Aum. No, good my Lord, let's fight with gentle words, 'Till time lend friends, and friends their helpful fwords. K. Rich. Oh God,oh God! that e'er this tongee of mine, That laid the fentence of dread banishment

On yond proud man, fhould take it off again
With words of footh; oh that I were as great
As is my grief, or leffer than my name!
Or that I could forget what I have been,
Or not remember what I must be now!

Swell'ft thou, proud heart? I'll give thee scope to beat,
Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me.

Aum. Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke. "K. Rich. What must the King do now ? muft he submit? The King fhall do it: muft he be depos'd? The King fhall be contented: must he lofe The name of King? o' God's name let it go. I'll give my jewels for a fet of beads; ༢. My gorgeous palace, for a hermitage; My gay apparel, for an alms-man's gown; My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood; My fcepter, for a palmer's walking-staff; My fubjects, for a pair of carved faints, And my large kingdom, for a little grave, A little little grave, an obfcure grave. Or I'll be bury'd in the King's highway; Some way of common tread, where fubjects feet May hourly trample on their Sovereign's head. * Aumerle, thou weep'ft, my tender-hearted coufin, We'll make foul weather with despised tears: Our fighs, and they, fhall lodge the fummer corn, And make a dearth in this revolting land, Or fhall we play the wantons with our woes, And make fome pretty match with fhedding tears? As thus, to drop them ftill upon one place, 'Till they have fretted us a pair of graves.†

Sovereign's head.

For on my heart they tread now, whilft b live;
And bury'd once, why not upon my head;
Aumerie, &c.

+... a pair of graves,

Within the earth; and therein laid, there lyes

Twe

Moft mighty Prince, my Lord Northumberland,
What fays King Bolingbroke? will his Majefty
Give Richard leave to live, 'till Richard die?
You make a leg, and Bolingbroke fays ay.

North. My Lord, in the base court he doth attend To fpeak with you, may't please you to come down. K. Rich. Down, down I come, like glift'ring Phaeton, Wanting the manage of unruly jades.

Boling. What fays his Majefty?

North. Sorrow of heart

*

Makes him fpeak fondly, like a frantick man;
Yet he is come.

Boling. Stand all apart, and show

Fair duty to his Majefty.

My gracious Lord

[Kneels.

K. Rich. Fair coulin, you debafe your princely knee, To make the base earth proud with kiffing it. Me rather had, my heart might feel your love, Than my un-pleas'd eye fee your courtefie. †

Boling. My gracious lord, I come but for mine own. K. Rich. Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all! Boling. So far be mine, my most redoubted Lord, As my true fervice shall deferve your love.

K. Rich. Well you deserv'd: they well deferve to have, That know the ftrong'ft and fureft way to get.

Uncle, give me your hand; nay,dry your eyes; [To York.
Tears fhew their love, but want their remedies.

Two kinfinen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes?
Would not this ill do well? well, well, I fee

I talk but idly, and you mock at me.

Moft mighty Prince, &c.

... of unruly jades.

In the bafe court? bafe court where Kings grow bafe,
To come at traitors calls, and do them grace.

In the bafe court come down? down, court, down, King;

For Night owls fhriek, where mountain Larks should sing.; Boling. What, &c.

your courtefie.

Up, coulin, up; your heart is up, I know,

Thus high at least, although your knee below.
Boling. My, &c.

Coufin,

Coufin, I am too young to be your father, [To Bolingbroke,
Though you are old enough to be my heir.
What you will have I'll give, and willing too;
For do we muft what force will have us do.
Set on towards London. Coufin, is it fo?
Boling. Yea, my good Lord.

K. Rich. Then I muft not fay no.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

SCENE VII, A Garden.

Enter Queen and two Ladies.

Queen. What fport fhall we devife here in this garden, To drive away the heavy thought of care?

Lady. Madam, we'll play at bowls.

Queen. 'Twill make me think the world is full of rubs, And that my fortune runs against the bias.

Lady. Madam, we'll dance.

Queen. My legs can keep no measure in delight,
When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief.
Therefore no dancing, girl; fome other sport.
Lady. Madam, we'll tell tales.
Queen. Of forrow, or of joy?
Lady. Of either, Madam.

Queen. Of neither, girl.

For it of Joy, being altogether wanting,
It doth remember me the more of forrow:
Or if of grief, being altogether had,

It adds more forrow to my want of joy:"
For what I have I need not to repeat:
And of what I want it boots not to complain.
Lady. Madam, I'll fing.

Queen. 'Tis well that thou haft caufe:

But thou fhould'ft please me better, would't thou weep. Lady. I could weep, Madam, would do you good. Queen. And I could weep, would weeping do me good, And never borrow any tear of thee.

Enter a Gardiner, and two Servants,

But ftay, here come the gardiners.
Let's step into the shadow of these trees:
My wretchedness unto a row of pins,

They'll talk of ftate; for every one doth fo,
Against a change; woe is fore-run with woe.

[Queen and Ladies retire.

Gard. Go bind thou up yond dangling Apricocks,
Which, like unruly children, make their Sire
Stoop with oppreffion of their prodigal weight:
Give fome fupportance to the bending twigs.,
Go thou, and like an executioner

Cut off the heads of too faft growing-fprays,
That look too lofty in our common-wealth:
All must be even in our government.
You thus imploy'd, I will go root away
The noifome weeds, that without profit fuck
The foil's fertility from wholfome flowers.
Serv. Why fhould we, in the compass of a pale,
Keep law, and form, and due proportion,
Shewing, as in a model, our firm state?
When our fea-walled garden, the whole land,
Is full of weeds, her faireft flowers choak'd up,
Her fruit-trees all unprun'd, her hedges ruin'd,
Her knots diforder'd, and her wholfome herbs
Swarming with Caterpillars?.

Gard. Hold thy peace.

1

He that hath fuffer'd this diforder'd fpring,
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf;
The weeds that his broad-fpreading leaves did shelter,
(That feem'd, in eating him, to hold him up,)
Are pull'd up, root and all, by Bolingbroke;
I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Busby, Green.
Serv. What, are they dead?

Gard. They are.

And Bolingbroke hath feiz'd the wasteful King.
What pity is it, that he had not trimm'd
And dreft his land, as we this garden drefs,.
And wound the bark, the fkin of our fruit-trees,
Left being over-proud with fap and blood,
With too much riches it confound itself?
Had he done fo to great and growing men,
They might have liv'd to bear, and he to tafte
Their fruits of duty. All fuperfluous branches
We lop away, that bearing boughs may live :
Had he done fo, himself had born the crown,
Which waste and idle hours have quite thrown down.'

Ser

Sery, What, think you then, the king shall be depos'd? Gard. Depreft he is already, and depos'd 'Tis doubted he will be. Letters last night Came to a dear friend of the Duke of York, That tell black tidings,

Queen. Oh, I am preft to death through want of fpeaking:
Thou Adam's likenefs, fet to drefs this garden,
How dares thy tongue found this unpleafing news?
What Eve, what ferpent hath fuggefted thee,
To make a fecond fall of curfed man?

Why doft thou fay, King Richard is depos'd?
Dar'ft thou, thou little better thing than earth,
Divine his downfal? fay, where, when, and how
Cam'st thou by thefe ill tidings? fpeak, thou wretch.
Gard. Pardon me, Madam. Little joy have I
To breathe thefe news; yet what I fay is true;
King Richard, he is in the mighty hold

Of Bolingbroke; their fortunes both are weigh'da
In your Lord's fcale is nothing but himself,
And fome few vanities that make him light :
But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,
Befides himself, are all the Englife Peers,
And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.
Poft you to London, and you'll find it fo;
I speak no more than every one doth know.

Queen. Nimble Mifchance, that art fo light of foot,
Doth not thy embaffage belong to me?

And am I laft that know it? Oh, thou think'ft
To ferve me laft, that I may longeft keep
The forrow in my breaft. Come, Ladies, go,
To meet, at London, London's King in woe.
What, was I born to this! that my fad look
Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke!
Gard'ner, for telling me these news of woe,
I would the plants thou graft'ft may never grow,
[Ex. Queen and Ladies.
Gard. Poor Queen, fo that thy ftate might be no worse,
I would my skill were fubject to thy curfe.
Here did the drop a tear, here in this place
I'll fet a bank of Rue, fow'r berb of grace i

Rue,