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line eye.

And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your fick service had a Prince.
Nay, you may think, my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning. Do, an if you will:
If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,
Why then, you must- Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you.

Hub. I've sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.

Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age would do it.
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench its fiery indignation,
Even in the matter of mine innocence:
Nay, after that, consume away in ruit,
But for containing fire to harm
Are you more stubborn hard, than hammer'd iron:
Oh! if an angel should have come to me,
And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believ'd a tongue, but Hubert's.

(Hubert fiamps, and the men enter. Hub. Come forth; do as I bid you.

Arth. O save me, Hubort, fare me! my eyes are out, Even with the fierce looks of these bloody mien.

Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

Arth. Alas, what need you be fo boift'rous-rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-fill.
For heaven's lake, Hubert, let me not be bound.
Nay, hear me, Hubert-drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb.
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angrily ;
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put ine to.

Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
Exec. I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed. [Exex.

Arth. Alas, I then have chid away my friend :
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart ;
Let him come back, that his compailion may
Give life to yourse

Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself.
Arth. Is there no remedy?
Hub. None, but to lose your eyes.

Arth. O heaven! that there were but a moth in yours,
A grain, a dult, a gnat, a wand'ring hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense ;
Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

Hub. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue.
- Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes :
Let me not hold my tongue: let me not, Hubert's
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes. O spare mine eyes!
Though to no use, but still to look on you.
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.

Hub. I can heat it, boy.

Arth. No, in good footh, the fire is dead with grief,
Being create for comfort, to be us’d
In undeserv'd extremnes ; see else yourself.
There is no malice in this burning coal;
The breath of heaven hath blown its spirit out,
And trew'd repentant ashes on his head).
Hub. But with my

breath I can revive it, boy. Arth. And if


will but make it blush,
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert:
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes ;
And like a dog, that is compell’d to fight,
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.
All things, that you should use to do. me wrong,
Deny their office; only you do lack

which fierce fire and iron, extends, Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

Hub. Well, fee to live ; I will not touch thine eyey
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes :
Yet am I sworn; and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to burn them out.

Arth. O, now you look like Hubert. All this while
You were disguised.
Hub. Peace: no more.


L 3.

Your uncle must not know but you are dead.
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports :
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.

Arth. O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.

Hub. Silence, no more ; go closely in with me. Much danger do I undergo for thee.





Act V. SCENE V, Prison at Pomfret-Caftle.

Enter King Richard. HAVE been studying, how I may compare This prison, where I live, unto the world, And, for because the world is populous, And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it; yet I'll hammer on 't. My brain I'll prove the female to my foal, My soul, the father; and these two beget A generation of still-breeding thoughts And these fame thoughts people this little world ; In humour, like the people of this world, For no thought is corsented. The better fort, As thoughts of things divine, are inter mixt With scruples, and do set the word itfelf Against the word: as thus, Gome, little ones; and then again, It is as hard to come, as for a camel To thread the postern of a needle's eye. Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot Unlikely wonders ; how these vain weak nails May tear a passage through the finty ribs Of this hard world, my ragged prison-walls, And, for they cannot, die in their own pride. Thoughts tending to content, flatter themselves, That they are not the first of fortune's flaves, Nor shall not be the last ; like sily beggars Who, fitting in the stocks, refuge their fhame,


That many have, and others must fit there;
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of such as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play I, in one prison, many people,
And none contented. Sometimes am I king;
Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am. Then crushing penury
Persuades me, I was better when a king ;
Then am I king'd again ; and by and by
Think that I am unking’d by Bilingbroke,
And straight am nothing. But whate'er I am,
Nor 1, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
With being nothing.-Mulic do I hear?

Ha, ha; keep time: how four sweet music is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept !
So is it in the music of men's lives;
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To check time broke in a disorder'd string,
But for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me ;
For now hath time made me his namb’ring clock.
My thoughts are minutes; and with lighs they jar:
Their watches to mine eyes the outward watch;
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleanling them from tears.
Now, Sir, the sounds that tell what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell; fo fighs, and tears, and groans,
Shew minutes, hours, and times. O, but my time
Runs posting on, in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I ftand fooling here, his jack o'th clock.
This music mads me, let it sound no more;
For though it have holpe mad men to their witsy.

me, it seems, it will make wise men mad. Yet bleffing on his heart that gives it me! For 'tis a lign of love ; and love to Richard Is a strange brooch in this all-hating werld.


L. A


Enter Groom.
Greon. Hail, royal Prince !

K. Rich. Thanks, noble Peer.
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
What art? how com'ft thou hither;
Where no man ever comes, but that fad dog,
That brings me food to make misfortune live?

Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, King,
When thou wert king; who travelling towards York,
With much ado at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometime master's face.
O, how it yearn’d my heart when I beheld,
In London streets, that Coronation day,
When Boling broke road on Roan Barbary,
That horse, that thou so often haft bestrid;
That horfe, that I fo carefully have dress'd!

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him?

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

K. Rich. So proud, that Bolingbroke was on his back!
That jade had eat bread from my royal hand;
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Woald he not stumble? would he not fall down,
Since pride must have a fall, and break the neck
Of that proud man that did usurp his back ?
Forgiveness, horse ; why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be aw'd by man,
Wait born to bear? I was not made a horse,
And yet I bear a burden like an ass,
Spar-gall’d, and tir’d, by jaunting Bolingbroke.

Enter Keeper, with a dish.
Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer ftay.

[7o the Groom. K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away. Groor. What my tongue dares not, that my heart thall

fay. Keep. My Lord, will't please you to fall to ? K. Rich. Taste of it firit, as thou wert wont to do. Keep. My Lord, I dare not; for Sir Pierce of Exton, Who late came from the King, commands the contrary:


K. Richa

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