Enter King Richard and Guards, But foft, but fee, or rather do not fee, And wash him fresh again with true-love tears. O thou, the model where old Troy did stand, [To K. Rich. K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, Will keep a league 'till death. Hye thee to France, And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage K. Rich. A King of beafts indeed; if ought but beafts, I had been ftill a happy King of men. Good, fometime Queen! prepare thee hence for France; Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak'ft, As from my death-bed, my laft living leave. In winter's tedious nights fit by the fire With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their grief, Sometime, for formerly. Tell Tell thou the lamentable fall of me, And fend the hearers weeping to their beds. † SCENE II. Enter Northumberland. And he shall think, that thou, which know'ft the way To pluck him headlong from th' ufurped throne. North. My guilt be on my head! and there's an end. Let me unkifs the oath 'twixt thee and me: [To the Queen, Part us, Northumberland: I, towards the North, My Queen to France; from whence, fet forth in pomp, Sent back like Hollowmas, or fhortest day. Queen. And must we be divided ? must we part? + to their beds. For why the fenfelefs brands will fympathize The heavy accent of thy moving tongue, And in compaffion weep the fire out: And fome will mourn in afhes, fome coal-black, For the depofing of a rightful King. Banifh us both, and fend the King with me. K. Rich. Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. [They kifs. Queen. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good part, To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart, [Kifs again, So, now I have mine own again, be gone, That I may ftrive to kill it with a gróan. K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay: Once more, adieu! the reft let forrow say. SCENE III. . [Exeunt, The Duke of York's Palace. Dutch. My Lord, you told me you would tell the reft, Of our two coufins coming into London. York. Where did I leave? Dutch. At that fad ftop, my Lord, Where rude mif-govern'd hands, from window-tops, Which his afpiring rider feem'd to know, With flow but stately pace kept on his courfe: Through cafements darted their defiring eyes $....... but little policy. Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go. Go, count thy way with fighs, I mine with groans: K. Rich. Twice for one itep I'll groan, the way being short, Come, come, in wooing forrow let's be brief, 1 Jefu preferve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke! Dutch. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while? Even fo, or with much more contempt, men's eyes That had not God, for fome ftrong purpose, steel'd SCENE IV. Enter Aumerle. But that is loft, for being Richard's friend. Dutch. Welcome, my fon; who are the Violets now, God knows I had as lief be none, as one. York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time, Left you be cropt before you come to prime. What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs ? Aum. For ought I know, they do. York. You will be there, VOL. IV. Bum Aum. If God prevent me not, I purpofe fo. York. What feal is that that hangs without thy bofom? Yea, look'ft thou pale? come, let me fee the writing. Aum. My Lord, 'tis nothing. York. No matter then who fees it. Which for fome reafons I would not have feen. York. Which for fome reafons, Sir, I mean to fee. I fear, I fear Dutch. What fhould you fear, my Lord ? Tis nothing but fome bond he's enter'd into, For gay apparel, now against the triumph. York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond That he is bound to? wife, thou art a fool. Boy, let me fee the writing. Aum. I do befeech you pardon me, I may not fhew it. York: I will be fatisfied, let me fee it, I fay. [Snatches it, and reads. Treafon! foul treafon! villain, traitor, flave! Dutch. What's the matter, my Lord? York. Hoa, who's within there? faddle me my horfe. Heav'n for his mercy! what treachery is here! Dutch. Why, what is't, my Lord? York. Give me my boots, 1 fay; laddle my horse. Now by my honour, by my life, my troth, I will appeach the villain. Dutch. What is the matter? York. Peace, foolish woman! Dutch. I will not peace: what is the matter, fon? Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more Thin my poor life must answer. Dutch. Thy life answer! SCENE V. Enter Servant with boots. York, Bring me my boots. I will unto the King. Dutch. Strike him, Aumerle. (Poor boy, thou art amaz`d.) Hence, villain, never more come in my fight! York. Give me my boots. [Speaking to the Servant. Dutch. |