on Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolke,

That he’s a Traitor foule, and dangerous,

To God of heauen, King Richard, and to me,

And as I truly fight, defend me heauen.

On paine of death, no perſon be ſo bold,

Or daring hardie as to touch the Liſtes,

Except the Marſhall, and ſuch Officers

Appointed to direƈt theſe faire deſignes.

Lord Marſhall, let me kiſſe my Soueraigns hand,

And bow my knee before his Maieſtie:

For Mowbray and my ſelfe are like two men,

That vow a long and weary pilgrimage,

Then let vs take a ceremonious leaue

And louing farwell of our ſeuerall friends.

The Appealant in all duty greets your Highnes,

And craues to kiſſe your hand, and take his leaue.

We will deſcend, and fold him in our armes.

Coſin of Herford, as thy cauſe is iuſt,

So be thy fortune in this Royall fight:

Farewell, my blood, which if to day thou ſhead,

Lament we may, but not reuenge thee dead.

Oh let no noble eye prophane a teare

For me, if I be got’d with Mowbrayes ſpeare:

As confident, as is the Falcons flight

Againſt a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.

My louing Lord, I take my leaue of you,

Of you (my Noble Coſin) Lord Aumerle;

Not ſicke, although I haue to do with death,

But luſtie, yong, and cheerely drawing breath.

Lœ, as at Engliſh Feaſts, ſo I regreete

The daintieſt laſt, to make the end moſt ſweet.

Oh thou the earthy author of my blood,

Whoſe youthfull ſpirit in me regenerate,

Doth with a two-fold rigor liſt mee vp

To reach at viƈtory aboue my head,

Adde proofe vnto mine Armour with thy prayres,

And with thy bleſsings ſteele my Lances point,

That it may enter Mowbrayes waxen Coate,

And furniſh new the name of Iohn a Gaunt,

Euen in the luſty hauiour of his ſonne.

Heauen in thy good cauſe make thee proſp’rous

Be ſwiſt like lightning in the execution,

And let thy blowes doubly redoubled,

Fall like amazing thunder on the Caske

Of thy amaz’d pernicious enemy.

Rouze vp thy youthfull blood, be valiant, and liue.

Mine innocence, and S. George to thriue.

How euer heauen or fortune caſt my lot,

There liues, or dies, true to Kings Richards Throne,

A loyall, iuſt, and vpright Gentleman:

Neuer did Captiue with a freer heart,

Caſt off his chaines of bondage, and embrace

His golden vncontroul’d enfranchiſement,

More then my dancing ſoule doth celebrate

This Feaſt of Battell, with mine Aduerſarie.

Moſt mighty Liege, and my companion Peeres,

Take from my mouth, the wiſh of happy yeares,

As gentle, and as iocond, as to ieſt,

Go I to fight: Truth, hath a quiet breſt.

Farewell, my Lord, ſecurely I eſpy

Vertue with Valour, couched in thine eye:

Order the triall Marſhall, and begin.

Harrie of Herford, Lancaſter, and Derby,

Receiue thy Launce, and heauen defend thy right.

Strong as a towre in hope, I cry Amen.

Go beare this Lance to Thomas D. of Norfolke.

Harry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derbie,

Stands heere for God, his Soueraigne, and himſelfe,

On paine to be found falſe, and recreant,

To proue the Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Mowbray,

A Traitor to his God, his King, and him,

And dares him to ſet forwards to the fight.

Here ſtandeth Tho: Mowbray Duke of Norfolk

On paine to be found falſe and recreant,

Both to defend himſelfe, and to approue

Henry of Herford, Lancaſter, and Derby,

To God, his Soueraigne, and to him diſloyall:

Couragiouſly, and with a free deſire

Attending but the ſignall to begin.

Sound Trumpets, and ſet forward Combatants:

Stay, the King hath throwne his Warder downe.

Let them lay by their Helmets & their Speares,

And both returne backe to their Chaires againe:

Withdraw with vs, and let the Trumpets ſound,

While we returne theſe Dukes what we decree.

Draw neere and liſt

What with our Councell we haue done.

For that our kingdomes earth ſhould not be ſoyld

With that deere blood which it hath foſtered,

And for our eyes do hate the dire aſpeƈt

Of ciuill wounds plowgh’d vp with neighbors ſwords,

Which ſo rouz’d vp with boyſtrous vntun’d drummes,

With harſh reſounding Trumpets dreadfull bray,

And grating ſhocke of wrathfull yron Armes,

Might from our quiet Confines fright faire peace,

And make vs wade euen in our kindreds blood:

Therefore, we baniſh you our Territories.

You Coſin Herford, vpon paine of death,

Till twice fiue Summers haue enrich’d our fields,

Shall not regreet our faire dominions,

But treade the ſtranger pathes of baniſhment.

Your will be done: This muſt my comfort be,

That Sun that warmes you heere, ſhall ſhine on me:

And thoſe his golden beames to you heere lent,

Shall point on me, and gild my baniſhment.

Norfolke: for thee remaines a heauier dombe,

Which I with ſome vnwillingneſſe pronounce,

The ſlye ſlow houres ſhall not determinate

The dateleſſe limit of thy deere exile:

The hopeleſſe word, of Neuer to returne,

Breath I againſt thee, vpon paine of life.

A heauy ſentence, my moſt Soueraigne Liege,

And all vnlook’d for from your Highneſſe mouth:

A deerer merit, not ſo deepe a maime,

As to be caſt forth in the common ayre

Haue I deſerued at your Highneſſe hands.

The Language I haue learn’d theſe forty yeares

(My natiue Engliſh) now I muſt forgo,

And now my tongues vſe is to me no more,

Then an vnſtringed Vyall, or a Harpe,

Or like a cunning Inſtrument cas’d vp,

Or being open, put into his hands

That knowes no touch to tune the harmony.

Within my mouth you haue engaol’d my tongue,

Doubly perculliſt with my teeth and lippes,

And dull, vnfeeling, barren ignorance,

Is made my Gaoler to attend on me:

I am too old to fawne vpon a Nurſe,

Too farre in yeeres to be a pupill now:

What is thy ſentence then, but ſpeechleſſe death,

Which robs my tongue from breathing natiue breath?

It boots thee not to be compaſsionate,

Aſter our ſentence, plaining comes too late.

Then thus I turne me from my countries light

To dwell in ſolemne ſhades of endleſſe night.

Returne againe, and take an oath with thee,

Lay on our Royall ſword, your baniſht hands;

Sweare by the duty that you owe to heauen

(Our part therein we baniſh with your ſelues)

To keepe the Oath that we adminiſter:

You neuer ſhall (ſo helpe you Truth, and Heauen)

Embrace each others loue in baniſhment,

Nor euer looke vpon each others face,

Nor euer write, regreete, or reconcile

This lowring tempeſt of your home-bred hate,

Nor euer by aduiſed purpoſe meete,

To plot, contriue, or complot any ill,

’Gainſt Vs, our State, our Subieƈts, or our Land.

I ſweare.

And I, to keepe all this.

Norfolke, ſo fare, as to mine enemie,

By this time (had the King permitted vs)

One of our ſoules had wandred in the ayre,

Baniſh’d this fraile ſepulchre of our fleſh,

As now our fleſh is baniſh’d from this Land.

Confeſſe thy Treaſons, ere thou flye this Realme,

Since thou haſt farre to go, beare not along

The clogging burthen of a guilty ſoule.

No Bullingbroke: If euer I were Traitor,

My name be blotted from the booke of Life,

And I from heauen baniſh’d, as from hence:

But what thou art, heauen, thou, and I do know,

And all too ſoone (I feare) the King ſhall rue.

Farewell (my Liege) now no way can I ſtray,

Saue backe to England, all the worlds my way.

Vncle, euen in the glaſſes of thine eyes

I ſee thy greeued heart: thy ſad aſpeƈt,

Hath from the number of his baniſh’d yeares

Pluck’d foure away: Six frozen Winters ſpent,

Returne with welcome home, from baniſhment.

How long a time lyes in one little word:

Foure lagging Winters, and foure wanton ſprings

End in a word, ſuch is the breath of Kings.

I thanke my Liege, that in regard of me

He ſhortens foure yeares of my ſonnes exile:

But little vantage ſhall I reape thereby.

For ere the ſixe yeares that he hath to ſpend

Can change their Moones, and bring their times about,

My oyle-dride Lampe, and time-bewaſted light

Shall be extinƈt with age, and endleſſe night:

My inch of Taper, will be burnt, and done,

And blindfold death, not let me ſee my ſonne.

Why Vncle, thou haſt many yeeres to liue.

But not a minute (King) that thou canſt giue;

Shorten my dayes thou canſt with ſudden ſorow,

And plucke nights from me, but not lend a morrow:

Thou canſt helpe time to furrow me with age,

But ſtop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage:

Thy word is currant with him, for my death,

But dead, thy kingdome cannot buy my breath.

Thy ſonne is baniſh’d vpon good aduice,

Whereto thy tongue a party-verdiƈt gaue,

Why at our Iuſtice ſeem’ſt thou then to lowre?

Things ſweet to taſt, proue in digeſtion ſowre:

You vrg’d me as a Iudge, but I had rather

You would haue bid me argue like a Father.

Alas, I look’d when ſome of you ſhould ſay,

I was too ſtriƈt to make mine owne away:

But you gaue leaue to my vnwilling tong,

Againſt my will, to do my ſelfe this wrong.

Coſine farewell: and Vncle bid him ſo:

Six yeares we baniſh him, and he ſhall go.

Coſine farewell: what preſence muſt not know

From where you do remaine, let paper ſhow.

My Lord, no leaue take I, for I will ride

As farre as land will let me, by your ſide.

Oh to what purpoſe doſt thou hord thy words,

That thou returnſt no greeting to thy friends?

I haue too few to take my leaue of you,

When the tongues office ſhould be prodigall,

To breath th’abundant dolour of the heart.

Thy greefe is but thy abſence for a time.

Ioy abſent, greefe is preſent for that time.

What is ſixe Winters, they are quickely gone?

To men in ioy, but greefe makes one houre ten.

Call it a trauell that thou tak’ſt for pleaſure.

My heart will ſigh, when I miſcall it ſo,

Which findes it an inforced Pilgrimage.

The ſullen paſſage of thy weary ſteppes

Eſteeme a ſoyle, wherein thou art to ſet

The precious Iewell of thy home returne.

Oh who can hold a fire in his hand

By thinking on the froſtie Caucaſus?

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,

By bare imagination of a Feaſt?

Or Wallow naked in December ſnow

By thinking on fantaſticke ſummers heate?

Oh no, the apprehenſion of the good

Giues but the greater feeling to the worſe:

Fell ſorrowes tooth, doth euer ranckle more

Then when it bites, but lanceth not the ſore.

Come, come (my ſon) Ile bring thee on thy way

Had I thy youth, and cauſe, I would not ſtay.

Then Englands ground farewell: ſweet ſoil adieu,

My Mother, and my Nurſe, which beares me yet:

Where ere I wander, boaſt of this I can,

Though baniſh’d, yet a true-borne Engliſhman.

We did obſerue. Coſine Aumerle,

How far brought you high Herford on his way?

I brought high Herford (if you call him ſo)

But to the next high way, and there I leſt him.

And ſay, what ſtore of parting tears were ſhed?

Faith none for me: except the Northeaſt wind

Which then grew bitterly againſt our face,

Awak’d the ſleepie rhewme, and ſo by chance

Did grace our hollow parting with a teare.

What ſaid our Coſin when you parted with him?

Farewell: and for my hart diſdained ˝ my tongue

Should ſo prophane the word, that taught me craſt

To counterfeit oppreſsion of ſuch greefe,

That word ſeem’d buried in my ſorrowes graue.

Marry, would the word Farwell, haue lengthen’d houres,

And added yeeres to his ſhort baniſhment,

He ſhould haue had a volume of Farwels,

But ſince it would not, he had none of me.

He is our Coſin (Coſin) but ’tis doubt,

When time ſhall call him home from baniſhment,

Whether our kinſman come to ſee his friends,

Our ſelfe, and Buſhy: heere Bagot and Greene

Obſeru’d his Courtſhip to the common people:

How he did ſeeme to diue into their hearts,

With humble, and familiar courteſie,

What reuerence he did throw away on ſlaues;

Wooing poore Craſteſ-men, with the craſt of ſoules,

And patient vnder-bearing of his Fortune,

As ’twere to baniſh their affeƈts with him.

Off gœs his bonnet to an Oyſter-wench,

A brace of Dray-men bid God ſpeed him well,

And had the tribute of his ſupple knee,

With thankes my Countrimen, my louing friends,

As were our England in reuerſion his,

And he our ſubieƈts next degree in hope.

Well, he is gone, & with him go theſe thoughts:

Now for the Rebels, which ſtand out in Ireland,

Expedient manage muſt be made my Liege

Ere further leyſure, yeeld them further meanes

For their aduantage, and your Highneſſe loſſe.

We will our ſelfe in perſon to this warre,

And for our Coffers, with too great a Court,

And liberall Largeſſe, are growne ſomewhat light,

We are inforc’d to farme our royall Realme,

The Reuennew whereof ſhall furniſh vs

For our affayres in hand: if that come ſhort

Our Subſtitutes at home ſhall haue Blanke-charters:

Whereto, when they ſhall know what men are rich,

They ſhall ſubſcribe them for large ſummes of Gold,

And ſend them aſter to ſupply our wants:

For we will make for Ireland preſently.

Buſhy, what newes?

Old Iohn of Gaunt is verie ſicke my Lord,

Sodainly taken, and hath ſent poſt haſte

To entreat your Maieſty to viſit him.

Where lyes he?

At Ely houſe.

Now put it (heauen) in his Phyſitians minde,

To helpe him to his graue immediately:

The lining of his coffers ſhall make Coates

To decke our ſouldiers for theſe Iriſh warres.

Come Gentlemen, let’s all go viſit him:

Pray heauen we may make haſt, and come too late.

Will the King come, that I may breath my laſt

In wholſome counſell to his vnſtaid youth?

Vex not your ſelfe, nor ſtriue not with your breth,

For all in vaine comes counſell to his eare.

Oh but (they ſay) the tongues of dying men

Inforce attention like deepe harmony;

Where words are ſcarſe, they are ſeldome ſpent in vaine,

For they breath truth, that breath their words in paine.

He that no more muſt ſay, is liſten’d more,

Then they whom youth and eaſe haue taught to gloſe,

More are mens ends markt, then their liues before,

The ſetting Sun, and Muſicke in the cloſe

As the laſt taſte of ſweetes, is ſweeteſt laſt,

Writ in remembrance, more then things long paſt;

Though Richard my liues counſell would not heare,

My deaths ſad tale, may yet vndeafe his eare.

No, it is ſtopt with other flatt’ring ſounds

As praiſes of his ſtate: then there are found

Laſciuious Meeters, to whoſe venom ſound

The open eare of youth doth alwayes liſten.

Report of faſhions in proud Italy,

Whoſe manners ſtill our tardie apiſh Nation

Limpes aſter in baſe imitation.

Where doth the world thruſt forth a vanity,

So it be new, there’s no reſpeƈt how vile,

That is not quickly buz’d into his eares?

That all too late comes counſell to be heard,

Where will doth mutiny with wits regard:

Direƈt not him, whoſe way himſelfe will chooſe,

Tis breath thou lackſt, and that breath wilt thou looſe.

Me thinkes I am a Prophet new inſpir’d,

And thus expiring, do foretell of him,

His raſh fierce blaze of Ryot cannot laſt,

For violent fires ſoone burne out themſelues,

Small ſhowres laſt long, but ſodaine ſtormes are ſhort,

He tyres betimes, that ſpurs too faſt betimes;

With eager feeding, food doth choake the feeder:

Light vanity, inſatiate cormorant,

Conſuming meanes ſoone preyes vpon it ſelfe.

This royall Throne of Kings, this ſceptred Iſle,

This earth of Maieſty, this ſeate of Mars,

This other Eden, demy paradiſe,

This Fortreſſe built by Nature for her ſelfe,

Againſt infeƈtion, and the hand of warre:

This happy breed of men, this little world,

This precious ſtone, ſet in the ſiluer ſea,

Which ſerues it in the office of a wall,

Or as a Moate defenſiue to a houſe,

Againſt the enuy of leſſe happier Lands,

This bleſſed plot, this earth, this Realme, this England,

This Nurſe, this teeming wombe of Royall Kings,

Fear’d by their breed, and famous for their birth,

Renowned for their deeds, as farre from home,

For Chriſtian ſeruice, and true Chiualrie,

As is the ſepulcher in ſtubborne Iury

Of the Worlds ranſome, bleſſed Maries Sonne.

This Land of ſuch deere ſoules, this deere-deere Land,

Deere for her reputation through the world,

Is now Leas’d out (I dye pronouncing it)

Like to a Tenement or pelting Farme.

England bound in with the triumphant ſea,

Whoſe rocky ſhore beates backe the enuious ſiedge

Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with ſhame,

With Inky blottes, and rotten Parchment bonds.

That England, that was wont to conquer others,

Hath made a ſhamefull conqueſt of it ſelfe.

Ah! would the ſcandall vaniſh with my life,

How happy then were my enſuing death?

The King is come, deale mildly with his youth,

For young hot Colts, being rag’d, do rage the more.

How fares our noble Vncle Lancaſter?

What comfort man? How iſt with aged Gaunt?

Oh how that name befits my compoſition:

Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old:

Within me greefe hath kept a tedious faſt,

And who abſtaynes from meate, that is not gaunt?

For ſleeping England long time haue I watcht,

Watching breeds leanneſſe, leanneſſe is all gaunt.

The pleaſure that ſome Fathers feede vpon,

Is my ſtriƈt faſt, I meane my Childrens lookes,

And therein faſting, haſt thou made me gaunt:

Gaunt am I for the graue, gaunt as a graue,

Whoſe hollow wombe inherits naught but bones.

Can ſicke men play ſo nicely with their names?

No, miſery makes ſport to mocke it ſelfe:

Since thou doſt ſeeke to kill my name in mee,

I mocke my name (great King) to flatter thee.

Should dying men flatter thoſe that liue?

No, no, men liuing flatter thoſe that dye.

Thou now a dying, ſayſt thou flatter’ſt me.

Oh no, thou dyeſt, though I the ſicker be.

I am in health, I breath, I ſee thee ill.

Now he that made me, knowes I ſee thee ill:

Ill in my ſelfe to ſee, and in thee, ſeeing ill,

Thy death-bed is no leſſer then the Land,

Wherein thou lyeſt in reputation ſicke,

And thou too care-leſſe patient as thou art,

Commit’ſt thy’anointed body to the cure

Of thoſe Phyſitians, that firſt wounded thee.

A thouſand flatterers ſit within thy Crowne,

Whoſe compaſſe is no bigger then thy head,

And yet incaged in ſo ſmall a Verge,

The waſte is no whit leſſer then thy Land:

Oh had thy Grandſire with a Prophets eye,

Seene how his ſonnes ſonne, ſhould deſtroy his ſonnes,

From forth thy reach he would haue laid thy ſhame,

Depoſing thee before thou wert poſſeſt,

Which art poſſeſt now to depoſe thy ſelfe.

Why (Coſine) were thou Regent of the world,

It were a ſhame to let his Land by leaſe:

But for thy world enioying but this Land,

Is it not more then ſhame, to ſhame it ſo?

Landlord of England art thou, and not King:

Thy ſtate of Law, is bondſlaue to the law,

And—

And thou, a lunaticke leane-witted foole,

Preſuming on an Agues priuiledge,

Dar’ſt with thy frozen admonition

Make pale our cheeke, chaſing the Royall blood

With fury, from his natiue reſidence?

Now by my Seates right Royall Maieſtie,

Wer’t thou not Brother to great Edwards ſonne,

This tongue that runs ſo roundly in thy head,

Should run thy head from thy vnreuerent ſhoulders.

Oh ſpare me not, my brothers Edwards ſonne,

For that I was his Father Edwards ſonne:

That blood already (like the Pellican)

Thou haſt tapt out, and drunkenly carows’d.

My brother Glouceſter, plaine well meaning ſoule

(Whom faire befall in heauen ’mongſt happy ſoules)

May be a preſident, and witneſſe good,

That thou reſpeƈt’ſt not ſpilling Edwards blood:

Ioyne with the preſent ſickneſſe that I haue,

And thy vnkindneſſe be like crooked age,

To crop at once a too-long wither’d flowre.

Liue in thy ſhame, but dye not ſhame with thee,

Theſe words heereaſter, thy tormentors bee.

Conuey me to my bed, then to my graue,

Loue they to liue, that loue and honor haue.

And let them dye, that age and ſullens haue,

For both haſt thou, and both become the graue.

I do beſeech your Maieſtie impute his words

To wayward ſicklineſſe, and age in him:

He loues you on my life, and holds you deere

As Harry Duke of Herford, were he heere.

Right, you ſay true: as Herfords loue, ſo his;

As theirs, ſo mine: and all be as it is.

My Liege, olde Gaunt commends him to your

Maieſtie.

What ſayes he?

Nay nothing, all is ſaid:

His tongue is now a ſtringleſſe inſtrument,

Words, life, and all, old Lancaſter hath ſpent.

Be Yorke the next, that muſt be bankrupt ſo,

Though death be poore, it ends a mortall wo.

The ripeſt fruit firſt fals, and ſo doth he,

His time is ſpent, our pilgrimage muſt be:

So much for that. Now for our Iriſh warres,

We muſt ſupplant thoſe rough rug-headed Kernes,

Which liue like venom, where no venom elſe

But onely they, haue priuiledge to liue.

And for theſe great affayres do aske ſome charge

Towards our aſsiſtance, we do ſeize to vs

The plate, coine, reuennewes, and moueables,

Whereof our Vncle Gaunt did ſtand poſſeſt.

How long ſhall I be patient? Oh how long

Shall tender dutie make me ſuffer wrong?

Not Glouſters death, nor Herfords baniſhment,

Nor Gauntes rebukes, nor Englands priuate wrongs,

Nor the preuention of poore Bullingbrooke,

About his marriage, nor my owne diſgrace

Haue euer made me ſowre my patient cheeke,

Or bend one wrinckle on my Soueraignes face:

I am the laſt of noble Edwards ſonnes,

Of whom thy Father Prince of Wales was firſt,

In warre was neuer Lyon rag’d more fierce:

In peace, was neuer gentle Lambe more milde,

Then was that yong and Princely Gentleman,

His face thou haſt, for euen ſo look’d he

Accompliſh’d with the number of thy howers:

But when he frown’d, it was againſt the French,

And not againſt his friends: his noble hand

Did win what he did ſpend: and ſpent not that

Which his triumphant fathers hand had won:

His hands were guilty of no kindreds blood,

But bloody with the enemies of his kinne:

Oh Richard, Yorke is too farre gone with greefe,

Or elſe he neuer would compare betweene.

Why Vncle,

What’s the matter?

Oh my Liege, pardon me if you pleaſe, if not

I pleas’d not to be pardon’d, am content with all:

Seeke you to ſeize, and gripe into your hands

The Royalties and Rights of baniſh’d Herford?

Is not Gaunt dead? and doth not Herford liue?

Was not Gaunt iuſt? and is not Harry true?

Did not the one deſerue to haue an heyre?

Is not his heyre a well-deſeruing ſonne?

Take Herfords rights away, and take from time

His Charters, and his cuſtomarie rights:

Let not to morrow then inſue to day,

Be not thy ſelfe. For how art thou a King

But by faire ſequence and ſucceſsion?

Now afore God, God forbid I ſay true,

If you do wrongfully ſeize Herfords right,

Call in his Letters Patents that he hath

By his Atturneyes generall, to ſue

His Liuerie, and denie his offer’d homage,

You plucke a thouſand dangers on your head,

You looſe a thouſand well-diſpoſed hearts,

And pricke my tender patience to thoſe thoughts

Which honor and allegeance cannot thinke.

Thinke what you will: we ſeiſe into our hands,

His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.

Ile not be by the while: My Liege farewell,

What will enſue heereof, there’s none can tell.

But by bad courſes may be vnderſtood,

That their euents can neuer fall out good.

Go Buſhie to the Earle of Wiltſhire ſtreight,

Bid him repaire to vs to Ely houſe,

To ſee this buſineſſe: to morrow next

We will for Ireland, and ’tis time, I trow:

And we create in abſence of our ſelfe

Our Vncle Yorke, Lord Gouernor of England:

For he is iuſt, and alwayes lou’d vs well.

Come on our Queene, to morrow muſt we part,

Be merry, for our time of ſtay is ſhort.

Well Lords, the Duke of Lancaſter is dead.

And liuing too, for now his ſonne is Duke.

Barely in title, not in reuennew.

Richly in both, if iuſtice had her right.

My heart is great: but it muſt break with ſilence,

Er’t be diſburthen’d with a liberall tongue.

Nay ſpeake thy mind: & let him ne’r ſpeak more

That ſpeakes thy words againe to do thee harme.

Tends that thou’dſt ſpeake to th’Du. of Hereford,

If it be ſo, out with it boldly man,

Quicke is mine eare to heare of good towards him.

No good at all that I can do for him,

Vnleſſe you call it good to pitie him,

Bereſt and gelded of his patrimonie.

Now afore heauen, ’tis ſhame ſuch wrongs are borne,

In him a royall Prince, and many mœ

Of noble blood in this declining Land;

The King is not himſelfe, but baſely led

By Flatterers, and what they will informe

Meerely in hate ’gainſt any of vs all,

That will the King ſeuerely proſecute

’Gainſt vs, our liues, our children, and our heires.

The Commons hath he pil’d with greeuous taxes

And quite loſt their hearts: the Nobles hath he finde

For ancient quarrels, and quite loſt their hearts.

And daily new exaƈtions are deuis’d,

As blankes, beneuolences, and I wot not what:

But what o’Gods name doth become of this?

Wars hath not waſted it, for war’d he hath not.

But baſely yeelded vpon comprimize,

That which his Anceſtors atchieu’d with blowes:

More hath he ſpent in peace, then they in warres.

The Earle of Wiltſhire hath the realme in Farme.

The Kings growne bankrupt like a broken man.

Reproach, and diſſolution hangeth ouer him.

He hath not monie for theſe Iriſh warres:

(His burthenous taxations notwithſtanding)

But by the robbing of the baniſh’d Duke.

His noble Kinſman, moſt degenerate King:

But Lords, we heare this fearefull tempeſt ſing,

Yet ſeeke no ſhelter to auoid the ſtorme:

We ſee the winde ſit ſore vpon our ſailes,

And yet we ſtrike not, but ſecurely periſh.

We ſee the very wracke that we muſt ſuffer,

And vnauoyded is the danger now

For ſuffering ſo the cauſes of our wracke.

Not ſo: euen through the hollow eyes of death,

I ſpie life peering: but I dare not ſay

How neere the tidings of our comfort is.

Nay let vs ſhare thy thoughts, as thou doſt ours

Be confident to ſpeake Northumberland,

We three, are but thy ſelfe, and ſpeaking ſo,

Thy words are but as thoughts, therefore be bold.

Then thus: I haue from Port le Blan

A Bay in Britaine, receiu’d intelligence,

That Harry Duke of Herford, Rainald Lord Cobham,

That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,

His brother Archbiſhop, late of Canterbury,

Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir Iohn Rainſton,

Sir Iohn Norberie, Sir Robert Waterton, & Francis Quoint,

All theſe well furniſh’d by the Duke of Britaine,

With eight tall ſhips, three thouſand men of warre

Are making hither with all due expedience,

And ſhortly meane to touch our Northerne ſhore:

Perhaps they had ere this, but that they ſtay

The firſt departing of the King for Ireland.

If then we ſhall ſhake off our ſlauiſh yoake,

Impe out our drooping Countries broken wing,

Redeeme from broaking pawne the blemiſh’d Crowne,

Wipe off the duſt that hides our Scepters gilt,

And make high Maieſtie looke like it ſelfe,

Away with me in poſte to Rauenspurgh,

But if you faint, as fearing to do ſo,

Stay, and be ſecret, and my ſelfe will go.

To horſe, to horſe, vrge doubts to them ˝ feare.

Hold out my horſe, and I will firſt be there.

Madam, your Maieſty is too much ſad,

You promis’d when you parted with the King,

To lay aſide ſelfe-harming heauineſſe,

And entertaine a cheerefull diſpoſition.

To pleaſe the King, I did: to pleaſe my ſelfe

I cannot do it: yet I know no cauſe

Why I ſhould welcome ſuch a gueſt as greefe,

Saue bidding farewell to ſo ſweet a gueſt

As my ſweet Richard; yet againe me thinkes,

Some vnborne ſorrow, ripe in fortunes wombe

Is comming towards me, and my inward ſoule

With nothing trembles, at ſomething it greeues,

More then with parting from my Lord the King.

Each ſubſtance of a greefe hath twenty ſhadows

Which ſhewes like greefe it ſelfe, but is not ſo:

For ſorrowes eye, glazed with blinding teares,

Diuides one thing intire, to many obieƈts,

Like perſpeƈtiues, which rightly gaz’d vpon

Shew nothing but confuſion, ey’d awry,

Diſtinguiſh forme: ſo your ſweet Maieſtie

Looking awry vpon your Lords departure,

Finde ſhapes of greefe, more then himſelfe to waile,

Which look’d on as it is, is naught but ſhadowes

Of what it is not: then thrice-gracious Queene,

More then your Lords departure weep not, more’s not ſeene;

Or if it be, ’tis with falſe ſorrowes eie,

Which for things true, weepe things imaginary.

It may be ſo: but yet my inward ſoule

Perſwades me it is otherwiſe: how ere it be,

I cannot but be ſad: ſo heauy ſad,

As though on thinking on no thought I thinke,

Makes me with heauy nothing faint and ſhrinke.

’Tis nothing but conceit (my gracious Lady.)

’Tis nothing leſſe: conceit is ſtill deriu’d

From ſome fore-father greefe, mine is not ſo,

For nothing hath begot my ſomething greefe,

Or ſomething, hath the nothing that I greeue,

’Tis in reuerſion that I do poſſeſſe,

But what it is, that is not yet knowne, what

I cannot name, ’tis nameleſſe wœ I wot.

Heauen ſaue your Maieſty, and wel met Gentlemen:

I hope the King is not yet ſhipt for Ireland.

Why hop’ſt thou ſo? Tis better hope he is:

For his deſignes craue haſt, his haſt good hope,

Then wherefore doſt thou hope he is not ſhipt?

That he our hope, might haue retyr’d his power,

and driuen into diſpaire an enemies hope,

Who ſtrongly hath ſet footing in this Land.

The baniſh’d Bullingbrooke repeales himſelfe,

And with vp-liſted Armes is ſafe arriu’d

At Rauenſpurg.

Now God in heauen forbid.

O Madam ’tis too true: and that is worſe,

The L. Northumberland, his yong ſonne Henrie Percie,

The Lords of Roſſe, Beaumond, and Willoughby,

With all their powrefull friends are fled to him.

Why haue you not proclaim’d Northumberland

And the reſt of the reuolted faƈtion, Traitors?

We haue: whereupon the Earle of Worceſter

Hath broke his ſtaffe, reſign’d his Stewardſhip,

And al the houſhold ſeruants fled with him to Bullinbrook

So Greene, thou art the midwife of my wœ,

And Bullinbrooke my ſorrowes diſmall heyre:

Now hath my ſoule brought forth her prodegie,

And I a gasping new deliuered mother,

Haue wœ to wœ, ſorrow to ſorrow ioyn’d.

Diſpaire not Madam.

Who ſhall hinder me?

I will diſpaire, and be at enmitie

With couzening hope; he is a Flatterer,

A Paraſite, a keeper backe of death,

Who gently would diſſolue the bands of life,

Which falſe hopes linger in extremity.

Heere comes the Duke of Yorke.

With ſignes of warre about his aged necke,

Oh full of carefull buſineſſe are his lookes:

Vncle, for heauens ſake ſpeake comfortable words:

Comfort’s in heauen, and we are on the earth,

Where nothing liues but croſſes, care and greefe:

Your husband he is gone to ſaue farre off,

Whilſt others come to make him looſe at home:

Heere am I leſt to vnder-prop his Land,

Who weake with age, cannot ſupport my ſelfe:

Now comes the ſicke houre that his ſurfet made,

Now ſhall he try his friends that flattered him.

My Lord, your ſonne was gone before I came.

He was: why ſo: go all which way it will:

The Nobles they are fled, the Commons they are cold,

And will I feare reuolt on Herfords ſide.

Sirra, get thee to Plaſhie to my ſiſter Gloſter,

Bid her ſend me preſently a thouſand pound,

Hold, take my Ring.

My Lord, I had forgot

To tell your Lordſhip, to day I came by, and call’d there,

But I ſhall greeue you to report the reſt.

What is’t knaue?

An houre before I came, the Dutcheſſe di’de.

Heau’n for his mercy, what a tide of wœs

Come ruſhing on this wofull Land at once?

I know not what to do: I would to heauen

(So my vntruth had not prouok’d him to it)

The King had cut off my head with my brothers.

What, are there poſtes diſpatcht for Ireland?

How ſhall we do for money for theſe warres?

Come ſiſter (Cozen I would ſay) pray pardon me.

Go fellow, get thee home, prouide ſome Carts,

And bring away the Armour that is there.

Gentlemen, will you muſter men?

If I know how, or which way to order theſe affaires

Thus diſorderly thruſt into my hands,

Neuer beleeue me. Both are my kinſmen,

Th’ one is my Soueraigne, whom both my oath

And dutie bids defend: th’ other againe

Is my kinſman, whom the King hath wrong’d,

Whom conſcience, and my kindred bids to right:

Well, ſomewhat we muſt do: Come Cozen,

Ile diſpoſe of you. Gentlemen, go muſter vp your men,

And meet me preſently at Barkley Caſtle:

I ſhould to Plaſhy too: but time will not permit,

All is vneuen, and euery thing is leſt at ſix and ſeuen.

The winde ſits faire for newes to go to Ireland,

But none returnes: For vs to leuy power

Proportionable to th’ enemy, is all impoſſible.

Beſides our neereneſſe to the King in loue,

Is neere the hate of thoſe loue not the King.

And that’s the wauering Commons, for their loue

Lies in their purſes, and who ſo empties them,

By ſo much fils their hearts with deadly hate.

Wherein the king ſtands generally condemn’d

If iudgement lye in them, then ſo do we,

Becauſe we haue beene euer neere the King.

Well: I will for refuge ſtraight to Briſtoll Caſtle,

The Earle of Wiltſhire is alreadie there.

Thither will I with you, for little office

Will the hatefull Commons performe for vs,

Except like Curres, to teare vs all in peeces:

Will you go along with vs?

No, I will to Ireland to his Maieſtie:

Farewell, if hearts preſages be not vaine,

We three here part, that neu’r ſhall meete againe.

That’s as Yorke thriues to beate back Bullinbroke

Alas poore Duke, the taſke he vndertakes

Is numbring ſands, and drinking Oceans drie,

Where one on his ſide fights, thouſands will flye.

Farewell at once, for once, for all, and euer.

Well, we may meete againe.

I feare me neuer.

How farre is it my Lord to Berkley now?

Beleeue me noble Lord,

I am a ſtranger heere in Glouſterſhire,

Theſe high wilde hilles, and rough vneeuen waies,

Drawes out our miles, and makes them weariſome.

And yet our faire diſcourſe hath beene as ſugar,

Making the hard way ſweet and deleƈtable:

But I bethinke me, what a wearie way

From Rauenſpurgh to Cottſhold will be found,

In Roſſe and Willoughby, wanting your companie,

Which I proteſt hath very much beguild

The tediouſneſſe, and proceſſe of my trauell:

But theirs is ſweetned with the hope to haue

The preſent benefit that I poſſeſſe;

And hope to ioy, is little leſſe in ioy,

Then hope enioy’d: By this, the wearie Lords

Shall make their way ſeeme ſhort, as mine hath done,

By ſight of what I haue, your Noble Companie.

Of much leſſe value is my Companie,

Then your good words: but who comes here?

It is my Sonne, young Harry Percie,

Sent from my Brother Worceſter: Whence ſœuer.

Harry, how fares your Vnckle?

I had thought, my Lord, to haue learn’d his

health of you.

Why, is he not with the Queene?

No, my good Lord, he hath forſook the Court,

Broken his Staffe of Office, and diſperſt

The Houſehold of the King.

What was his reaſon?

He was not ſo reſolu’d, when we laſt ſpake together.

Becauſe your Lordſhip was proclaimed Traitor.

But hee, my Lord, is gone to Rauenſpurgh,

To offer ſeruice to the Duke of Hereford,

And ſent me ouer by Barkely, to diſcouer

What power the Duke of Yorke had leuied there,

Then with direƈtion to repaire to Rauenſpurgh.

Haue you forgot the Duke of Hereford (Boy.)

No, my good Lord; for that is not forgot

Which ne’re I did remember: to my knowledge,

I neuer in my life did looke on him.

Then learne to know him now: this is the

Duke.

My gracious Lord, I tender you my ſeruice,

Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young,

Which elder dayes ſhall ripen, and confirme

To more approued ſeruice, and deſert.

I thanke thee gentle Percie, and be ſure

I count my ſelfe in nothing elſe ſo happy,

As in a Soule remembring my good Friends:

And as my Fortune ripens with thy Loue,

It ſhall be ſtill thy true Loues recompence,

My Heart this Couenant makes, my Hand thus ſeales it.

How farre is it to Barkely? and what ſtirre

Keepes good old Yorke there, with his Men of Warre?

There ſtands the Caſtle, by yond tuſt of Trees,

Mann’d with three hundred men, as I haue heard,

And in it are the Lords of Yorke, Barkely, and Seymor,

None elſe of Name, and noble eſtimate.

Here come the Lords of Roſſe and Willoughby,

Bloody with ſpurring, fierie red with haſte.

Welcome my Lords, I wot your loue purſues

A baniſht Traytor; all my Treaſurie

Is yet but vnfelt thankes, which more enrich’d,

Shall be your loue, and labours recompence.

Your preſence makes vs rich, moſt Noble Lord.

And farre ſurmounts our labour to attaine it.

Euermore thankes, th’ Exchequer of the poore,

Which till my infant-fortune comes to yeeres,

Stands for my Bountie: but who comes here?

It is my Lord of Barkely, as I gheſſe.

My Lord of Hereford, my Meſſage is to you.

My Lord, my Anſwere is to Lancaſter,

And I am come to ſeeke that Name in England,

And I muſt finde that Title in your Tongue,

Before I make reply to aught you ſay.

Miſtake me not, my Lord, ’tis not my meaning

To raze one Title of your Honor out.

To you, my Lord, I come (what Lord you will)

From the moſt glorious of this Land,

The Duke of Yorke, to know what pricks you on

To take aduantage of the abſent time,

And fright our Natiue Peace with ſelfe-borne Armes.

I ſhall not need tranſport my words by you,

Here comes his Grace in Perſon. My Noble Vnckle.

Shew me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,

Whoſe dutie is deceiuable, and falſe.

My gracious Vnckle.

Tut, tut, Grace me no Grace, nor Vnckle me,

I am no Traytors Vnckle; and that word Grace,

In an vngracious mouth, is but prophane.

Why haue theſe baniſh’d, and forbidden Legges,

Dar’d once to touch a Duſt of Englands Ground?

But more then why, why haue they dar’d to march

So many miles vpon her peacefull Boſome,

Frighting her pale-fac’d Villages with Warre,

And oſtentation of deſpiſed Armes?

Com’ſt thou becauſe th’anoynted King is hence?

Why fooliſh Boy, the King is leſt behind,

And in my loyall Boſome lyes his power.

Were I but now the Lord of ſuch hot youth,

As when braue Gaunt, thy Father, and my ſelfe

Reſcued the Black Prince, that yong Mars of men,

From forth the Rankes of many thouſand French:

Oh then, how quickly ſhould this Arme of mine,

Now Priſoner to the Palſie, chaſtiſe thee,

And miniſter correƈtion to thy Fault.

My gracious Vnckle, let me know my Fault,

On what Condition ſtands it, and wherein?

Euen in Condition of the worſt degree,

In groſſe Rebellion, and deteſted Treaſon:

Thou art a baniſh’d man, and here art come

Before th’expiration of thy time,

In brauing Armes againſt thy Soueraigne.

As I was baniſh’d, I was baniſh’d Hereford,

But as I come, I come for Lancaſter.

And Noble Vnckle, I beſeech your Grace

Looke on my Wrongs with an indifferent eye:

You are my Father, for me thinkes in you

I ſee old Gaunt aliue. Oh then my Father,

Will you permit, that I ſhall ſtand condemn’d

A wandring Vagabond; my Rights and Royalties

Pluckt from my armes perforce, and giuen away

To vpſtart Vnthriſts? Wherefore was I borne?

If that my Couſin King, be King of England,

It muſt be graunted, I am Duke of Lancaſter.

You haue a Sonne, Aumerle, my Noble Kinſman,

Had you firſt died, and he beene thus trod downe,

He ſhould haue found his Vnckle Gaunt a Father,

To rowze his Wrongs, and chaſe them to the bay.

I am denyde to ſue my Liuerie here,

And yet my Letters Patents giue me leaue:

My Fathers goods are all diſtraynd, and ſold,

And theſe, and all, are all amiſſe imployd.

What would you haue me dœ? I am a Subieƈt,

And challenge Law: Attorneyes are deny’d me;

And therefore perſonally I lay my claime

To my Inheritance of free Diſcent.

The Noble Duke hath been too much abus’d.

It ſtands your Grace vpon, to dœ him right.

Baſe men by his endowments are made great.

My Lords of England, let me tell you this,

I haue had feeling of my Coſens Wrongs,

And labour’d all I could to dœ him right:

But in this kind, to come in brauing Armes,

Be his owne Caruer, and cut out his way,

To find out Right with Wrongs, it may not be;

And you that dœ abett him in this kind,

Cheriſh Rebellion, and are Rebels all.

The Noble Duke hath ſworne his comming is

But for his owne; and for the right of that,

Wee all haue ſtrongly ſworne to giue him ayd,

And let him neu’r ſee Ioy, that breakes that Oath.

Well, well, I ſee the iſſue of theſe Armes,

I cannot mend it, I muſt needes confeſſe,

Becauſe my power is weake, and all ill leſt:

But if I could, by him that gaue me life,

I would attach you all, and make you ſtoope

Vnto the Soueraigne Mercy of the King.

But ſince I cannot, be it knowne to you,

I dœ remaine as Neuter. So fare you well,

Vnleſſe you pleaſe to enter in the Caſtle,

And there repoſe you for this Night.

An offer Vnckle, that wee will accept:

But wee muſt winne your Grace to gœ with vs

To Briſtow Caſtle, which they ſay is held

By Buſhie, Bagot, and their Complices,

The Caterpillers of the Commonwealth,

Which I haue ſworne to weed, and plucke away.

It may be I will go with you: but yet Ile pawſe,

For I am loth to breake our Countries Lawes:

Nor Friends, nor Fœs, to me welcome you are,

Things paſt redreſſe, are now with me paſt care.

My Lord of Salisbury, we haue ſtayd ten dayes,

And hardly kept our Countreymen together,

And yet we heare no tidings from the King;

Therefore we will diſperſe our ſelues: farewell.

Stay yet another day, thou truſtie Welchman,

The King repoſeth all his confidence in thee.

’Tis thought the King is dead, we will not ſtay;

The Bay-trees in our Countrey all are wither’d,

And Meteors fright the fixed Starres of Heauen;

The pale-fac’d Moone lookes bloody on the Earth,

And leane-look’d Prophets whiſper fearefull change;

Rich men looke ſad, and Ruffians dance and leape,

The one in feare, to looſe what they enioy,

The other to enioy by Rage, and Warre:

Theſe ſignes fore-run the death of Kings.

Farewell, our Countreymen are gone and fled,

As well aſſur’d Richard their King is dead.

Ah Richard, with eyes of heauie mind,

I ſee thy Glory, like a ſhooting Starre,

Fall to the baſe Earth, from the Firmament:

Thy Sunne ſets weeping in the lowly Weſt,

Witneſſing Stormes to come, Wœ, and Vnreſt:

Thy Friends are fled, to wait vpon thy Fœs,

And croſſely to thy good, all fortune gœs.

Bring forth theſe men:

Buſhie and Greene, I will not vex your ſoules,

(Since preſently your ſoules muſt part your bodies)

With too much vrging your pernitious liues,

For ’twere no Charitie: yet to waſh your blood

From off my hands, here in the view of men,

I will vnfold ſome cauſes of your deaths.

You haue miſ-led a Prince, a Royall King,

A happie Gentleman in Blood, and Lineaments,

By you vnhappied, and diſfigur’d cleane:

You haue in manner with your ſinfull houres

Made a Diuorce betwixt his Queene and him,

Broke the poſſeſſion of a Royall Bed,

And ſtayn’d the beautie of a faire Queenes Cheekes,

With teares drawn frō her eyes, with your foule wrongs.

My ſelfe a Prince, by fortune of my birth,

Neere to the King in blood, and neere in loue,

Till you did make him miſ-interprete me,

Haue ſtoopt my neck vnder your iniuries,

And ſigh’d my Engliſh breath in forraine Clouds,

Eating the bitter bread of baniſhment;

While you haue fed vpon my Seignories,

Diſ-park’d my Parkes, and fell’d my Forreſt Woods;

From mine owne Windowes torne my Houſehold Coat,

Raz’d out my Impreſſe, leauing me no ſigne,

Saue mens opinions, and my liuing blood,

To ſhew the World I am a Gentleman.

This, and much more, much more then twice all this,

Condemnes you to the death: ſee them deliuered ouer

To execution, and the hand of death.

More welcome is the ſtroake of death to me,

Then Bullingbrooke to England.

My comfort is, that Heauen will take our ſoules,

And plague Iniuſtice with the paines of Hell.

My Lord Northumberland, ſee them diſpatch’d:

Vnckle, you ſay the Queene is at your Houſe,

For Heauens ſake fairely let her be entreated,

Tell her I ſend to her my kind commends;

Take ſpeciall care my Greetings be deliuer’d.

A Gentleman of mine I haue diſpatch’d

With Letters of your loue, to her at large.

Thankes gentle Vnckle: come Lords away,

To fight with Glendoure, and his Complices;

A while to worke, and aſter holliday.

Barkloughly Caſtle call you this at hand?

Yea, my Lord: how brooks your Grace the ayre,

Aſter your late toſſing on the breaking Seas?

Needs muſt I like it well: I weepe for ioy

To ſtand vpon my Kingdome once againe.

Deere Earth, I dœ ſalute thee with my hand,

Though Rebels wound thee with their Horſes hoofes:

As a long parted Mother with her Child,

Playes fondly with her teares, and ſmiles in meeting;

So weeping, ſmiling, greet I thee my Earth,

And dœ thee fauor with my Royall hands.

Feed not thy Soueraignes Fœ, my gentle Earth,

Nor with thy Sweetes, comfort his rauenous ſence:

But let thy Spiders, that ſuck vp thy Venome,

And heauie-gated Toades lye in their way,

Doing annoyance to the trecherous feete,

Which with vſurping ſteps dœ trample thee.

Yeeld ſtinging Nettles to mine Enemies;

And when they from thy Boſome pluck a Flower,

Guard it I prethee with a lurking Adder,

Whoſe double tongue may with a mortall touch

Throw death vpon thy Soueraignes Enemies.

Mock not my ſenceleſſe Coniuration, Lords;

This Earth ſhall haue a feeling, and theſe Stones

Proue armed Souldiers, ere her Natiue King

Shall falter vnder foule Rebellious Armes.

Feare not my Lord, that Power that made you King

Hath power to keepe you King, in ſpight of all.

He meanes, my Lord, that we are too remiſſe,

Whileſt Bullingbrooke through our ſecuritie,

Growes ſtrong and great, in ſubſtance and in friends.

Diſcomfortable Couſin knoweſt thou not,

That when the ſearching Eye of Heauen is hid

Behind the Globe, that lights the lower World,

Then Theeues and Robbers raunge abroad vnſeene,

In Murthers and in Out-rage bloody here:

But when from vnder this Terreſtriall Ball

He fires the prowd tops of the Eaſterne Pines,

And darts his Lightning through eu’ry guiltie hole,

Then Murthers, Treaſons, and deteſted ſinnes

(The Cloake of Night being pluckt from off their backs)

Stand bare and naked, trembling at themſelues.

So when this Theefe, this Traytor Bullingbrooke,

Who all this while hath reuell’d in the Night,

Shall ſee vs riſing in our Throne, the Eaſt,

His Treaſons will ſit bluſhing in his face,

Not able to endure the ſight of Day;

But ſelfe-affrighted, tremble at his ſinne.

Not all the Water in the rough rude Sea

Can waſh the Balme from an anoynted King;

The breath of worldly men cannot depoſe

The Deputie eleƈted by the Lord:

For euery man that Bullingbrooke hath preſt,

To liſt ſhrewd Steele againſt our Golden Crowne,

Heauen for his Richard hath in heauenly pay

A glorious Angell: then if Angels fight,

Weake men muſt fall, for Heauen ſtill guards the right.

Welcome my Lord, how farre off lyes your Power?

Nor neere, nor farther off, my gracious Lord,

Then this weake arme; diſcomfort guides my tongue,

And bids me ſpeake of nothing but deſpaire:

One day too late, I feare (my Noble Lord)

Hath clouded all thy happie dayes on Earth:

Oh call backe Yeſterday, bid Time returne,

And thou ſhalt haue twelue thouſand fighting men:

To day, to day, vnhappie day too late

Orethrowes thy Ioyes, Friends, Fortune, and thy State;

For all the Welchmen hearing thou wert dead,

Are gone to Bullingbrooke, diſperſt, and fled.

Comfort my Liege, why lookes your Grace ſo pale?

But now the blood of twentie thouſand men

Did triumph in my face, and they are fled,

And till ſo much blood thither come againe,

Haue I not reaſon to looke pale, and dead?

All Soules that will be ſafe, flye from my ſide,

For Time hath ſet a blot vpon my pride.

Comfort my Liege, remember who you are.

I had forgot my ſelfe. Am I not King?

Awake thou ſluggard Maieſtie, thou ſleepeſt:

Is not the Kings Name fortie thouſand Names?

Arme, arme my Name: a punie ſubieƈt ſtrikes

At thy great glory. Looke not to the ground,

Ye Fauorites of a King: are wee not high?

High be our thoughts: I know my Vnckle Yorke

Hath Power enough to ſerue our turne.

But who comes here?

More health and happineſſe betide my Liege,

Then can my care-tun’d tongue deliuer him.

Mine eare is open, and my heart prepar’d:

The worſt is worldly loſſe, thou canſt vnfold:

Say, Is my Kingdome loſt? why ’twas my Care:

And what loſſe is it to be rid of Care?

Striues Bullingbrooke to be as Great as wee?

Greater he ſhall not be: If hee ſerue God,

Wee’l ſerue him too, and be his Fellow ſo.

Reuolt our Subieƈts? That we cannot mend,

They breake their Faith to God, as well as vs:

Cry Wœ, Deſtruƈtion, Ruine, Loſſe, Decay,

The worſt is Death, and Death will haue his day.

Glad am I, that your Highneſſe is ſo arm’d

To beare the tidings of Calamitie.

Like an vnſeaſonable ſtormie day,

Which make the Siluer Riuers drowne their Shores,

As if the World were all diſſolu’d to teares:

So high, aboue his Limits, ſwells the Rage

Of Bullingbrooke, couering your fearefull Land

With hard bright Steele, and hearts harder then Steele:

White Beares haue arm’d their thin and haireleſſe Scalps

Againſt thy Maieſtie, and Boyes with Womens Voyces,

Striue to ſpeake bigge, and clap their female ioints

In ſtiffe vnwieldie Armes: againſt thy Crowne

Thy very Beadſ-men learne to bend their Bowes

Of double fatall Eugh: againſt thy State

Yea Diſtaffe-Women manage ruſtie Bills:

Againſt thy Seat both young and old rebell,

And all gœs worſe then I haue power to tell.

Too well, too well thou tell’ſt a Tale ſo ill.

Where is the Earle of Wiltſhire? where is Bagot?

What is become of Buſhie? where is Greene?

That they haue let the dangerous Enemie

Meaſure our Confines with ſuch peacefull ſteps?

If we preuaile, their heads ſhall pay for it.

I warrant they haue made peace with Bullingbrooke.

Peace haue they made with him indeede (my

Lord.)

Oh Villains, Vipers, damn’d without redemption,

Dogges, eaſily woon to fawne on any man,

Snakes in my heart blood warm’d, that ſting my heart,

Three Iudaſſes, each one thrice worſe then Iudas,

Would they make peace? terrible Hell make warre

Vpon their ſpotted Soules for this Offence.

Sweet Loue (I ſee) changing his propertie,

Turnes to the ſowreſt, and moſt deadly hate:

Againe vncurſe their Soules; their peace is made

With Heads, and not with Hands: thoſe whom you curſe

Haue felt the worſt of Deaths deſtroying hand,

And lye full low, grau’d in the hollow ground.

Is Buſhie, Greene, and the Earle of Wiltſhire dead?

Yea, all of them at Briſtow loſt their heads.

Where is the Duke my Father with his Power?

No matter where; of comfort no man ſpeake:

Let’s talke of Graues, of Wormes, and Epitaphs,

Make Duſt our Paper, and with Raynie eyes

Write Sorrow on the Boſome of the Earth.

Let’s chuſe Executors, and talke of Wills:

And yet not ſo; for what can we bequeath,

Saue our depoſed bodies to the ground?

Our Lands, our Liues, and all are Bullingbrookes,

And nothing can we call our owne, but Death,

And that ſmall Modell of the barren Earth,

Which ſerues as Paſte, and Couer to our Bones:

For Heauens ſake let vs ſit vpon the ground,

And tell ſad ſtories of the death of Kings:

How ſome haue been depos’d, ſome ſlaine in warre,

Some haunted by the Ghoſts they haue depos’d,

Some poyſon’d by their Wiues, ſome ſleeping kill’d,

All murther’d. For within the hollow Crowne

That rounds the mortall Temples of a King,

Keepes Death his Court, and there the Antique ſits

Scoffing his State, and grinning at his Pompe,

Allowing him a breath, a little Scene,

To Monarchize, be fear’d, and kill with lookes,

Infuſing him with ſelfe and vaine conceit,

As if this Fleſh, which walls about our Life,

Were Braſſe impregnable: and humor’d thus,

Comes at the laſt, and with a little Pinne

Bores through his Caſtle Walls, and farwell King.

Couer your heads, and mock not fleſh and blood

With ſolemne Reuerence: throw away Reſpeƈt,

Tradition, Forme, and Ceremonious dutie,

For you haue but miſtooke me all this while:

I liue with Bread like you, feele Want,

Taſte Griefe, need Friends: ſubieƈted thus,

How can you ſay to me, I am a King?

My Lord, wiſe men ne’re waile their preſent wœs,

But preſently preuent the wayes to waile:

To feare the Fœ, ſince feare oppreſſeth ſtrength,

Giues in your weakeneſſe, ſtrength vnto your Fœ;

Feare, and be ſlaine, no worſe can come to ſight,

And fight and die, is death deſtroying death,

Where fearing, dying, payes death ſeruile breath.

My Father hath a Power, enquire of him;

And learne to make a Body of a Limbe.

Thou chid’ſt me well: proud Bullingbrooke I come

To change Blowes with thee, for our day of Doome:

This ague fit of feare is ouer-blowne,

An eaſie taſke it is to winne our owne.

Say Scroope, where lyes our Vnckle with his Power?

Speake ſweetly man, although thy lookes be ſowre.

Men iudge by the complexion of the Skie

The ſtate and inclination of the day;

So may you by my dull and heauie Eye:

My Tongue hath but a heauier Tale to ſay:

I play the Torturer, by ſmall and ſmall

To lengthen out the worſt, that muſt be ſpoken.

Your Vnckle Yorke is ioyn’d with Bullingbrooke,

And all your Northerne Caſtles yeelded vp,

And all your Southerne Gentlemen in Armes

Vpon his Faƈtion.

Thou haſt ſaid enough.

Beſhrew thee Couſin, which didſt lead me forth

Of that ſweet way I was in, to deſpaire:

What ſay you now? What comfort haue we now?

By Heauen Ile hate him euerlaſtingly,

That bids me be of comfort any more.

Gœ to Flint Caſtle, there Ile pine away,

A King, Wœs ſlaue, ſhall Kingly Wœ obey:

That Power I haue, diſcharge, and let ’em gœ

To eare the Land, that hath ſome hope to grow,

For I haue none. Let no man ſpeake againe

To alter this, for counſaile is but vaine.

My Liege, one word.

He dœs me double wrong,

That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.

Diſcharge my followers: let them hence away,

From Richards Night, to Bullingbrookes faire Day.

So that by this intelligence we learne

The Welchmen are diſpers’d, and Salisbury

Is gone to meet the King, who lately landed

With ſome few priuate friends, vpon this Coaſt.

The newes is very faire and good, my Lord,

Richard, not farre from hence, hath hid his head.

It would beſeeme the Lord Northumberland,

To ſay King Richard: alack the heauie day,

When ſuch a ſacred King ſhould hide his head.

Your Grace miſtakes: onely to be briefe,

Leſt I his Title out.

The time hath beene,

Would you haue beene ſo briefe with him, he would

Haue beene ſo briefe with you, to ſhorten you,

For taking ſo the Head, your whole heads length.

Miſtake not (Vnckle) farther then you ſhould.

Take not (good Couſin) farther then you ſhould.

Leaſt you miſtake the Heauens are ore your head.

I know it (Vnckle) and oppoſe not my ſelfe

Againſt their will. But who comes here?

Welcome Harry: what, will not this Caſtle yeeld?

The Caſtle royally is mann’d, my Lord,

Againſt thy entrance.

Royally? Why, it containes no King?

Yes (my good Lord)

It doth containe a King: King Richard lyes

Within the limits of yond Lime and Stone,

And with him, the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury,

Sir Stephen Scroope, beſides a Clergie man

Of holy reuerence; who, I cannot learne.

Oh, belike it is the Biſhop of Carlile.

Noble Lord,

Gœ to the rude Ribs of that ancient Caſtle,

Through Brazen Trumpet ſend the breath of Parle

Into his ruin’d Eares, and thus deliuer:

Henry Bullingbrooke vpon his knees doth kiſſe

King Richards hand, and ſends allegeance

And true faith of heart to his Royall Perſon: hither come

Euen at his feet, to lay my Armes and Power,

Prouided, that my Baniſhment repeal’d,

And Lands reſtor’d againe, be freely graunted:

If not, Ile vſe th’aduantage of my Power,

And lay the Summers duſt with ſhowers of blood,

Rayn’d from the wounds of ſlaughter’d Engliſhmen;

The which, how farre off from the mind of Bullingbrooke

It is, ſuch Crimſon Tempeſt ſhould bedrench

The freſh greene Lap of faire King Richards Land,

My ſtooping dutie tenderly ſhall ſhew.

Gœ ſignifie as much, while here we march

Vpon the Graſſie Carpet of this Plaine:

Let’s march without the noyſe of threatning Drum,

That from this Caſtles tatter’d Battlements

Our faire Appointments may be well perus’d.

Me thinkes King Richard and my ſelfe ſhould meet

With no leſſe terror then the Elements

Of Fire and Water, when their thundring ſmoake

At meeting teares the cloudie Cheekes of Heauen:

Be he the fire, Ile be the yeelding Water;

The Rage be his, while on the Earth I raine

My Waters on the Earth, and not on him.

March on, and marke King Richard how he lookes.

See, ſee, King Richard doth himſelfe appeare

As doth the bluſhing diſcontented Sunne,

From out the fierie Portall of the Eaſt,

When he perceiues the enuious Clouds are bent

To dimme his glory, and to ſtaine the traƈt

Of his bright paſſage to the Occident.

Yet lookes he like a King: behold his Eye

(As bright as is the Eagles) lightens forth

Controlling Maieſtie: alack, alack, for wœ,

That any harme ſhould ſtaine ſo faire a ſhew.

Wee are amaz’d, and thus long haue we ſtood

To watch the fearefull bending of thy knee,

Becauſe we thought our ſelfe thy lawfull King:

And if we be, how dare thy ioynts forget

To pay their awfull dutie to our preſence?

If we be not, ſhew vs the Hand of God,

That hath diſmiſs’d vs from our Stewardſhip,

For well wee know, no Hand of Blood and Bone

Can gripe the ſacred Handle of our Scepter,

Vnleſſe he doœ prophane, ſteale, or vſurpe.

And though you thinke, that all, as you haue done,

Haue torne their Soules, by turning them from vs,

And we are barren, and bereſt of Friends:

Yet know, my Maſter, God Omnipotent,

Is muſtring in his Clouds, on our behalfe,

Armies of Peſtilence, and they ſhall ſtrike

Your Children yet vnborne, and vnbegot,

That liſt your Vaſſall Hands againſt my Head,

And threat the Glory of my precious Crowne.

Tell Bullingbrooke, for yond me thinkes he is,

That euery ſtride he makes vpon my Land,

Is dangerous Treaſon: He is come to ope

The purple Teſtament of bleeding Warre;

But ere the Crowne he lookes for, liue in peace,

Ten thouſand bloody crownes of Mothers Sonnes

Shall ill become the flower of Englands face,

Change the complexion of her Maid-pale Peace

To Scarlet Indignation, and bedew

Her Paſtors Graſſe with faithfull Engliſh Blood.

The King of Heauen forbid our Lord the King

Should ſo with ciuill and vnciuill Armes

Be ruſh’d vpon: Thy thrice-noble Couſin,

Harry Bullingbrooke, doth humbly kiſſe thy hand,

And by the Honorable Tombe he ſweares,

That ſtands vpon your Royall Grandſires Bones,

And by the Royalties of both your Bloods,

(Currents that ſpring from one moſt gracious Head)

And by the buried Hand of Warlike Gaunt,

And by the Worth and Honor of himſelfe,

Compriſing all that may be ſworne, or ſaid,

His comming hither hath no further ſcope,

Then for his Lineall Royalties, and to begge

Infranchiſement immediate on his knees:

Which on thy Royall partie graunted once,

His glittering Armes he will commend to Ruſt,

His barbed Steedes to Stables, and his heart

To faithfull ſeruice of your Maieſtie:

This ſweares he, as he is a Prince, is iuſt,

And as I am a Gentleman, I credit him.

Northumberland, ſay thus: The King returnes,

His Noble Couſin is right welcome hither,

And all the number of his faire demands

Shall be accompliſh’d without contradiƈtion:

With all the gracious vtterance thou haſt,

Speake to his gentle hearing kind commends.

We dœ debaſe our ſelfe (Couſin) dœ we not,

To looke ſo poorely, and to ſpeake ſo faire?

Shall we call back Northumberland, and ſend

Defiance to the Traytor, and ſo die?

No, good my Lord, let’s fight with gentle words,

Till time lend friends, and friends their helpeful Swords.

Oh God, oh God, that ere this tongue of mine,

That layd the Sentence of dread Baniſhment

On yond prowd man, ſhould take it off againe

With words of ſooth: Oh that I were as great

As is my Griefe, or leſſer then my Name,

Or that I could forget what I haue beene,

Or not remember what I muſt be now:

Swell’ſt thou prowd heart? Ile giue thee ſcope to beat,

Since Fœs haue ſcope to beat both thee and me.

Northumberland comes backe from Bulling-

brooke.

What muſt the King dœ now? muſt he ſubmit?

The King ſhall dœ it: Muſt he be depos’d?

The King ſhall be contented: Muſt he looſe

The Name of King? o’Gods Name let it gœ.

Ile giue my Iewels for a ſett of Beades,

My gorgeous Pallace, for a Hermitage,

My gay Apparrell, for an Almes-mans Gowne,

My figur’d Goblets, for a Diſh of Wood,

My Scepter, for a Palmers walking Staffe,

My Subieƈts, for a payre of carued Saints,

And my large Kingdome, for a little Graue,

A little little Graue, an obſcure Graue.

Or Ile be buryed in the Kings high-way,

Some way of common Trade, where Subieƈts feet

May howrely trample on their Soueraignes Head:

For on my heart they tread now, whileſt I liue;

And buryed once, why not vpon my Head?

Aumerle, thou weep’ſt (my tender-hearted Couſin)

Wee’le make foule Weather with deſpiſed Teares:

Our ſighes, and they, ſhall lodge the Summer Corne,

And make a Dearth in this reuolting Land.

Or ſhall we play the Wantons with our Wœs,

And make ſome prettie Match, with ſhedding Teares?

As thus: to drop them ſtill vpon one place,

Till they haue fretted vs a payre of Graues,

Within the Earth: and therein lay’d, there lyes

Two Kinſmen, digg’d their Graues with weeping Eyes?

Would not this ill, dœ well? Well, well, I ſee

I talke but idly, and you mock at mee.

Moſt mightie Prince, my Lord Northumberland,

What ſayes King Bullingbrooke? Will his Maieſtie

Giue Richard leaue to liue, till Richard die?

You make a Legge, and Bullingbrooke ſayes I.

My Lord, in the baſe Court he doth attend

To ſpeake with you, may it pleaſe you to come downe.

Downe, downe I come, like gliſt’ring PhÊton,

Wanting the manage of vnruly Iades.

In the baſe Court? baſe Court, where Kings grow baſe,

To come at Traytors Calls, and dœ them Grace.

In the baſe Court come down: down Court, down King,

For night-Owls ſhrike, where moūting Larks ſhould ſing.

What ſayes his Maieſtie?

Sorrow, and griefe of heart

Makes him ſpeake fondly, like a frantick man:

Yet he is come.

Stand all apart,

And ſhew faire dutie to his Maieſtie.

My gracious Lord.

Faire Couſin,

You debaſe your Princely Knee,

To make the baſe Earth prowd with kiſſing it.

Me rather had, my Heart might feele your Loue,

Then my vnpleas’d Eye ſee your Courteſie.

Vp Couſin, vp, your Heart is vp, I know,

Thus high at leaſt, although your Knee be low.

My gracious Lord, I come but for mine owne.

Your owne is yours, and I am yours, and all.

So farre be mine, my moſt redoubted Lord,

As my true ſeruice ſhall deſerue your loue.

Well you deſeru’d:

They well deſerue to haue,

That know the ſtrong’ſt, and ſureſt way to get.

Vnckle giue me your Hand: nay, drie your Eyes,

Teares ſhew their Loue, but want their Remedies.

Couſin, I am too young to be your Father,

Though you are old enough to be my Heire.

What you will haue, Ile giue, and willing to,

For dœ we muſt, what force will haue vs dœ.

Set on towards London:

Couſin, is it ſo?

Yea, my good Lord.

Then I muſt not ſay, no.

What ſport ſhall we deuiſe here in this Garden,

To driue away the heauie thought of Care?

Madame, wee’le play at Bowles.

’Twill make me thinke the World is full of Rubs,

And that my fortune runnes againſt the Byas.

Madame, wee’le Dance.

My Legges can keepe no meaſure in Delight,

When my poore Heart no meaſure keepes in Griefe.

Therefore no Dancing (Girle) ſome other ſport.

Madame, wee’le tell Tales.

Of Sorrow, or of Griefe?

Of eyther, Madame.

Of neyther, Girle.

For if of Ioy, being altogether wanting,

It doth remember me the more of Sorrow:

Or if of Griefe, being altogether had,

It addes more Sorrow to my want of Ioy:

For what I haue, I need not to repeat;

And what I want, it bootes not to complaine.

Madame, Ile ſing.

’Tis well that thou haſt cauſe:

But thou ſhould’ſt pleaſe me better, would’ſt thou weepe.

I could weepe, Madame, would it dœ you good.

And I could ſing, would weeping dœ me good,

And neuer borrow any Teare of thee.

But ſtay, here comes the Gardiners,

Let’s ſtep into the ſhadow of theſe Trees.

My wretchedneſſe, vnto a Rowe of Pinnes,

They’le talke of State: for euery one doth ſo,

Againſt a Change; Wœ is fore-runne with Wœ.

Gœ binde thou vp yond dangling Apricocks,

Which like vnruly Children, make their Syre

Stoupe with oppreſſion of their prodigall weight:

Giue ſome ſupportance to the bending twigges.

Gœ thou, and like an Executioner

Cut off the heads of too faſt growing ſprayes,

That looke too loſtie in our Common-wealth:

All muſt be euen, in our Gouernment.

You thus imploy’d, I will gœ root away

The noyſome Weedes, that without profit ſucke

The Soyles fertilitie from wholeſome flowers.

Why ſhould we, in the compaſſe of a Pale,

Keepe Law and Forme, and due Proportion,

Shewing as in a Modell our firme Eſtate?

When our Sea-walled Garden, the whole Land,

Is full of Weedes, her faireſt Flowers choakt vp,

Her Fruit-trees all vnpruin’d, her Hedges ruin’d,

Her Knots diſorder’d, and her wholeſome Hearbes

Swarming with Caterpillers.

Hold thy peace.

He that hath ſuffer’d this diſorder’d Spring,

Hath now himſelfe met with the Fall of Leafe.

The Weeds that his broad-ſpreading Leaues did ſhelter,

That ſeem’d, in eating him, to hold him vp,

Are pull’d vp, Root and all, by Bullingbrooke:

I meane, the Earle of Wiltſhire, Buſhie, Greene.

What are they dead?

They are,

And Bullingbrooke hath ſeiz’d the waſtefull King.

Oh, what pitty is it, that he had not ſo trim’d

And dreſt his Land, as we this Garden, at time of yeare,

And wound the Barke, the skin of our Fruit-trees,

Leaſt being ouer-proud with Sap and Blood,

With too much riches it confound it ſelfe?

Had he done ſo, to great and growing men,

They might haue liu’d to beare, and he to taſte

Their fruites of dutie. Superfluous branches

We lop away, that bearing boughes may liue:

Had he done ſo, himſelfe had borne the Crowne,

Which waſte and idle houres, hath quite thrown downe.

What thinke you the King ſhall be depos’d?

Depreſt he is already, and depos’d

’Tis doubted he will be. Letters came laſt night

To a deere Friend of the Duke of Yorkes,

That tell blacke tydings.

Oh I am preſt to death through want of ſpeaking:

Thou old Adams likeneſſe, ſet to dreſſe this Garden:

How dares thy harſh rude tongue ſound this vnpleaſing newes

What Eue? what Serpent hath ſuggeſted thee,

To make a ſecond fall of curſed man?

Why do’ſt thou ſay, King Richard is depos’d,

Dar’ſt thou, thou little better thing then earth,

Diuine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how

Cam’ſt thou by this ill-tydings? Speake thou wretch.

Pardon me Madam. Little ioy haue I

To breath theſe newes; yet what I ſay, is true;

King Richard, he is in the mighty hold

Of Bullingbrooke, their Fortunes both are weigh’d:

In your Lords Scale, is nothing but himſelfe,

And ſome few Vanities, that make him light:

But in the Ballance of great Bullingbrooke,

Beſides himſelfe, are all the Engliſh Peeres,

And with that oddes he weighes King Richard downe.

Poſte you to London, and you’l finde it ſo,

I ſpeake no more, then euery one doth know.

Nimble miſchance, that art ſo light of foote,

Doth not thy Embaſſage belong to me?

And am I laſt that knowes it? Oh thou think’ſt

To ſerue me laſt, that I may longeſt keepe

Thy ſorrow in my breaſt. Come Ladies gœ,

To meet at London, Londons King in wœ.

What was I borne to this: that my ſad looke,

Should grace the Triumph of great Bullingbrooke.

Gard’ner, for telling me this newes of wœ,

I would the Plants thou graſt’ſt, may neuer grow.

Poore Queen, ſo that thy State might be no worſe,

I would my ſkill were ſubieƈt to thy curſe:

Heere did ſhe drop a teare, heere in this place

Ile ſet a Banke of Rew, ſowre Herbe of Grace:

Rue, eu’n for ruth, heere ſhortly ſhall be ſeene,

In the remembrance of a Weeping Queene.

Call forth Bagot.

Now Bagot, freely ſpeake thy minde,

What thou do’ſt know of Noble Glouſters death:

Who wrought it with the King, and who perform’d

The bloody Office of his Timeleſſe end.

Then ſet before my face, the Lord Aumerle.

Coſin, ſtand forth, and looke vpon that man.

My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue

Scornes to vnſay, what it hath once deliuer’d.

In that dead time, when Glouſters death was plotted,

I heard you ſay, Is not my arme of length,

That reacheth from the reſtfull Engliſh Court

As farre as Callis, to my Vnkles head.

Amongſt much other talke, that very time,

I heard you ſay, that you had rather refuſe

The offer of an hundred thouſand Crownes,

Then Bullingbrookes returne to England; adding withall,

How bleſt this Land would be, in this your Coſins death.

Princes, and Noble Lords:

What anſwer ſhall I make to this baſe man?

Shall I ſo much diſhonor my faire Starres,

On equall termes to giue him chaſticement?

Either I muſt, or haue mine honor ſoyl’d

With th’ Attaindor of his ſland’rous Lippes.

There is my Gage, the manuall Seale of death

That markes thee out for Hell. Thou lyeſt,

And will maintaine what thou haſt ſaid, is falſe,

In thy heart blood, though being all too baſe

To ſtaine the temper of my Knightly ſword.

Bagot forbeare, thou ſhalt not take it vp.

Excepting one, I would he were the beſt

In all this preſence, that hath mou’d me ſo.

If that thy valour ſtand on ſympathize:

There is my Gage, Aumerle, in Gage to thine:

By that faire Sunne, that ſhewes me where thou ſtand’ſt,

I heard thee ſay (and vauntingly thou ſpak’ſt it)

That thou wer’t cauſe of Noble Glouſters death.

If thou denieſt it, twenty times thou lyeſt,

And I will turne thy falſhood to thy hart,

Where it was forged with my Rapiers point.

Thou dar’ſt not (Coward) liue to ſee the day.

Now by my Soule, I would it were this houre.

Fitzwater thou art damn’d to hell for this.

Aumerle, thou lye’ſt: his Honor is as true

In this Appeale, as thou art all vniuſt:

And that thou art ſo, there I throw my Gage

To proue it on thee, to th’ extreameſt point

Of mortall breathing. Seize it, if thou dar’ſt.

And if I do not, may my hands rot off,

And neuer brandiſh more reuengefull Steele,

Ouer the glittering Helmet of my Fœ.

My Lord Fitz-water:

I do remember well, the very time

Aumerle, and you did talke.

My Lord,

’Tis very true: You were in preſence then,

And you can witneſſe with me, this is true.

As falſe, by heauen,

As Heauen it ſelfe is true.

Surrey, thou Lyeſt.

Diſhonourable Boy;

That Lye, ſhall lie ſo heauy on my Sword,

That it ſhall render Vengeance, and Reuenge,

Till thou the Lye-giuer, and that Lye, dœ lye

In earth as quiet, as thy Fathers Scull.

In proofe whereof, there is mine Honors pawne,

Engage it to the Triall, if thou dar’ſt.

How fondly do’ſt thou ſpurre a forward Horſe?

If I dare eate, or drinke, or breathe, or liue,

I dare meete Surrey in a Wilderneſſe,

And ſpit vpon him, whileſt I ſay he Lyes,

And Lyes, and Lyes: there is my Bond of Faith,

To tye thee to my ſtrong Correƈtion.

As I intend to thriue in this new World,

Aumerle is guiltie of my true Appeale.

Beſides, I heard the baniſh’d Norfolke ſay,

That thou Aumerle didſt ſend two of thy men,

To execute the Noble Duke at Callis.

Some honeſt Chriſtian truſt me with a Gage,

That Norfolke lyes: here dœ I throw downe this,

If he may be repeal’d, to trie his Honor.

Theſe differences ſhall all reſt vnder Gage,

Till Norfolke be repeal’d: repeal’d he ſhall be;

And (though mine Enemie) reſtor’d againe

To all his Lands and Seignories: when hee’s return’d,

Againſt Aumerle we will enforce his Tryall.

That honorable day ſhall ne’re be ſeene.

Many a time hath baniſh’d Norfolke fought

For Ieſu Chriſt, in glorious Chriſtian field

Streaming the Enſigne of the Chriſtian Croſſe,

Againſt black Pagans, Turkes, and Saracens:

And toyl’d with workes of Warre, retyr’d himſelfe

To Italy, and there at Venice gaue

His Body to that pleaſant Countries Earth,

And his pure Soule vnto his Captaine Chriſt,

Vnder whoſe Colours he had fought ſo long.

Why Biſhop, is Norfolke dead?

As ſure as I liue, my Lord.

Sweet peace conduƈt his ſweet Soule

To the Boſome of good old Abraham.

Lords Appealants, your differē[n]ces ſhal all reſt vnder gage,

Till we aſſigne you to your dayes of Tryall.

Great Duke of Lancaſter, I come to thee

From plume-pluckt Richard, who with willing Soule

Adopts thee Heire, and his high Scepter yeelds

To the poſſeſſion of thy Royall Hand.

Aſcend his Throne, deſcending now from him,

And long liue Henry, of that Name the Fourth.

In Gods Name, Ile aſcend the Regall Throne.

Mary, Heauen forbid.

Worſt in this Royall Preſence may I ſpeake,

Yet beſt beſeeming me to ſpeake the truth.

Would God, that any in this Noble Preſence

Were enough Noble, to be vpright Iudge

Of Noble Richard: then true Nobleneſſe would

Learne him forbearance from ſo foule a Wrong.

What Subieƈt can giue Sentence on his King?

And who ſits here, that is not Richards Subieƈt?

Theeues are not iudg’d, but they are by to heare,

Although apparant guilt be ſeene in them:

And ſhall the figure of Gods Maieſtie,

His Captaine, Steward, Deputie eleƈt,

Anoynted, Crown’d, planted many yeeres,

Be iudg’d by ſubieƈt, and inferior breathe,

And he himſelfe not preſent? Oh, forbid it, God,

That in a Chriſtian Climate, Soules refin’de

Should ſhew ſo heynous, black, obſcene a deed.

I ſpeake to Subieƈts, and a Subieƈt ſpeakes,

Stirr’d vp by Heauen, thus boldly for his King

My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call King,

Is a foule Traytor to prowd Herefords King.

And if you Crowne him, let me prophecie,

The blood of Engliſh ſhall manure the ground,

And future Ages groane for his foule Aƈt.

Peace ſhall gœ ſleepe with Turkes and Infidels,

And in this Seat of Peace, tumultuous Warres

Shall Kinne with Kinne, and Kinde with Kinde confound.

Diſorder, Horror, Feare, and Mutinie

Shall here inhabite, and this Land be call’d

The field of Golgotha, and dead mens Sculls.

Oh, if you reare this Houſe, againſt this Houſe

It will the wofulleſt Diuiſion proue,

That euer fell vpon this curſed Earth.

Preuent it, reſiſt it, and let it not be ſo,

Leaſt Child, Childs Children cry againſt you, Wœ.

Well haue you argu’d Sir: and for your paines,

Of Capitall Treaſon we arreſt you here.

My Lord of Weſtminſter, be it your charge,

To keepe him ſafely, till his day of Tryall.

May it pleaſe you, Lords, to grant the Commons Suit?

Fetch hither Richard, that in common view

He may ſurrender: ſo we ſhall proceede

Without ſuſpition.

I will be his Conduƈt.

Lords, you that here are vnder our Arreſt,

Procure your Sureties for your Dayes of Anſwer:

Little are we beholding to your Loue,

And little look’d for at your helping Hands.

Alack, why am I ſent for to a King,

Before I haue ſhooke off the Regall thoughts

Wherewith I reign’d? I hardly yet haue learn’d

To inſinuate, flatter, bowe, and bend my Knee.

Giue Sorrow leaue a while, to tuture me

To this ſubmiſſion. Yet I well remember

The fauors of theſe men: were they not mine?

Did they not ſometime cry, All hayle to me?

So Iudas did to Chriſt: but he in twelue,

Found truth in all, but one; I, in twelue thouſand, none.

God ſaue the King: will no man ſay, Amen?

Am I both Prieſt, and Clarke? well then, Amen.

God ſaue the King, although I be not hee:

And yet Amen, if Heauen dœ thinke him mee.

To dœ what ſeruice, am I ſent for hither?

To dœ that office of thine owne good will,

Which tyred Maieſtie did make thee offer:

The Reſignation of thy State and Crowne

To Henry Bullingbrooke.

Giue me the Crown. Here Couſin, ſeize ˝ Crown:

Here Couſin, on this ſide my Hand, on that ſide thine.

Now is this Golden Crowne like a deepe Well,

That owes two Buckets, filling one another,

The emptier euer dancing in the ayre,

The other downe, vnſeene, and full of Water:

That Bucket downe, and full of Teares am I,

Drinking my Griefes, whil’ſt you mount vp on high.

I thought you had been willing to reſigne.

My Crowne I am, but ſtill my Griefes are mine:

You may my Glories and my State depoſe,

But not my Griefes; ſtill am I King of thoſe.

Part of your Cares you giue me with your Crowne.

Your Cares ſet vp, do not pluck my Cares downe.

My Care, is loſſe of Care, by old Care done,

Your Care, is gaine of Care, by new Care wonne:

The Cares I giue, I haue, though giuen away,

They ’tend the Crowne, yet ſtill with me they ſtay:

Are you contented to reſigne the Crowne?

I, no; no, I: for I muſt nothing bee:

Therefore no, no, for I reſigne to thee.

Now, marke me how I will vndœ my ſelfe.

I giue this heauie Weight from off my Head,

And this vnwieldie Scepter from my Hand,

The pride of Kingly ſway from out my Heart.

With mine owne Teares I waſh away my Balme,

With mine owne Hands I giue away my Crowne,

With mine owne Tongue denie my Sacred State,

With mine owne Breath releaſe all dutious Oathes;

All Pompe and Maieſtie I dœ forſweare:

My Manors, Rents, Reuenues, I forgœ;

My Aƈts, Decrees, and Statutes I denie:

God pardon all Oathes that are broke to mee,

God keepe all Vowes vnbroke are made to thee.

Make me that nothing haue, with nothing grieu’d,

And thou with all pleas’d, that haſt all atchieu’d.

Long may’ſt thou liue in Richards Seat to ſit,

And ſoone lye Richard in an Earthie Pit.

God ſaue King Henry, vn-King’d Richard ſayes,

And ſend him many yeeres of Sunne-ſhine dayes.

What more remaines?

No more: but that you reade

Theſe Accuſations, and theſe grieuous Crymes,

Committed by your Perſon, and your followers,

Againſt the State, and Profit of this Land:

That by confeſſing them, the Soules of men

May deeme, that you are worthily depos’d.

Muſt I dœ ſo? and muſt I rauell out

My weau’d-vp follyes? Gentle Northumberland,

If thy Offences were vpon Record,

Would it not ſhame thee, in ſo faire a troupe,

To reade a Leƈture of them? If thou would’ſt,

There ſhould’ſt thou finde one heynous Article,

Contayning the depoſing of a King,

And cracking the ſtrong Warrant of an Oath,

Mark’d with a Blot, damn’d in the Booke of Heauen.

Nay, all of you, that ſtand and looke vpon me,

Whil’ſt that my wretchedneſſe doth bait my ſelfe,

Though ſome of you, with Pilate, waſh your hands,

Shewing an outward pittie: yet you Pilates

Haue here deliuer’d me to my ſowre Croſſe,

And Water cannot waſh away your ſinne.

My Lord diſpatch, reade o’re theſe Articles.

Mine Eyes are full of Teares, I cannot ſee:

And yet ſalt-Water blindes them not ſo much,

But they can ſee a ſort of Traytors here.

Nay, if I turne mine Eyes vpon my ſelfe,

I finde my ſelfe a Traytor with the reſt:

For I haue giuen here my Soules conſent,

T’ vndeck the pompous Body of a King;

Made Glory baſe; a Soueraigntie, a Slaue;

Prowd Maieſtie, a Subieƈt; State, a Peſant.

My Lord.

No Lord of thine, thou haught-inſulting man;

No, nor no mans Lord: I haue no Name, no Title;

No, not that Name was giuen me at the Font,

But ’tis vſurpt: alack the heauie day,

That I haue worne ſo many Winters out,

And know not now, what Name to call my ſelfe.

Oh, that I were a Mockerie, King of Snow,

Standing before the Sunne of Bullingbrooke,

To melt my ſelfe away in Water-drops.

Good King, great King, and yet not greatly good,

And if my word be Sterling yet in England,

Let it command a Mirror hither ſtraight,

That it may ſhew me what a Face I haue,

Since it is Bankrupt of his Maieſtie.

Gœ ſome of you, and fetch a Looking-Glaſſe.

Read o’re this Paper, while ˝ Glaſſe doth come.

Fiend, thou torments me, ere I come to Hell.

Vrge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

The Commons will not then be ſatiſfy’d.

They ſhall be ſatiſfy’d: Ile reade enough,

When I dœ ſee the very Booke indeede,

Where all my ſinnes are writ, and that’s my ſelfe.

Giue me that Glaſſe, and therein will I reade.

No deeper wrinckles yet? hath Sorrow ſtrucke

So many Blowes vpon this Face of mine,

And made no deeper Wounds? Oh flatt’ring Glaſſe,

Like to my followers in proſperitie,

Thou do’ſt beguile me. Was this Face, the Face

That euery day, vnder his Houſe-hold Roofe,

Did keepe ten thouſand men? Was this the Face,

That like the Sunne, did make beholders winke?

Is this the Face, which fac’d ſo many follyes,

That was at laſt out-fac’d by Bullingbrooke?

A brittle Glory ſhineth in this Face,

As brittle as the Glory, is the Face,

For there it is, crackt in an hundred ſhiuers.

Marke ſilent King, the Morall of this ſport,

How ſoone my Sorrow hath deſtroy’d my Face.

The ſhadow of your Sorrow hath deſtroy’d

The ſhadow of your Face.

Say that againe.

The ſhadow of my Sorrow: ha, let’s ſee,

’Tis very true, my Griefe lyes all within,

And theſe externall manner of Laments,

Are meerely ſhadowes, to the vnſeene Griefe,

That ſwells with ſilence in the tortur’d Soule.

There lyes the ſubſtance: and I thanke thee King

For thy great bountie, that not onely giu’ſt

Me cauſe to wayle, but teacheſt me the way

How to lament the cauſe. Ile begge one Boone,

And then be gone, and trouble you no more.

Shall I obtaine it?

Name it, faire Couſin.

Faire Couſin? I am greater then a King:

For when I was a King, my flatterers

Were then but ſubieƈts; being now a ſubieƈt,

I haue a King here to my flatterer:

Being ſo great, I haue no neede to begge.

Yet aske.

And ſhall I haue?

You ſhall.

Then giue me leaue to gœ.

Whither?

Whither you will, ſo I were from your ſights.

Gœ ſome of you, conuey him to the Tower.

Oh good: conuey: Conueyers are you all,

That riſe thus nimbly by a true Kings fall.

On Wedneſday next, we ſolemnly ſet downe

Our Coronation: Lords, prepare your ſelues.

A wofull Pageant haue we here beheld.

The Wœs to come, the Children yet vnborne,

Shall feele this day as ſharpe to them as Thorne.

You holy Clergie-men, is there no Plot

To rid the Realme of this pernicious Blot.

Before I freely ſpeake my minde herein,

You ſhall not onely take the Sacrament,

To bury mine intents, but alſo to effeƈt

What euer I ſhall happen to deuiſe.

I ſee your Browes are full of Diſcontent,

Your Heart of Sorrow, and your Eyes of Teares.

Come home with me to Supper, Ile lay a Plot

Shall ſhew vs all a merry day.

This way the King will come: this is the way

To Iulius CÊſars ill-ereƈted Tower:

To whoſe flint Boſome, my condemned Lord

Is doom’d a Priſoner, by prowd Bullingbrooke.

Here let vs reſt, if this rebellious Earth

Haue any reſting for her true Kings Queene.

But ſoſt, but ſee, or rather dœ not ſee,

My faire Roſe wither: yet looke vp; behold,

That you in pittie may diſſolue to dew,

And waſh him freſh againe with true-loue Teares.

Ah thou, the Modell where old Troy did ſtand,

Thou Mappe of Honor, thou King Richards Tombe,

And not King Richard: thou moſt beauteous Inne,

Why ſhould hard-fauor’d Griefe be lodg’d in thee,

When Triumph is become an Ale-houſe Gueſt.

Ioyne not with griefe, faire Woman, do not ſo,

To make my end too ſudden: learne good Soule,

To thinke our former State a happie Dreame,

From which awak’d, the truth of what we are,

Shewes vs but this. I am ſworne Brother (Sweet)

To grim Neceſſitie; and hee and I

Will keepe a League till Death. High thee to France,

And Cloyſter thee in ſome Religious Houſe:

Our holy liues muſt winne a new Worlds Crowne,

Which our prophane houres here haue ſtricken downe.

What, is my Richard both in ſhape and minde

Transform’d, and weaken’d? Hath Bullingbrooke

Depos’d thine Intelleƈt? hath he beene in thy Heart?

The Lyon dying, thruſteth forth his Paw,

And wounds the Earth, if nothing elſe, with rage

To be o’re-powr’d: and wilt thou, Pupill-like,

Take thy Correƈtion mildly, kiſſe the Rodde,

And fawne on Rage with baſe Humilitie,

Which art a Lyon, and a King of Beaſts?

A King of Beaſts indeed: if aught but Beaſts,

I had beene ſtill a happy King of Men.

Good (ſometime Queene) prepare thee hence for France:

Thinke I am dead, and that euen here thou tak’ſt,

As from my Death-bed, my laſt liuing leaue.

In Winters tedious Nights ſit by the fire

With good old folkes, and let them tell thee Tales

Of wofull Ages, long agœ betide:

And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their griefe,

Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,

And ſend the hearers weeping to their Beds:

For why? the ſenceleſſe Brands will ſympathize

The heauie accent of thy mouing Tongue,

And in compaſſion, weepe the fire out:

And ſome will mourne in aſhes, ſome coale-black,

For the depoſing of a rightfull King.

My Lord, the mind of Bullingbrooke is chang’d.

You muſt to Pomfret, not vnto the Tower.

And Madame, there is order ta’ne for you:

With all ſwiſt ſpeed, you muſt away to France.

Northumberland, thou Ladder wherewithall

The mounting Bullingbrooke aſcends my Throne,

The time ſhall not be many houres of age,

More then it is, ere foule ſinne, gathering head,

Shall breake into corruption: thou ſhalt thinke,

Though he diuide the Realme, and giue thee halfe,

It is too little, helping him to all:

He ſhall thinke, that thou which know’ſt the way

To plant vnrightfull Kings, wilt know againe,

Being ne’re ſo little vrg’d another way,

To pluck him headlong from the vſurped Throne.

The Loue of wicked friends conuerts to Feare;

That Feare, to Hate; and Hate turnes one, or both,

To worthie Danger, and deſerued Death.

My guilt be on my Head, and there an end:

Take leaue, and part, for you muſt part forthwith.

Doubly diuorc’d? (bad men) ye violate

A two-fold Marriage; ’twixt my Crowne, and me.

And then betwixt me, and my marryed Wife.

Let me vn-kiſſe the Oath ’twixt thee, and me;

And yet not ſo, for with a Kiſſe ’twas made.

Part vs, Northumberland: I, towards the North,

Where ſhiuering Cold and Sickneſſe pines the Clyme:

My Queene to France: from whence, ſet forth in pompe,

She came adorned hither like ſweet May;

Sent back like Hollowmas, or ſhort’ſt of day.

And muſt we be diuided? muſt we part?

I, hand from hand (my Loue) and heart frō heart.

Baniſh vs both, and ſend the King with me.

That were ſome Loue, but little Pollicy.

Then whither he gœs, thither let me gœ.

So two together weeping, make one Wœ.

Weepe thou for me in France; I, for thee heere:

Better farre off, then neere, be ne’re the neere.

Gœ, count thy Way with Sighes; I, mine with Groanes.

So longeſt Way ſhall haue the longeſt Moanes.

Twice for one ſtep Ile groane, ˝ Way being ſhort,

And peece the Way out with a heauie heart.

Come, come, in wooing Sorrow let’s be briefe,

Since wedding it, there is ſuch length in Griefe:

One Kiſſe ſhall ſtop our mouthes, and dumbely part;

Thus giue I mine, and thus take I thy heart.

Giue me mine owne againe: ’twere no good part,

To take on me to keepe, and kill thy heart.

So, now I haue mine owne againe, be gone,

That I may ſtriue to kill it with a groane.

We make Wœ wanton with this fond delay:

Once more adieu; the reſt, let Sorrow ſay.

My Lord, you told me you would tell the reſt,

When weeping made you breake the ſtory off,

Of our two Couſins comming into London.

Where did I leaue?

At that ſad ſtoppe, my Lord,

Where rude miſ-gouern’d hands, from Windowes tops,

Threw duſt and rubbiſh on King Richards head.

Then, as I ſaid, the Duke, great Bullingbrooke,

Mounted vpon a hot and fierie Steed,

Which his aſpiring Rider ſeem’d to know,

With ſlow, but ſtately pace, kept on his courſe:

While all tongues cride, God ſaue thee Bullingbrooke.

You would haue thought the very windowes ſpake,

So many greedy lookes of yong and old,

Through Caſements darted their deſiring eyes

Vpon his viſage: and that all the walles,

With painted Imagery had ſaid at once,

Ieſu preſerue thee, welcom Bullingbrooke.

Whil’ſt he, from one ſide to the other turning,

Bare-headed, lower then his proud Steeds necke,

Beſpake them thus: I thanke you Countrimen:

And thus ſtill doing, thus he paſt along.

Alas poore Richard, where rides he the whilſt?

As in a Theater, the eyes of men

Aſter a well grac’d Aƈtor leaues the Stage,

Are idlely bent on him that enters next,

Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Euen ſo, or with much more contempt, mens eyes

Did ſcowle on Richard: no man cride, God ſaue him:

No ioyfull tongue gaue him his welcome home,

But duſt was throwne vpon his Sacred head,

Which with ſuch gentle ſorrow he ſhooke off,

His face ſtill combating with teares and ſmiles

(The badges of his greefe and patience)

That had not God (for ſome ſtrong purpoſe) ſteel’d

The hearts of men, they muſt perforce haue melted,

And Barbariſme it ſelfe haue pittied him.

But heauen hath a hand in theſe euents,

To whoſe high will we bound our calme contents.

To Bullingbrooke, are we ſworne Subieƈts now,

Whoſe State, and Honor, I for aye allow.

Heere comes my ſonne Aumerle.

Aumerle that was,

But that is loſt, for being Richards Friend.

And Madam, you muſt call him Rutland now:

I am in Parliament pledge for his truth,

And laſting fealtie to the new-made King.

Welcome my ſonne: who are the Violets now,

That ſtrew the greene lap of the new-come Spring?

Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not,

God knowes, I had as liefe be none, as one.

Well, beare you well in this new-ſpring of time

Leaſt you be cropt before you come to prime.

What newes from Oxford? Hold thoſe Iuſts & Triumphs?

For ought I know my Lord, they do.

You will be there I know.

If God preuent not, I purpoſe ſo.

What Seale is that that hangs without thy boſom?

Yea, look’ſt thou pale? Let me ſee the Writing.

My Lord, ’tis nothing.

No matter then who ſees it,

I will be ſatiſfied, let me ſee the Writing.

I do beſeech your Grace to pardon me,

It is a matter of ſmall conſequence,

Which for ſome reaſons I would not haue ſeene.

Which for ſome reaſons ſir, I meane to ſee:

I feare, I feare.

What ſhould you feare?

’Tis nothing but ſome bond, that he is enter’d into

For gay apparrell, againſt the Triumph.

Bound to himſelfe? What doth he with a Bond

That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a foole.

Boy, let me ſee the Writing.

I do beſeech you pardon me, I may not ſhew it.

I will be ſatiſfied: let me ſee it I ſay.

Treaſon, foule Treaſon, Villaine, Traitor, Slaue.

What’s the matter, my Lord?

Hoa, who’s within there? Saddle my horſe.

Heauen for his mercy: what treachery is heere?

Why, what is’t my Lord?

Giue me my boots, I ſay: Saddle my horſe:

Now by my Honor, my life, my troth,

I will appeach the Villaine.

What is the matter?

Peace fooliſh Woman.

I will not peace. What is the matter Sonne?

Good Mother be content, it is no more

Then my poore life muſt anſwer.

Thy life anſwer?

Bring me my Boots, I will vnto the King.

Strike him Aumerle. Poore boy, ӳ art amaz’d,

Hence Villaine, neuer more come in my ſight.

Giue me my Boots, I ſay.

Why Yorke, what wilt thou do?

Wilt thou not hide the Treſpaſſe of thine owne?

Haue we more Sonnes? Or are we like to haue?

Is not my teeming date drunke vp with time?

And wilt thou plucke my faire Sonne from mine Age,

And rob me of a happy Mothers name?

Is he not like thee? Is he not thine owne?

Thou fond mad woman:

Wilt thou conceale this darke Conſpiracy?

A dozen of them heere haue tane the Sacrament,

And interchangeably ſet downe their hands

To kill the King at Oxford.

He ſhall be none:

Wee’l keepe him heere: then what is that to him?

Away fond woman: were hee twenty times my

Son, I would appeach him.

Hadſt thou groan’d for him as I haue done,

Thou wouldeſt be more pittifull:

But now I know thy minde; thou do’ſt ſuſpeƈt

That I haue bene diſloyall to thy bed,

And that he is a Baſtard, not thy Sonne:

Sweet Yorke, ſweet husband, be not of that minde:

He is as like thee, as a man may bee,

Not like to me, nor any of my Kin,

And yet I loue him.

Make way, vnruly Woman.

Aſter Aumerle. Mount thee vpon his horſe,

Spurre poſt, and get before him to the King,

And begge thy pardon, ere he do accuſe thee,

Ile not be long behind: though I be old,

I doubt not but to ride as faſt as Yorke:

And neuer will I riſe vp from the ground,

Till Bullingbrooke haue pardon’d thee: Away be gone.

Can no man tell of my vnthriſtie Sonne?

’Tis full three monthes ſince I did ſee him laſt.

If any plague hang ouer vs, ’tis he,

I would to heauen (my Lords) he might be found:

Enquire at London, ’mongſt the Tauernes there:

For there (they ſay) he dayly doth frequent,

With vnreſtrained looſe Companions,

Euen ſuch (they ſay) as ſtand in narrow Lanes,

And rob our Watch, and beate our paſſengers,

Which he, yong wanton, and effeminate Boy

Takes on the point of Honor, to ſupport

So diſſolute a crew.

My Lord, ſome two dayes ſince I ſaw the Prince,

And told him of theſe Triumphes held at Oxford.

And what ſaid the Gallant?

His anſwer was: he would vnto the Stewes,

And from the common’ſt creature plucke a Gloue

And weare it as a fauour, and with that

He would vnhorſe the luſtieſt Challenger.

As diſſolute as deſp’rate, yet through both,

I ſee ſome ſparkes of better hope: which elder dayes

May happily bring forth. But who comes heere?

Where is the King?

What meanes our Coſin, that hee ſtares

And lookes ſo wildely?

God ſaue your Grace. I do beſeech your Maieſty

To haue ſome conference with your Grace alone.

Withdraw your ſelues, and leaue vs here alone:

What is the matter with our Coſin now?

For euer may my knees grow to the earth,

My tongue cleaue to my roofe within my mouth,

Vnleſſe a Pardon, ere I riſe, or ſpeake.

Intended, or committed was this fault?

If on the firſt, how heynous ere it bee,

To win thy aſter loue, I pardon thee.

Then giue me leaue, that I may turne the key,

That no man enter, till my tale be done.

Haue thy deſire.

My Liege beware, looke to thy ſelfe,

Thou haſt a Traitor in thy preſence there.

Villaine, Ile make thee ſafe.

Stay thy reuengefull hand, thou haſt no cauſe to feare.

Open the doore, ſecure foole-hardy King:

Shall I for loue ſpeake treaſon to thy face?

Open the doore, or I will breake it open.

What is the matter (Vnkle) ſpeak, recouer breath,

Tell vs how neere is danger,

That we may arme vs to encounter it.

Peruſe this writing heere, and thou ſhalt know

The reaſon that my haſte forbids me ſhow.

Remember as thou read’ſt, thy promiſe paſt:

I do repent me, reade not my name there,

My heart is not confederate with my hand.

It was (villaine) ere thy hand did ſet it downe.

I tore it from the Traitors boſome, King.

Feare, and not Loue, begets his penitence;

Forget to pitty him, leaſt thy pitty proue

A Serpent, that will ſting thee to the heart.

Oh heinous, ſtrong, and bold Conſpiracie,

O loyall Father of a treacherous Sonne:

Thou ſheere, immaculate, and ſiluer fountaine,

From whence this ſtreame, through muddy paſſages

Hath had his current, and defil’d himſelfe.

Thy ouerflow of good, conuerts to bad,

And thy abundant goodneſſe ſhall excuſe

This deadly blot, in thy digreſſing ſonne.

So ſhall my Vertue be his Vices bawd,

And he ſhall ſpend mine Honour, with his Shame;

As thriſtleſſe Sonnes, their ſcraping Fathers Gold.

Mine honor liues, when his diſhonor dies,

Or my ſham’d life, in his diſhonor lies:

Thou kill’ſt me in his life, giuing him breath,

The Traitor liues, the true man’s put to death.

What hoa (my Liege) for heauens ſake let me in.

What ſhrill-voic’d Suppliant, makes this eager cry?

A woman, and thine Aunt (great King) ’tis I.

Speake with me, pitty me, open the dore,

A Begger begs, that neuer begg’d before.

Our Scene is alter’d from a ſerious thing,

And now chang’d to the Begger, and the King.

My dangerous Coſin, let your Mother in,

I know ſhe’s come, to pray for your foule ſin.

If thou do pardon, whoſœuer pray,

More ſinnes for this forgiueneſſe, proſper may.

This feſter’d ioynt cut off, the reſt reſts ſound,

This let alone, will all the reſt confound.

O King, beleeue not this hard-hearted man,

Loue, louing not it ſelfe, none other can.

Thou franticke woman, what doſt ӳ make here,

Shall thy old dugges, once more a Traitor reare?

Sweet Yorke be patient, heare me gentle Liege.

Riſe vp good Aunt.

Not yet, I thee beſeech.

For euer will I kneele vpon my knees,

And neuer ſee day, that the happy ſees,

Till thou giue ioy: vntill thou bid me ioy,

By pardoning Rutland, my tranſgreſſing Boy.

Vnto my mothers prayres, I bend my knee.

Againſt them both, my true ioynts bended be.

Pleades he in earneſt? Looke vpon his Face,

His eyes do drop no teares: his prayres are in ieſt:

His words come from his mouth, ours from our breſt.

He prayes but faintly, and would be denide,

We pray with heart, and ſoule, and all beſide:

His weary ioynts would gladly riſe, I know,

Our knees ſhall kneele, till to the ground they grow:

His prayers are full of falſe hypocriſie,

Ours of true zeale, and deepe integritie:

Our prayers do out-pray his, then let them haue

That mercy, which true prayers ought to haue.

Good Aunt ſtand vp.

Nay, do not ſay ſtand vp.

But Pardon firſt, and aſterwards ſtand vp.

And if I were thy Nurſe, thy tongue to teach,

Pardon ſhould be the firſt word of thy ſpeach.

I neuer long’d to heare a word till now:

Say Pardon (King,) let pitty teach thee how.

The word is ſhort: but not ſo ſhort as ſweet,

No word like Pardon, for Kings mouth’s ſo meet.

Speake it in French (King) ſay Pardon’ne moy.

Doſt thou teach pardon, Pardon to deſtroy?

Ah my ſowre husband, my hard-hearted Lord,

That ſet’s the word it ſelfe, againſt the word.

Speake Pardon, as ’tis currant in our Land,

The chopping French we do not vnderſtand.

Thine eye begins to ſpeake, ſet thy tongue there,

Or in thy pitteous heart, plant thou thine eare,

That hearing how our plaints and prayres do pearce,

Pitty may moue thee, Pardon to rehearſe.

Good Aunt, ſtand vp.

I do not ſue to ſtand,

Pardon is all the ſuite I haue in hand.

I pardon him, as heauen ſhall pardon mee.

O happy vantage of a kneeling knee?

Yet am I ſicke for feare: Speake it againe,

Twice ſaying Pardon, doth not pardon twaine,

But makes one pardon ſtrong.

I pardon him with all my hart.

A God on earth thou art.

But for our truſty brother-in-Law, the Abbot,

With all the reſt of that conſorted crew,

Deſtruƈtion ſtraight ſhall dogge them at the heeles:

Good Vnckle helpe to order ſeuerall powres

To Oxford, or where ere theſe Traitors are:

They ſhall not liue within this world I ſweare,

But I will haue them, if I once know where.

Vnckle farewell, and Coſin adieu:

Your mother well hath praid, and proue you true.

Come my old ſon, I pray heauen make thee new.

Didſt thou not marke the King what words hee ſpake?

Haue I no friend will rid me of this liuing feare:

Was it not ſo?

Thoſe were his very words.

Haue I no Friend? (quoth he:) he ſpake it twice,

And vrg’d it twice together, did he not?

He did.

And ſpeaking it, he wiſtly look’d on me,

As who ſhould ſay, I would thou wer’t the man

That would diuorce this terror from my heart,

Meaning the King at Pomfret: Come, let’s gœ;

I am the Kings Friend, and will rid his Fœ.

I haue bin ſtudying, how to compare

This Priſon where I liue, vnto the World:

And for becauſe the world is populous,

And heere is not a Creature, but my ſelfe,

I cannot do it: yet Ile hammer’t out.

My Braine, Ile proue the Female to my Soule,

My Soule, the Father: and theſe two beget

A generation of ſtill breeding Thoughts;

And theſe ſame Thoughts, people this Little World

In humors, like the people of this world,

For no thought is contented. The better ſort,

As thoughts of things Diuine, are intermixt

With ſcruples, and do ſet the Faith it ſelfe

Againſt the Faith: as thus: Come litle ones: & then again,

It is as hard to come, as for a Camell

To thred the poſterne of a Needles eye.

Thoughts tending to Ambition, they do plot

Vnlikely wonders; how theſe vaine weake nailes

May teare a paſſage through the Flinty ribbes

Of this hard world, my ragged priſon walles:

And for they cannot, dye in their owne pride.

Thoughts tending to Content, flatter themſelues,

That they are not the firſt of Fortunes ſlaues,

Nor ſhall not be the laſt. Like ſilly Beggars,

Who ſitting in the Stockes, refuge their ſhame

That many haue, and others muſt ſit there;

And in this Thought, they finde a kind of eaſe,

Bearing their owne miſfortune on the backe

Of ſuch as haue before indur’d the like.

Thus play I in one Priſon, many people,

And none contented. Sometimes am I King;

Then Treaſon makes me wiſh my ſelfe a Beggar,

And ſo I am. Then cruſhing penurie,

Perſwades me, I was better when a King:

Then am I king’d againe: and by and by,

Thinke that I am vn-king’d by Bullingbrooke,

And ſtraight am nothing. But what ere 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. Muſicke do I heare?

Ha, ha? keepe time: How ſowre ſweet Muſicke is,

When Time is broke, and no Proportion kept?

So is it in the Muſicke of mens liues:

And heere haue I the daintineſſe of eare,

To heare time broke in a diſorder’d ſtring:

But for the Concord of my State and Time,

Had not an eare to heare my true Time broke.

I waſted Time, and now doth Time waſte me:

For now hath Time made me his numbring clocke;

My Thoughts, are minutes; and with Sighes they iarre,

Their watches on vnto mine eyes, the outward Watch,

Whereto my finger, like a Dialls point,

Is pointing ſtill, in cleanſing them from teares.

Now ſir, the ſound that tels what houre it is,

Are clamorous groanes, that ſtrike vpon my heart,

Which is the bell: ſo Sighes, and Teares, and Grones,

Shew Minutes, Houres, and Times: but my Time

Runs poaſting on, in Bullingbrookes proud ioy,

While I ſtand fooling heere, his iacke o’th’ Clocke.

This Muſicke mads me, let it ſound no more,

For though it haue holpe madmen to their wits,

In me it ſeemes, it will make wiſe-men mad:

Yet bleſſing on his heart that giues it me;

For ’tis a ſigne of loue, and loue to Richard,

Is a ſtrange Brooch, in this all-hating world.

Haile Royall Prince.

Thankes Noble Peere,

The cheapeſt of vs, is ten groates too deere.

What art thou? And how com’ſt thou hither?

Where no man euer comes, but that ſad dogge

That brings me food, to make miſfortune liue?

I was a poore Groome of thy Stable (King)

When thou wer’t King: who trauelling towards Yorke,

With much adoo, at length haue gotten leaue

To looke vpon my (ſometimes Royall) maſters face.

O how it yern’d my heart, when I beheld

In London ſtreets, that Coronation day,

When Bullingbrooke rode on Roane Barbary,

That horſe, that thou ſo oſten haſt beſtrid,

That horſe, that I ſo carefully haue dreſt.

Rode he on Barbary? Tell me gentle Friend,

How went he vnder him?

So proudly, as if he had diſdain’d the ground.

So proud, that Bullingbrooke was on his backe;

That Iade hath eate bread from my Royall hand.

This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.

Would he not ſtumble? Would he not fall downe

(Since Pride muſt haue a fall) and breake the necke

Of that proud man, that did vſurpe his backe?

Forgiueneſſe horſe: Why do I raile on thee,

Since thou created to be aw’d by man

Was’t borne to beare? I was not made a horſe,

And yet I beare a burthen like an Aſſe,

Spur-gall’d, and tyrd by iauncing Bullingbrooke.

Fellow, giue place, heere is no longer ſtay.

If thou loue me, ’tis time thou wer’t away.

What my tongue dares not, that my heart ſhall ſay.

My Lord, wilt pleaſe you to fall too?

Taſte of it firſt, as thou wer’t wont to doo.

My Lord I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton,

Who lately came from th’ King, commands the contrary.

The diuell take Henrie of Lancaſter, and thee;

Patience is ſtale, and I am weary of it.

Helpe, helpe, helpe.

How now? what meanes Death in this rude aſſalt?

Villaine, thine owne hand yeelds thy deaths inſtrument,

Go thou and fill another roome in hell.

That hand ſhall burne in neuer-quenching fire,

That ſtaggers thus my perſon. Exton, thy fierce hand,

Hath with the Kings blood, ſtain’d the Kings own land.

Mount, mount my ſoule, thy ſeate is vp on high,

Whil’ſt my groſſe fleſh ſinkes downward, heere to dye.

As full of Valor, as of Royall blood,

Both haue I ſpilt: Oh would the deed were good.

For now the diuell, that told me I did well,

Sayes, that this deede is chronicled in hell.

This dead King to the liuing King Ile beare,

Take hence the reſt, and giue them buriall heere.

Kinde Vnkle Yorke, the lateſt newes we heare,

Is that the Rebels haue conſum’d with fire

Our Towne of Ciceter in Glouceſterſhire,

But whether they be tane or ſlaine, we heare not.

Welcome my Lord: What is the newes?

Firſt to thy Sacred State, wiſh I all happineſſe:

The next newes is, I haue to London ſent

The heads of Salsbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent:

The manner of their taking may appeare

At large diſcourſed in this paper heere.

We thank thee gentle Percy for thy paines,

And to thy worth will adde right worthy gaines.

My Lord, I haue from Oxford ſent to London,

The heads of Broccas, and Sir Bennet Seely,

Two of the dangerous conſorted Traitors,

That ſought at Oxford, thy dire ouerthrow.

Thy paines Fitzwaters ſhall not be forgot,

Right Noble is thy merit, well I wot.

The grand Conſpirator, Abbot of Weſtminſter,

With clog of Conſcience, and ſowre Melancholly,

Hath yeelded vp his body to the graue:

But heere is Carlile, liuing to abide

Thy Kingly doome, and ſentence of his pride.

Carlile, this is your doome:

Chooſe out ſome ſecret place, ſome reuerend roome

More then thou haſt, and with it ioy thy life:

So as thou liu’ſt in peace, dye free from ſtrife:

For though mine enemy, thou haſt euer beene,

High ſparkes of Honor in thee haue I ſeene.

Great King, within this Coffin I preſent

Thy buried feare. Heerein all breathleſſe lies

The mightieſt of thy greateſt enemies

Richard of Burdeaux, by me hither brought.

Exton, I thanke thee not, for thou haſt wrought

A deede of Slaughter, with thy fatall hand,

Vpon my head, and all this famous Land.

From your owne mouth my Lord, did I this deed.

They loue not poyſon, that do poyſon neede,

Nor do I thee: though I did wiſh him dead,

I hate the Murtherer, loue him murthered.

The guilt of conſcience take thou for thy labour,

But neither my good word, nor Princely fauour.

With Caine go wander through the ſhade of night,

And neuer ſhew thy head by day, nor light.

Lords, I proteſt my ſoule is full of wœ,

That blood ſhould ſprinkle me, to make me grow.

Come mourne with me, for that I do lament,

And put on ſullen Blacke incontinent:

Ile make a voyage to the Holy-land,

To waſh this blood off from my guilty hand.

March ſadly aſter, grace my mourning heere,

In weeping aſter this vntimely Beere.