And we would not heav'n's offer, we refuse
The proffer'd means of fuccour and redress.
Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remifs; Whilft Bolingbroke, through our fecurity,
Grows ftrong and great, in fubftance and in power.
K. Rich. Discomfortable Coufin, know'ft thou not,
That when the fearching eye of heav'n is hid
Behind the globe, that lights the lower world;
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unfeen,
In murders, and in outrage bloody here.
But when from under this terrestrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through ev'ry guilty hole;
Then murders, treafons, and detefted fins,
The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves.
So when this thief, this traitor Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilft we were wand'ring with th' Antipodes.
Shall fee us rifing in our Throne, the east;
His treasons will fit blufhing in his face,
Not able to endure the fight of day;
But, felf-affrighted, tremble at his fin.
Not all the water in the rough rude fea
Can wash the balm from an anointed King;
The breath of worldly men cannot depofe
The Deputy elected by the Lord.
For every man that Bolingbroke hath prest,
To lift sharp steel against our golden Crown,
Heav'n for his Richard hath in heav'nly Pay
A glorious Angel; then if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heav'n ftill guards the Right.
Enter Salisbury.
Welcome, my lord, how far off lies your Pow'r?
Salis. Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious lord,
Than this weak arm: Discomfort guides my tongue,
And bids me speak of nothing but Defpair:
One day (too late, I fear, my noble lord)
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.
Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou fhalt have twelve thousand fighting men.
To day, to day,unhappy day, too late
O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy ftate.
For all the Welfomen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, difperft and fled.
Aum. Comfort, my Liege, why looks your Grace fo pale?
K. Rich. But now the blood of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face, and they are fled. And till fo much blood thither come again, Have I not reason to look pale, and dead? All fouls, that will be fafe, fly from my fide; For time hath fet a blot upon my pride.
Aum. Comfort, my Liege; remember, who you are. K. Rich. I had forgot my felf: am I not King? Awake, thou coward Majefty, thou fleepest: 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 fav'rites of a King! are we not high? High be our thoughts. I know, my uncle York Hath pow'r to ferve our turn. But who comes here?
Scroop. More health and happinefs 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 lofs thou canft unfold.
Say, is my Kingdom loft? why, twas my care:
And what lofs is it, to be rid of care?
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?
Greater he shall not be; if he ferve God,
We'll ferve him too, and be his fellow fo.
Revolt our Subjects? that we cannot mend ;
They break their faith to God, as well as us.
Cry, Woe, Deftruction, Ruin, Lofs, 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 unfeasonable stormy day,
Which makes the filver rivers drown their shores,
As if the world were all dissolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits fwells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring your fearful Land
With hard bright steel, and hearts more hard than steel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy Majefty; boys with women's voices
Strive to speak big, and clafp their female joints
In ftiff unwieldy arms, against thy Crown:
Thy very Beadfmen learn to bend their bows
Of double fatal Ewe, against thy State:
Yea, diftaff-women manage rufty bills.
Against thy Seat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have pow'r to tell.
K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'ft a Tale
fo ill.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is he got? (7)
What is become of Bushy? where is Green?
That they have let the dang'rous enemy
Measure our confines with fuch peaceful steps?
(7) Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
What is become of Bufhy? where is Green?] Here are four of them named; and, within a very few Lines, the King, hearing they had made their Peace with Bolingbroke, calls them THREE Judas's. But how was their Peace made? Why, with the Lofs of their Heads. This being explain'd, Aumer le fays, Is Buthy, Green, and th' Earl of Wiltshire dead? So that Bagot ught to be left out of the Question: and, indeed, he had made the best of his way for Chefter, and from thence had escap'd into Ireland. And fo we find him, in the 2d Act, determining to do.
Bagot. No: I'll to Ireland, to bis Majefty.
The Poet could not be guilty of fo much Forgetfulness and Abfurdity. The Transcribers must have blunder'd. It seems probable to me that He wrote, as I have conjecturally alter'd the Text.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is He got? i.. Into what Corner of my Dominions is He flunk, and abfconded?
If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.
I warrant, they've made peace with Bolingbroke.
Scroop. Peace they have made with him, indeed, my lord.
K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemp
Dogs, eafily won to fawn on any man!
Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that fting my heart!
Three Fudaffes, each one thrice worse than Judas !
Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted fouls for this offence!
Scroop. Sweet love, I fee, changing his property,
Turns to the fow'rest and most deadly hate:
Again uncurfe their fouls; their peace is made
With heads, and not with hands: those whom you curfe,
Have felt the worst of death's destroying hand,
And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.
Aum. Is Busby, Green, and th' Earl of Wiltshire dead?
Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol loft their heads.
Aum. Where is the Duke my Father, with his Pow'r?
K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man
fpeak:
Let's talk of Graves, of Worms, and Epitaphs,
Make duft our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write forrow on the bofom of the earth!
Let's chufe executors, and talk of wills;
And yet not fo for what can we bequeath,
Save our depofed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own, but death
And that fmall model of the barren earth,
Which ferves as paste and cover to our bones.
For heav'n's fake, let us fit upon the ground,
And tell fad ftories of the death of Kings:
How fome have been depos'd, fome flain in war:
Some haunted by the Ghofts they difpoffefs'd:
Some poifon'd by their wives, fome fleeping kill'd:
All murther'd.- For within the hollow Crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a King,
Keeps Death his Court; and there the Antick fits,
Scoffing his State, and grinning at his Pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little fcene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infufing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brafs impregnable: and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the laft, and with a little pin
Bores through his caftle-walls, and farewel King!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With folemn Rev'rence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while :
I live on bread like you, feel want like you,
Taste grief, need friends, like you: fubjected thus,
How can you fay to me, I am a King?
Carl. My lord, wife men ne'er wail their prefent
But presently prevent the ways to wail:
To fear the foe, fince fear oppreffeth ftrength,
Gives, in your weakness, ftrength unto your foe;
And fo your follies fight against your felf.
Fear, and be flain; no worse can come from fight;
And fight and die, is death destroying death:
Where fearing, dying, pays death servile breath.
Aum. My father hath a power, enquire of him,
And learn to make a body of a limb.
K. Rich. Thou chid'ft me well: proud Bolingbroke,
To change blows with thee, for our day of doom;
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown ;
An eafie task it is to win our own.
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his Power?
Speek fweetly, man, although thy looks be fower.
Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the sky
The state and inclination of the day;
So may you, by my dull and heavy eye,
My tongue hath but a heavier tale to fay.
I play the torturer, by small and small
To lengthen out the worst, that must be spoken.
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