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Boling. My dang'rous coufin, let your mother in,
I know he's come to pray for your foul fin.
York. If, thou do pardon, whofoever pray,
More fins for this forgiveness profper may;
This fefter'd joint cut off, the reft is found
This let alone will all the reft confound.
SCENE VIII. Enter Dutchess.
Dutch. O King, believe not this hard-hearted man ;
Love, loving not itself, none other can.

York. Thou frantick woman, what doft thou do here? Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?

Dutch. Sweet Fork, be patient; hear me, gentle Liege! [Kneels.

Boling. Rife up, good aunt.
Dutch. Not yet, I thee befeech;
For ever will I kneel upon my knees,
And never fee day that the happy fees,
'Till thou give joy, until thou bid me joy,
By pard'ning Rutland, my tranfgreffing boy.

Aum. Unto my mother's prayers I bend my knee. [Kneels. York. Against them both my true joints bended be. [Kneels. Ill may't thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!

Dutch. Pleads he in earnest ? look upon his face;
His eyes drop no tears, his prayers are in jeft;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:
He prays but faintly, and would be deny'd ;
We pray with heart and foul, and all befide.
His weary joints would gladly rife, I know;
Our knees fhall kneel, 'till to the ground they grow.
His prayers are full of falfe hypocrifie,
Ours of true zeal, and deep integrity;
Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them crave
That mercy, which true prayers ought to have.
Boling. Good aunt, ftand up.
Dutch. Nay, do not fay' ftand up,

But pardon first, fay afterwards ftand up.
An if I were thy nurfe, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon fhould be the first word of thy speech.
I never long'd to hear a word 'till now:


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Say, Pardon, King, let pity teach thee how. *
Boling. Good aunt, ftand up.
Dutch. I do not fue to ftand,

Pardon is all the fuit I have in hand.

Boling. I pardon him, as heav'n fhall pardon me,
Dutch. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
Yet am I fick for fear; fpeak it again :
Twice faying pardon doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon ftrong.

Boling. With all my heart
I pardon him.

Dutch. A God on earth thou art.

Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law; the Abbot,
With all the reft of that conforted crew,
Deftruction straight fhall dog them at the heels.
Good uncle, help to order feveral powers
To Oxford, or where-e'er these traitors are. †
SCENE IX. Enter Exton and a Servant.
Exton. Didft thou not mark the King, what words he



Have I no friend will rid me of this fear?
Was it not fo?

Serv. Thofe were his very words.

Exton. Have I no friend? quoth he; he spake it twice,

teach thee how.

The word is fhort, but not fo fhort as fweet,
No word like pardon, for Kings mouths fo meet.
York, Speak it in French, King, fay Pardonnex moy.
Dutch. Doft thou teach pardon, pardon to destroy?
Ah, my fow'r husband, my hard-hearted Lord,
That fet'it the word it felf, against the word.
Speak pardon as 'tis currant in our land,
The chopping French we do not understand.
'Thine eye begins to fpeak, fet thy tongue there :
Or in thy piteous heart, plant thou thine ear.
That hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,
Pity may move thee pardon to rehears.

Boling. Good aunt, &c.

+ traitors are.

They fhall not live within this world, I fwear;
But I will have them, if I once know where.
Uncle, farewel; and, coufin, adieu;

Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.
Dutch Come, my old fon, I pray heav'n make thee new.


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And urg'd it twice together; did he not?
Serv. He did.

Exton. And speaking it he wiftly look'd on me, As who fhall fay, I would thou wert the man That would divorce this terror from my heart; Meaning the King at Pomfret. Come, let's go : I am the King's friend, and will rid his foe. [Exeunt SCENE X. A Prifon at Pomfret Cafile. Enter King Richard.

K. Rich. I have been ftudying how to compare This prifon 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 fhall prove the female to my foul, My foul, the father; and these two beget A generation of ftill-breeding thoughts; And these fame thoughts people this little world In humour, like the people of this world, For no thought is content. The better fort, (As thoughts of things divine,) are intermixt With fcruples, and do fet the word itself Against the word; as thus ; Come, littles ones ; and then again, It is as hard to come, as for a Camel To thread the poftern of a needle's eye. Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot Unlikely wonders; how thefe vain weak nails May tear a paffage through the flinty ribs Of this hard world, my ragged prifon-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, And fhall not be the laft. Like filly beggars, Who fitting in the ftocks 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 fuch as have before endur'd the like. Thus play I, in one prifon, many people, And none contented. Sometimes am I Kings


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Then treafon makes me with my self a beggar,
And fo I am. Then crushing penury
Perfwades me, I was better when a King;
Then am I king'd again; and by and by,
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And ftraight am nothing- but what-e'er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing fhall be pleas'd, 'till he be eas'd
With being nothing - - Mufick do I hear?
Ha, ha; keep time: how fow'r fweet mufick is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the mufick of men's lives.
And here have I the daintinefs 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 wafted time, and now doth time waste me.
For now hath time made me his numbring clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and with fighs they jar
Their watches to mine eyes the outward watch;
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,

Is pointing ftill, in cleanfing them from tears.
Now, Sir, the founds that tell what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that ftrike upon my heart,
Which is the bell; fo fighs, and tears, and groans,
Shew minutes, hours, and times O, but my time
Runs pofting on, in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I ftand fooling here, his jack o' th' clock.
This mufick mads me, let it found no more;
For though it have help'd mad men to their wits,
In me it feems, it will make wife men mad.
Yet bleffing on his heart that gives it me!
For 'tis a fign of love; and love to Richard
Is a ftrange brooch, in this fall-hating world.
SCENE XI. Enter Groom.
Groom, Hail, royal Prince! *

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K. Rich. What art? how com'ft thou hither?
Where no man ever comes, but that fad drudge
That brings me food, to make misfortune live?

Groom. I was a poor groom of thy ftable, King,
When thou wert King; who travelling tow'rds York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my, † fometime, mafter's face.
O, how it yearn'd my heart, when I beheld,
In London streets, that coronation day;
When Bolingbrake rode on Roan Barbary,
That horfe, that thou fo often haft beftrid;
That horfe, that I fo carefully have drefs'd!

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

Groom. So proudly, as he had difdain'd the ground.

K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand,
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Would he not ftumble? would he not fall down,
(Since pride muft have a fall) and break the neck
Of that proud man, that did ufurp his back?
Forgiveness, horfe! why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be aw'd by man,
Waft born to bear? I was not made a horfe,
And yet I bear a burthen like an afs,
Spur-gall'd, and tir'd by jaunting Bolingbroke.

SCENE XII. Enter a Keeper with a difh.
Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.
[To the Groom
K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away.
Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall


Keep. My Lord, will't please you to fall to ?
K. Rich. Tafte of it first, 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. Rich. The Dev'l take Henry of Lancafter, and thee! Patience is ftale, and I am weary of it. [Beats the Keeper. Keep. Help, help, help!

+ Sometime, for formerly,


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