Can wash the balm from an anointed King:
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord:
For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd,
To lift shrew'd steel against our golden crown,
God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards

the right.

Enter SALISBURY,

Welcome, my Lord; How far off lies your

power?

Sal. Nor near, nor further off, my gracious

Lord,

Than this weak arm:

Discomfort guides my tongue,

And bids me speak of nothing but despair.
One day too late, I fear, my noble Lord,
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth :
O, call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting

men!

To-day, to-day, unhappy day, too late, O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy

state;

For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead, Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers'd, and fled. Aum. Comfort, my Liege: Why looks your Grace so pale?

K. Rich. But now, the blood of twenty thousand men

Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; And, till so much blood thither come again, Have I not reason to look pale and dead?.

All souls that will be safe, fly from my side; For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

Aum. Comfort, my Licge; remember who you

are,

K. Rich. I had forgot myself: Am I not King? Awake, thou sluggard Majesty! thou sleep'st. Is not the King's name forty thousand names? Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes At thy great glory. - Look not to the ground, Ye favourites of a King; Are we not high? High be our thoughts; I know, my uncle York Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who Comes here?

}

Enter SCROOP,

Scroop. More health and happiness betide my
Liege,

Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him!
K. Rich. Mine ear is open, and my heart

prepar'd;

The worst is worldly loss, thou canst unfold.
Say, is my kingdom lost: why, 'twas my care;
And what loss is it, to be rid of care?
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?
Greater he shall not be! if he serve God,
We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so:
Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend;
They break their faith to God, as well as us:
Cry, woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay;
The worst is death, and death will have his

day.

Scroop. Glad am I, that your Highness is so

arm'd

To bear the tidings of calamity.

Like an unseasonable stormy day,

Which makes the silver rivers drown their

shores,

As if the world were all dissolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits swells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land
With hard bright steel, and hearts harder than

steel.

White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless

scalps

Against thy Majesty; boys, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints
In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown:
Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal yew against thy state;
Yea, distaff women manage rusty bills
Against thy seat: both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have power to tell.
K. Rich, Too well, too well, thou tell'st a

tale so ill.

Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
What is become of Bushy? where is Green?
That they have let the dangerous enemy
Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?
If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.
I warrant, they have made peace with Boling-

broke.

Scroop. Peace have they made with him, indeed, my Lord.

K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn'd without

redemption!

Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!
Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting

my heart!

Three Judasses, each one thrice worse than Judas!

Would they make peace? terribble hell make war

Upon their spotted souls for this offence!
Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his pro-

perty,

Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate: Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made With heads, and not with hands: those whom

you curse,

Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound, And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground. Aum. Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wilt

shire, dead?

Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.

Aum. Where is the Duke my father with his

power?

K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man

speak:

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let's choose executors, and talk of wills;-
And yet not so, - for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own, but death;
And that small model of the barren earth,
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of Kings: -
How some have been depos'd, some slain in war;
Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd;
Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping

kill'd;

All murder'd: - For within the hollow crown, That rounds the mortal temples of a King, Keeps death his court: and there the antick sits,

a

breath,

Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him
a little scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit, -
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin

Bores through his castle wall, and - farewell

King!

Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while;
I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief,
Need friends: - Subjected thus,

How can you say to me-I am a King?

Car. My Lord, wise men ne'er wail their pre

sent woes,

But presently prevent the ways to wail.
To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength,
Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe,
And so your follies fight against yourself.
Fear, and be slain; no worse can come, to fight:
And fight and die, is death destroying death;
Where fearing dying, pays death servile breath.
Aum. My father hath a power, inquire of him;
And learn to make a body of a limb.

K. Rich. Thou chid'st me well: - Proud Bolingbroke, I come

To change blows with thee for our day of doom.
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown;
An easy task it is, to win our own. -

Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his

power?

Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour.