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Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster

Hast thou according to thy oath and bond
brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son

Here to make good the boisterous late appeal,
which then our leisure would not let us hear...

...against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

I have, my liege

Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him,
if he appeal the duke on ancient malice

Or worthily, as a good subject should,
on some known ground of treachery in him?

As near as I could sift him on that argument...

...on some apparent danger seen in him
aimed at your highness, no inveterate malice

Then call them to our presence

Face to face, and frowning brow to brow, ourselves
will hear the accuser and the accused freely speak

High-stomached are they both, and full of ire,
in rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire

Many years of happy days befall
my gracious sovereign, my most loving liege

Each day still better other′s happiness...

...until the heavens, envying earth′s good hap,
add an immortal title to your crown

We thank you both. Yet one but flatters us,
as well appeareth by the cause you come

Namely, to appeal each other of high treason

Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

First, heaven be the record to my speech

Tendering the precious safety of my prince,
come I appellant to this princely presence

Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,
and mark my greeting well

For what I speak my body shall make good
upon this earth, or my divine soul answer it in heaven

Thou art a traitor and a miscreant
too good to be so and too bad to live

Once more, the more to aggravate the note,
with a foul traitor′s name stuff I thy throat

And wish - so please my sovereign -
ere I move

What my tongue speaks
my right drawn sword may prove

Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal.
The blood is hot that must be cooled for this

First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me
from giving reins and spurs to my free speech

Which else would post until it had returned
these terms of treason doubly down his throat

Setting aside his high blood′s royalty,
I do defy him, and I spit at him

Call him a slanderous coward and a villain,
which to maintain I would allow him odds

And meet him, were I tied to run afoot
even to the frozen ridges of the Alps

Meantime, let this defend my loyalty:
by all my hopes most falsely doth he lie

Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage

If guilty dread hath left thee so much strength
as to take up mine honour′s pawn, then stoop

I take it up, and by that sword I swear
which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder

I′ll answer thee in any knightly trial. And when I mount,
alive may I not light, if I be traitor or unjustly fig
ht

What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray′s charge?

It must be great that can inherit us
so much as of a thought of ill in him

Look what I speak: my life shall prove it true,
that all the treasons for these eighteen years...

...complotted and contrived in this land
fetched from false Mowbray their first head and spring

Further I say, and further will maintain...

...that he did plot the Duke of Gloucester′s death,
sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of blood

Which blood, like sacrificing Abel′s...

...cries even from the tongueless caverns of the earth
to me for justice and rough chastisement

And by the glorious worth of my descent,
this arm shall do it, or this life be spent

How high a pitch his resolution soars!
Thomas of Norfolk, what sayest thou to this?

O, let my sovereign turn away his face
and bid his ear a little while be deaf...

...till I have told this slander of his blood,
how God and good men hate so foul a liar

Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears

Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom′s heir,
as he is but my father′s brother′s son...

...now, by my sceptre′s awe, I make a vow,
such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood...

...should nothing privilege him, nor partialise
the unstooping firmness of my upright soul

He is our subject, Mowbray, so art thou.
Free speech and fearless I to thee allow

Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,
through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest

For Gloucester′s death...

I slew him not. But to mine own disgrace
neglected my sworn duty in that case. This is my fault

As for the rest appealed,
it issues from the rancour of a villain

A recreant and most degenerate traitor
which in myself I boldly will defend

And interchangeably hurl down my gage
upon this overweening traitor′s foot...

...to prove myself a loyal gentleman
even in the best blood chambered in his bosom

In haste whereof, most heartily I pray
your highness to assign our trial day

Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by me:
let′s purge this choler without letting blood

This we prescribe, though no physician:
deep malice makes too deep incision

Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed:
our doctors say this is no time to bleed

Good uncle, let this end where it begun:
we′ll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son

To be a make-peace shall become my age:
throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk′s gage

And, Mowbray, throw down his

When, Harry, when?
Obedience bids I should not bid again

Mowbray, throw down, we bid: there is no boot

Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot.
My life thou shalt command, but not my shame

The one my duty owes, but my fair name,
to dark dishonour′s use thou shalt not have

I am disgraced, impeached and baffled here,
pierced to the soul with slander′s venomed spear

The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood
which breathed this poison

Rage must be withstood.
Give me his gage. Lions make leopards tame

Yea, but not change his spots.
Take but my shame, and I resign my gage

My dear dear lord, the purest treasure
mortal times afford is spotless reputation

That away, men are but gilded loam or painted clay

A jewel in a ten-times barred-up chest
is a bold spirit in a loyal breast

Mine honour is my life, both grow in one.
Take honour from me, and my life is done

Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try.
In that I live and for that will I die

Cousin, throw down your gage. Do you begin

O God defend my soul from such foul sin!
Shall I seem crest-fallen in my father′s sight?

Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height
before this out-dared dastard?

Ere my tongue shall wound mine honour
with such feeble wrong, or sound so base a parle...

...my teeth shall tear the slavish
motive of recanting fear

And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace
where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray′s face

We were not born to sue, but to command.
Which since we cannot do to make you friends...

...be ready, as your lives shall answer it,
at Coventry upon Saint Lambert′s day

There shall your swords and lances arbitrate
the swelling difference of your settled hate

Since we cannot atone you,
we shall see justice design the victor′s chivalry

Lord Marshal, command our officers at arms
be ready to direct these home alarms

Alas, the part I had in Gloucester′s blood
doth more solicit me than your exclaims...

...to stir against the butchers of his life

But since correction lieth in those hands
which made the fault that we cannot correct...

...put we our quarrel to the will of heaven

Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth,
will rain hot vengeance on offenders′ heads

Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?

Edward′s seven sons, whereof thyself art one...

...were as seven vials of his sacred blood,
or seven fair branches springing from one root

Some of those seven are dried by nature′s course,
some of those branches by the Destinies cut

But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester!

One vial full of Edward′s sacred blood,
one flourishing branch of his most royal root...

...is cracked, and all the precious liquor spilt

Is hacked down, and his summer leaves all faded,
by envy′s hand and murder′s bloody axe

Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine

That bed, that womb, that metal,
that self-mould that fashioned thee made him a man

And though thou livest and breathest,
yet art thou slain in him

Thou dost consent in some large measure
to thy father′s death...

...in that thou seest thy wretched brother die,
who was the model of thy father′s life

Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair

In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughtered...

...thou showest the naked pathway to thy life,
teaching stern murder how to butcher thee

That which in mean men we entitle patience
is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts

What shall I say? To safeguard thine own life,
the best way is to venge my Gloucester′s death

God′s is the quarrel, for God′s substitute,
his deputy anointed in his sight, hath caused his death

The which if wrongfully, let heaven revenge,
for I may never lift an angry arm against his minister

- Where then, alas, may I complain myself?
- To God, the widow′s champion and defence

Why, then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt

Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold
our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight

O, sit my husband′s wrongs on Hereford′s spear,
that it may enter butcher Mowbray′s breast

Or if misfortune miss the first career,
be Mowbray′s sins so heavy in his bosom...

...that they may break his foaming courser′s back,
and throw the rider headlong in the lists...

...a caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford

Farewell, old Gaunt. Thy sometime brother′s wife
with her companion grief must end her life

Sister, farewell. I must to Coventry.
As much good stay with thee as go with me

Yet one word more: grief boundeth where it falls,
not with the empty hollowness, but weight

I take my leave before I have begun,
for sorrow ends not when it seemeth done

Commend me to my brother, Edmund York.
Lo, this is all

Nay, yet depart not so. Though this be all,
do not so quickly go. I shall remember more

Bid him - o, what? - bid him
with all good speed at Plashy visit me

Alack, and what shall good old York there see...

...but empty lodgings and unfurnished walls,
unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?

And what hear there for welcome but my groans?

Therefore commend me, bid him not come there
to seek out sorrow. That dwells everywhere

Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die

The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye

- My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford armed?
- Yea my lord, at all points, and longs to enter in

The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,
stays but the summons of the appellant′s trumpet

Why, then, the champions are prepared,
and stay for nothing but his majesty′s approach

Marshal, demand of yonder champion
the cause of his arrival here in arms

Ask him his name and orderly proceed
to swear him in the justice of his cause

In God′s name and the king′s, say who thou art
and why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms

Against what man thou comest,
and what′s thy quarrel

Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thine oath,
as so defend thee heaven and thy valour

My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
who hither comes engaged by my oath...

...both to defend my loyalty and truth
against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me

To prove him, in defending of myself,
a traitor to my God, my king, and me

And as I truly fight, defend me heaven

Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms both who he is

And why he cometh hither
thus plated in habiliments of war

What is thy name? And wherefore comest thou hither,
before King Richard in his royal lists?

Against whom comest thou? And what′s thy quarrel?
Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby am I,
who ready here do stand in arms...

...to prove, by God′s grace and my body′s valour,
in lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk...

...that he′s a traitor, foul and dangerous,
to God of heaven, King Richard and to me

And as I truly fight, defend me heaven

On pain of death, no person be so bold
or daring-hardy as to enter the lists

Except the marshal and such officers
appointed to direct these fair designs

Lord Marshal, let me kiss my sovereign′s hand,
and bow my knee before his majesty

For Mowbray and myself are like two men
that vow a long and weary pilgrimage

Then let us take a ceremonious leave
and loving farewell of our several friends

The appellant in all duty greets your highness,
and craves to kiss your hand and take his leave

We will descend and fold him in our arms

Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right,
so be thy fortune in this royal fight

Farewell, my blood, which if today thou shed,
lament we may, but not revenge thee dead

O, let no noble eye profane a tear for me,
if I be gored with Mowbray′s spear

As confident as is the falcon′s flight
against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight

My loving lord, I take my leave of you

Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle

O thou, the earthly author of my blood

Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers,
and with thy blessings steel my lance′s point

That it may enter Mowbray′s waxen coat,
and furbish new the name of John a Gaunt

God in thy good cause make thee prosperous

Be swift like lightning in the execution,
and let thy blows, doubly redoubled...

...fall like amazing thunder on the casque
of thy amazed pernicious enemy

- Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live
- Mine innocence and Saint George to thrive

However God or fortune cast my lot...

...there lives or dies, true to King Richard′s throne,
a loyal, just and upright gentleman

Never did captive with a freer heart
cast off his chains of bondage

And embrace
his golden uncontrolled enfranchisement...

...more than my dancing soul doth celebrate
this feast of battle with mine adversary

Most mighty liege, and my companion peers,
take from my mouth the wish of happy years

As gentle and as jocund as to jest
go I to fight. Truth hath a quiet breast

Farewell, my lord. Securely I espy
virtue with valour couched in thine eye

Order the trial, marshal, and begin

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
receive thy sword. And God defend thy right

Go bear this sword to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk

Sound trumpets

And set forward, combatants

Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down

Let them lay by their helmets and their swords,
and both return back to their chairs again

Withdraw with us, and let the trumpets sound
whilst we return these dukes what we decree

Draw near,
and list what with our council we have done

For that our kingdom′s earth should not be soiled
with that dear blood which it hath fostered

And for our eyes do hate the sight
of civil wounds ploughed up with neighbours′ sword

And for we think the eagle-winged pride
of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts

With rival-hating envy, set on you...

...to wake our peace, which in our country′s cradle
draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep

Therefore, we banish you our territories

You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of death,
till twice five summers have enriched our fields...

...shall not regreet our fair dominions,
but tread the stranger paths of banishment

Your will be done. This must my comfort be:
that sun that warms you here shall shine on me

And those his golden beams to you here lent
shall point on me and gild my banishment

Mowbray, for thee remains a heavier doom,
which I with some unwillingness pronounce

The sly slow hours shall not determinate
the dateless limit of thy dear exile

The hopeless word of ‵never to return′
breathe I against thee, upon pain of life

A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
and all unlooked for from your highness′ mouth

A dearer merit, not so deep a maim,
have I deserved at your highness′ hands

The language I have learned these forty years,
my native English, now I must forgo

And now my tongue′s use is to me no more
than an unstringed viol or a harp

Within my mouth you have enjailed my tongue,
doubly portcullised with my teeth and lips

And dull unfeeling barren ignorance
is made my jailer to attend on me

What is thy sentence then but speechless death,
that robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

It boots thee not to be compassionate.
After our sentence, plaining comes too late

Then thus I turn me from my country′s light
to dwell in solemn shades of endless night

Return again, and take an oath with thee.
Lay on our royal sword your banished hands

Swear by the duty that you owe to God
to keep the oath that we administer

You never shall, so help you truth and God,
embrace each other′s love in banishment

Nor ever by advised purpose meet
to plot, contrive, or complot...

...any ill ′gainst us, our state,
our subjects, or our land

- I swear
- And I, to keep all this

Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy...

By this time, had the king permitted us
one of our souls had wandered in the air

Confess thy treasons ere thou fly this realm

Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
the clogging burden of a guilty soul

No, Bolingbroke. If ever I were traitor...

...my name be blotted from the book of life,
and I from heaven banished as from hence

But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know,
and all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue

Farewell, my liege, now no way can I stray:
save back to England, all the world′s my way

Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
I see thy grieved heart

Thy sad aspect hath from the number
of his banished years plucked four away

Six frozen winters spent,
return with welcome home from banishment

How long a time lies in one little word!

Four lagging winters and four wanton springs
end in a word: such is the breath of kings

I thank my liege, that in regard of me
he shortens four years of my son′s exile

But little vantage shall I reap thereby

For ere the six years that he hath to spend
can change their moons and bring their times about...

...my oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light
shall be extinct with age and endless night

- Why uncle, thou hast many years to live
- But not a minute, king, that thou canst give

Shorten my days thou canst with sudden sorrow,
and pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow

Thy son is banished upon good advice,
whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave

- Why at our justice seemest thou then to lour?
- Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour

You urged me as a judge, but I had rather
you would have bid me argue like a father

Oh, had it been a stranger, not my child,
to smoothe his fault I should have been more mild

Cousin, farewell, and, uncle, bid him so.
Six years we banish him, and he shall go

Cousin, farewell. What presence must not know,
from where you do remain let paper show

My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride
as far as land will let me, by your side

O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words
that thou returnest no greeting to thy friends?

I have too few to take my leave of you

- What are six winters? They are quickly gone
- To men in joy. But grief makes one hour ten

Call it a travel that thou takest for pleasure

My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,
which finds it an enforced pilgrimage

The sullen passage
of thy weary steps esteem as foil...

...wherein thou art to set
the precious jewel of thy home return

Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make
will but remember me...

...what a deal of world
I wander from the jewels that I love

Must I not serve a long apprenticehood
to foreign passages, and in the end...

...having my freedom, boast of nothing else
but that I was a journeyman to grief?

All places that the eye of heaven visits
are to a wise man ports and happy havens

Teach thy necessity to reason thus:
there is no virtue like necessity

Think not the king did banish thee,
but thou the king

Woe doth the heavier sit,
where it perceives it is but faintly borne

Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour
and not the king exiled thee

Or suppose devouring pestilence hangs in our air
and thou art flying to a fresher clime

Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
to lie that way thou goest, not whence thou comest

Suppose the singing birds musicians, the grass
whereon thou treadest the presence strewed

The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more
than a delightful measure or a dance

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite
the man that mocks at it and sets it light

O, who can hold a fire in his hand
by thinking on the frosty Caucasus?

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
by bare imagination of a feast?

Or wallow naked in December snow
by thinking on fantastic summer′s heat?

O no, the apprehension of the good
gives but the greater feeling to the worse

Come, come, my son, I′ll bring thee on thy way.
Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay

Then England′s ground, farewell. Sweet soil, adieu.
My mother, and my nurse, which bears me yet

Where′er I wander, boast of this I can:
though banished, yet a true-born Englishman

We did observe. Cousin Aumerle,
how far brought you high Hereford on his way?

I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,
but to the next highway, and there I left him

And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

Faith, none for me, except the north-east wind,
which then blew bitterly against our face...

...awaked the sleepy rheum, and so by chance
did grace our hollow parting with a tear

- What said our cousin when you parted with him?
- ‵Farewell′

Marry, would the word ‵farewell′ have lengthened
hours and added years to his short banishment...

...he should have had a volume of farewells,
but since it would not, he had none of me

He is our cousin, cousin, but ′tis doubt,
when time shall call him home from banishment...

...whether our kinsman come to see his friends

Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green
observed his courtship to the common people

How he did seem to dive into their hearts
with humble and familiar courtesy

Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench,
a brace of draymen bid God speed him well...

...and had the tribute of his supple knee,
with ‵Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends′

As were our England in reversion his,
and he our subjects′ next degree in hope

Well, he is gone, and with him go these thoughts.
Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland

Expedient manage must be made, my liege...

...ere further leisure yield them further means
for their advantage and your highness′ loss

We will ourself in person to this war

And, for our coffers with too great a court
and liberal largess are grown somewhat light...

...we are enforced to farm our royal realm

The revenue whereof shall furnish us
for our affairs in hand

If that come short,
our substitutes at home shall have blank charters...

...whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,
they shall subscribe them for large sums of gold

For we will make for Ireland presently

- Bushy, what news?
- Old John of Gaunt is very sick, my lord

Suddenly taken, and hath sent post haste
to entreat your majesty to visit him

- Where lies he?
- At Ely House

Now put it God in his physician′s mind
to help him to his grave immediately

The linings of his coffers shall make coats
to deck our soldiers for these Irish wars

Come, gentlemen, let′s all go visit him.
Pray God we may make haste, and come too late

Will the king come, that I may breathe my last
in wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?

Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath,
for all in vain comes counsel to his ear

O, but they say the tongues of dying men
enforce attention like deep harmony

More are men′s ends marked than their lives before.
The setting sun and music at the close...

...as the last taste of sweets is sweetest last,
writ in remembrance more than things long past

Though Richard my life′s counsel would not hear,
my death′s sad tale may yet undeaf his ear

No, it is stopped with other flattering sounds

Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound
the open ear of youth doth always listen

Report of fashions in proud Italy, whose manners still
our tardy apish nation limps after in base imitation

Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
so it be new, there′s no respect how vile...

...that is not quickly buzzed into his ears?

Direct not him whose way himself will choose.
′Tis breath thou lackest, and that breath wilt thou lose

Methinks I am a prophet new inspired
and thus expiring do foretell of him

His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,
for violent fires soon burn out themselves

Small showers last long,
but sudden storms are short

Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
consuming means soon preys upon itself

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
this earth of majesty, this seat of Mars

This other Eden, demi-paradise

This fortress built by nature for herself
against infection and the hand of war

This happy breed of men, this little world

This precious stone set in the silver sea
which serves it...

...in the office of a wall, or as a moat defensive
to a house, against the envy of less happier lands

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England

This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
feared by their breed and famous for their birth

Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
for Christian service and true chivalry...

...as is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry
of the world′s ransom, blessed Mary′s son

This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
dear for her reputation through the world...

...is now leased out - I die pronouncing it -
like to a tenement or a pelting farm

England, bound in with the triumphant sea

whose rocky shore beats back
the envious siege of watery Neptune...

...is now bound in with shame,
with inky blots and rotten parchment bonds

That England, that was wont to conquer others,
hath made a shameful conquest of itself

Oh, would the scandal vanish with my life,
how happy then were my ensuing death

The king is come. Deal mildly with his youth,
for young hot colts being raged do rage the more

How fares our noble uncle Lancaster?

What comfort, man? How is′t with aged Gaunt?

O, how that name befits my composition!
Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old

Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast,
and who abstains from meat that is not gaunt?

For sleeping England long time have I watched,
watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt

The pleasure that some fathers feed upon
is my strict fast, I mean my children′s looks

Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,
whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones

Can sick men play so nicely with their names?

Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,
I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee

- Should dying men flatter those that live?
- No, no, men living flatter those that die

- Thou, now a-dying, say′st thou flatterest me
- O no, thou diest, though I the sicker be

- I am in health, I breathe, I see thee ill
- Now he that made me knows I see thee ill

Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land
wherein thou liest in reputation sick

And thou, too careless patient as thou art...

...commitest thy anointed body to the cure
of those physicians that first wounded thee

A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,
whose compass is no bigger than thy head

O, had thy grandsire with a prophet′s eye
seen how his son′s son should destroy his sons...

...from forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,
deposing thee before thou wert possessed

Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world,
it were a shame to let this land by lease

Landlord of England art thou now not king.
Thy state of law is bondslave to the law, and thou...

And thou, a lunatic lean-witted fool,
presuming on an ague′s privilege

darest with thy frozen admonition...

...make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood
with fury from his native residence?

Now, by my seat′s right royal majesty,
wert thou not brother to great Edward′s son...

...this tongue that runs so roundly in thy head
should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders

O, spare me not, my brother Edward′s son

That blood already, like the pelican,
thou hast tapped out and drunkenly caroused

My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul...

....may be a precedent and witness good
that thou respectest not spilling Edward′s blood

Live in thy shame, and die not shame with thee:
these words hereafter thy tormentors be

Convey me to my bed, then to my grave:
love they to live that love and honour have

And let them die that age and sullens have,
for both hast thou, and both become the grave

I do beseech your majesty, impute his words
to wayward sickliness and age in him

He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear
as Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here

Right, you say true. As Hereford′s love, so his.
As theirs, so mine, and all be as it is

My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty

- What says he?
- Nay, nothing. All is said

His tongue is now a stringless instrument.
Words, life and all, old Lancaster hath spent

Be York the next that must be bankrupt so.
Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe

The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he.
His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be

So much for that. Now for our Irish wars:
we must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns

And for these great affairs do ask some charge,
towards our assistance we do seize to us...

...the plate, coin, revenues and movables
whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possessed

How long shall I be patient?
O, how long shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?

Not Gloucester′s death, nor Hereford′s banishment,
nor Gaunt′s rebukes, nor England′s private wrongs...

...have ever made me sour my patient cheek,
or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign′s face

I am the last of noble Edward′s sons,
of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first

His face thou hast, for even so looked he

But when he frowned, it was against the French
and not against his friends

His noble hand did win what he did spend and spent
not that which his triumphant father′s hand had won

His hands were guilty of no kindred′s blood,
but bloody with the enemies of his kin

O Richard, York is too far gone with grief,
or else he never would compare between

Why, uncle, what′s the matter?

O my liege, pardon me if you will. If not, I,
pleased not to be pardoned, am content withal

Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands
the royalties and rights of banished Hereford?

Is not Gaunt dead? And doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt just? And is not Harry true?

Did not the one deserve to have an heir?
Is not his heir a well-deserving son?

Take Hereford′s rights away...

...and take from time his charters and his customary
rights: let not tomorrow then ensue today

Be not thyself. For how art thou a king
but by fair sequence and succession?

Now, afore God - God forbid I say true -
if you do wrongfully seize Hereford′s right...

...you pluck a thousand dangers on your head,
you lose a thousand well-disposed hearts

And prick my tender patience to those thoughts
which honour and allegiance cannot think

Think what you will, we seize into our hands
his plate, his goods, his money and his lands

I′ll not be by the while. My liege, farewell.
What will ensue hereof, there′s none can tell

But by bad courses may be understood
that their events can never fall out good

Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight,
bid him repair to us to Ely House to see this business

Tomorrow next we will for Ireland,
and ′tis time, I trow

And we create, in absence of ourself,
our uncle York Lord Governor of England

For he is just and always loved us well

Come on, our queen. Tomorrow must we part.
Be merry, for our time of stay is short

- Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead
- And living too, for now his son is duke

- Barely in title, not in revenue
- Richly in both, if justice had her right

- My heart is great, but it must break with silence
- Nay, speak thy mind

Tends that thou wouldst speak
to the Duke of Hereford?

If it be so, out with it boldly, man.
Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him

No good at all that I can do for him,
unless you call it good to pity him

Now afore God ′tis shame
such wrongs are borne in him, a royal prince...

...and many more
of noble blood in this declining land

The king is not himself,
but basely led by flatterers

And what they will inform,
merely in hate, ′gainst any of us all...

...that will the king severely prosecute
′gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs

The commons hath he pilled with grievous taxes,
and quite lost their hearts

The nobles hath he fined for ancient quarrels,
and quite lost their hearts

And daily new exactions are devised.
But what, o′ God′s name, doth become of that?

Wars hath not wasted it, for warred he hath not.
More hath he spent in peace than they in wars

- The king′s grown bankrupt, like a broken man
- Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him

He hath not money for these Irish wars,
but by the robbing of the banished duke

His noble kinsman, most degenerate king!

But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm

We see the very wreck that we must suffer,
and unavoided is the danger now

Not so. Even through the hollow eyes of death
I spy life peering

But I dare not say
how near the tidings of our comfort is

Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours

We three are but thyself, and speaking so,
thy words are but as thoughts. Therefore be bold

Then thus: I have received intelligence
that Harry Duke of Hereford...

...Rainold Lord Cobham,
his brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury...

...Sir Thomas Erpingham and Francis Quoint,
with eight tall ships, three thousand men of war...

...are making hither with all due expediency
and shortly mean to touch our northern shore

If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke,
imp out our drooping country′s broken wing

Redeem from broking pawn the blemished crown,
wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre′s gilt...

...and make high majesty look like itself,
away with me in post to Ravenspurgh

- To horse, to horse! Urge doubts to them that fear
- Hold out my horse, and I will first be there

Madam, your majesty is too much sad.
You promised, when you parted with the king...

...to lay aside life-harming heaviness
and to entertain a cheerful disposition

To please the king I did.
To please myself I cannot do it

Yet I know no cause why I should welcome
such a guest as grief...

...save bidding farewell
to so sweet a guest as my sweet Richard

Yet again, methinks, some unborn sorrow,
ripe in fortune′s womb...

...is coming towards me,
and my inward soul with nothing trembles

At something it grieves,
more than with parting from my lord the king

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,
which shows like grief itself, but is not so

For sorrow′s eye, glazed with blinding tears,
divides one thing entire to many objects

Like perspectives, which rightly gazed upon show
nothing but confusion: eyed awry, distinguish form

So your sweet majesty,
looking awry upon your lord′s departure

Find shapes of grief, more than himself to wail

Which, looked on as it is,
is naught but the shadows of what it is not

So, thrice-gracious queen,
more than your lord′s departure weep not

More′s not seen. Or if it be,
′tis with false sorrow′s eye,

which for things true weeps things imaginary

It may be so, but yet my inward soul
persuades me it is otherwise

Howe′er it be, I cannot but be sad. But what it is,
I cannot name. ′Tis nameless woe, I wot

God save your majesty! And well met, gentlemen.
I hope the king is not yet shipped for Ireland

Why hopest thou so? ′Tis better hope he is,
for his designs crave haste, his haste good hope

The banished Bolingbroke repeals himself,
and with uplifted arms is safe arrived at Ravenspurgh

- Now God in heaven forbid!
- O, madam, ′tis too true. And that is worse...

...the Lord Northumberland,
his son young Henry Percy...

...the Lords of Ross, Beaumont, and Willoughby...

...with all their powerful friends, are fled to him

Why have you not proclaimed Northumberland
and the rest of the revolted faction, traitors?

We have: whereupon the Earl of Worcester
hath broke his staff, and fled to Bolingbroke

So, Green, thou art the midwife of my woe,
and Bolingbroke my sorrow′s dismal heir

Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy

And I, a gasping new-delivered mother,
have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow joined

- Despair not, madam
- Who shall hinder me?

I will despair, and be at enmity with cozening hope.
He is a flatterer, a parasite, a keeper-back of death...

...who gently would dissolve the bands of life,
which false hope lingers in extremity

- Here comes the Duke of York.
- With signs of war about his aged neck

Uncle, for God′s sake, speak comfortable words

Comfort′s in heaven, and we are on the earth,
where nothing lives but crosses, care and grief

Your husband, he is gone to save far off,
while others come to make him lose at home

Here am I left to underprop his land,
who, weak with age, cannot support myself

- My lord, your son is gone to Ireland.
- Aumerle! Why, so go all which way it will

The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold,
and will, I fear, revolt on Hereford′s side

Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester,
bid her send me presently a thousand pound

- Hold, take my ring
- My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship

Today as I came by, I called there.
But I shall grieve you to report the rest

- What is it, knave?
- An hour before I came, the duchess died

God for his mercy! What a tide of woes
comes rushing on this woeful land at once

I know not what to do. I would to God the king
had cut off my head with my brother Gloucester′s

What, are there no posts dispatched for Ireland?
How shall we do for money for these wars?

Come, sister - cousin, I would say -
pray, pardon me

Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts
and bring away the armour that is there

Gentlemen, will you go muster men?

If I know how or which way to order these affairs
thus disorderly thrust into my hands, never believe me

Both are my kinsmen. The one is my sovereign

The other again is my kinsman,
whom the king hath wronged

Well, somewhat we must do.
Come, cousin, I′ll dispose of you

I should to Plashy too, but time will not permit

All is uneven
and everything is left at six and seven

For us to levy power proportionable
to the enemy is all impossible

Besides, our nearness to the king in love
is near the hate of those love not the king

And that′s the wavering commons,
for their love lies in their purses...

...and whoso empties them,
by so much fills their hearts with deadly hate

Wherein the king stands generally condemned

If judgement lie in them, then so do we,
because we have been ever near the king

- Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol Castle
- Thither will I with you

For little office shall the hateful commons perform
for us, except like curs to tear us all in pieces

- Will you go along with us?
- No, I will to Ireland to his majesty

Farewell. If heart′s presages be not vain,
we three here part that ne′er shall meet again

Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever

- Well, we may meet again
- I fear me, never

How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now?

Believe me, noble lord,
I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire

These high wild hills and rough uneven ways
draws out our miles, and makes them wearisome

And yet our fair discourse hath been as sugar,
making the hard way sweet and delectable

Of much less value is my company
than your good words. But who comes here?

Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,
bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste

Welcome, my lords.
I wot your love pursues a banished traitor

All my treasury is yet but unfelt thanks, which more
enriched shall be your love and labour′s recompense

- Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord
- And far surmounts our labour to attain it

Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor

Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,
stands for my bounty. But who comes here?

It is my son, young Harry Percy,
sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever

- Harry, how fares your uncle?
- He hath forsook the court...

...broken his staff of office
and dispersed the household of the king

- What was his reason?
- Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor

But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh
to offer service to the Duke of Hereford

And sent me over by Berkeley to discover
what power the Duke of York had levied there

- Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy?
- No, my good lord

For that is not forgot which ne′er I did remember.
To my knowledge, I never in my life did look on him

Then learn to know him now: this is the duke

My gracious lord, I tender you my service,
such as it is, being tender, raw and young

Which elder days shall ripen and confirm
to more approved service and desert

I thank thee, gentle Percy, and be sure
I count myself in nothing else so happy...

...as in a soul remembering my good friends.
My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it

How far is it to Berkeley? And what stir
keeps good old York there with his men of war?

There stands the castle, by yond tuft of trees,
manned with three hundred men, as I have heard

And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley,
and Seymour, none else of name and noble estimate

My noble uncle!

Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,
whose duty is deceivable and false

- My gracious uncle...
- Tut, tut! Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle

I am no traitor′s uncle, and that word ‵grace′
in an ungracious mouth is but profane

Why have these banished and forbidden legs
dared once to touch a dust of England′s ground?

But then more ‵why′: why have they dared to march
so many miles upon her peaceful bosom...

...frighting her pale-faced villages with war
and ostentation of despised arms?

Comest thou because the anointed king is hence?

Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind,
and in my loyal bosom lies his power

My gracious uncle, let me know my fault.
On what condition stands it and wherein?

Even in condition of the worst degree,
in gross rebellion and detested treason

Thou art a banished man

And here art come before the expiration of thy time
in braving arms against thy sovereign

As I was banished, I was banished Hereford,
but as I come, I come for Lancaster

And noble uncle, I beseech your grace
look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye

You are my father,
for methinks in you I see old Gaunt alive

O then, my father, will you permit that I shall
stand condemned a wandering vagabond...

...my rights and royalties plucked from my arms
perforce and given away to upstart unthrifts?

Wherefore was I born?

If that my cousin king be King of England,
it must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster

You have a son, Aumerle, my noble kinsman.
Had you first died, and he been thus trod down...

...he should have found his uncle Gaunt a father
to rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay

I am denied to sue my livery here,
my father′s goods are all distrained and sold

What would you have me do? I am a subject,
and I challenge law. Attorneys are denied me

And therefore personally I lay my claim
to my inheritance of free descent

- The noble duke hath been too much abused
- It stands your grace upon to do him right

My lords of England, let me tell you this

I have had feeling of my cousin′s wrongs
and laboured all I could to do him right

But in this kind to come, in braving arms,
be his own carver and cut out his way...

...to find out right with wrongs, it may not be

And you that do abet him in this kind
cherish rebellion and are rebels all

The noble duke hath sworn
his coming is but for his own

And for the right of that
we all have strongly sworn to give him aid

And let him ne′er see joy that breaks that oath!

Well, well, I see the issue of these arms

I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,
because my power is weak and all ill left

But if I could, by him that gave me life...

...I would attach you all and make you stoop
unto the sovereign mercy of the king

But since I cannot, be it known to you
I do remain as neuter. So, fare you well

Unless you please to enter in the castle
and there repose you for this night

An offer, uncle, that we will accept

But we must win your grace
to go with us to Bristol Castle...

...which they say is held
by Bushy, Bagot and their complices

The caterpillars of the commonwealth,
which I have sworn to weed and pluck away

It may be I will go with you: but yet I′ll pause,
for I am loath to break our country′s laws

Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are.
Things past redress are now with me past care

My lord of Salisbury, we have stayed ten days,
and hardly kept our countrymen together

And yet we hear no tidings from the king,
therefore we will disperse ourselves. Farewell

Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman,
the king reposeth all his confidence in thee

′Tis thought the king is dead, we will not stay

The bay-trees in our country all are withered
and meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven

The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth
and lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change

Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and leap

The one in fear to lose what they enjoy,
the other to enjoy by rage and war

These signs forerun the death or fall of kings

Farewell. Our countrymen are gone and fled,
as well assured Richard their king is dead

Ah, Richard, with eyes of heavy mind...

...I see thy glory like a shooting star
fall to the base earth from the firmament

Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,
witnessing storms to come, woe and unrest

Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes,
and crossly to thy good all fortune goes

Bring forth these men

Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls,
since presently your souls must part your bodies...

...with too much urging your pernicious lives,
for ′twere no charity

Yet to wash your blood from off my hands...

...here in the view of men
I will unfold some causes of your deaths

You have misled a prince, a royal king

You have in manner with your sinful hours
made a divorce betwixt his queen and him

Broke the possession of a royal bed
and stained the beauty of a fair queen′s cheeks...

...with tears drawn from her eyes
with your foul wrongs

Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth,
near to the king in blood, and near in love...

...till you did make him misinterpret me,
have stooped my neck under your injuries

And sighed my English breath in foreign clouds,
eating the bitter bread of banishment

Whilst you have fed upon my signories,
from my own windows torn my household coat

Razed out my imprese, leaving me no sign
save men′s opinions and my living blood...

...to show the world I am a gentlemen

This and much more, much more than twice all this,
condemns you to the death

See them delivered over
to execution and the hand of death

More welcome is the stroke of death to me
than Bolingbroke to England

My comfort is that heaven will take our souls
and plague injustice on the pains of hell

My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatched

Uncle, you say the queen is at your house.
For God′s sake, fairly let her be entreated

Tell her I send to her my kind commends.
Take special care my greetings be delivered

A gentleman of mine I have dispatched
with letters of your love to her at large

Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords, away.
A while to work, and after holiday

Harlech Castle call you this at hand?

Yea, my lord. How brooks your grace the air,
after your late tossing on the breaking seas?

Needs must I like it well. I weep for joy
to stand upon my kingdom once again

Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,
though rebels wound thee with their horses′ hoofs

As a long-parted mother with her child
plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting...

...as, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth,
and do thee favours with my royal hands

Feed not thy sovereign′s foes, my gentle earth,
nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense

But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom,
and heavy-gaited toads lie in their way...

...doing annoyance to the treacherous feet
which with usurping steps do trample thee

Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies

And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,
guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder

Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords

This earth shall have a feeling
and these stones prove armed soldiers...

...ere her native king
shall falter under foul rebellion′s arms

Fear not, my lord. That power that made you king
hath power to keep you king in spite of all

He means, my lord, that we are too remiss,
whilst Bolingbroke, through our security...

...grows strong and great
in substance and in friends

Discomfortable cousin! Know′st thou not...

...that when the searching eye of heaven is hid
behind the globe and lights the lower world...

...then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen
in murders and in outrage boldy here

But when from under this terrestrial ball...

...he fires the proud tops of the eastern pine
and darts his light through every guilty hole...

...then murders, treasons and detested sins,
the cloak of night being plucked from off their back...

...stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?

So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,
who all this time hath revelled in the night...

...shall see us rising in our throne, the east,
his treasons will sit blushing in his face

Not able to endure the sight of day,
but, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin

Not all the water in the rough rude sea
can wash the balm off from an anointed king

The breath of worldly men cannot depose
the deputy elected by the Lord

For every man that Bolingbroke hath pressed
to lift shrewd 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

Welcome, my lord. How far off lies your power?

Nor near nor farther off, my gracious lord,
than this weak arm

Discomfort guides my tongue
and bids me speak of nothing but despair

O, call back yesterday, bid time return,
and thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men

Today, today, unhappy day too late,
o′erthrows thy joys, friends, fortunes and thy state

For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed and fled

Comfort, my liege. Why looks your grace so pale?

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

Comfort, my liege. Remember who you are

I had forgot myself. Am I not king?
Awake, thou sluggard majesty, thou sleepest

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?

More health and happiness betide my liege
than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him

Mine ear is open and my heart prepared.
The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold

Say, is my kingdom lost? Why, ′twas my care.
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 and decay.
The worst is death, and death will have his day

Glad am I that your highness is so armed
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 dissolved 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

Whitebeards have armed their thin and hairless scalps
against thy majesty, and boys with women′s voices...

...strive to speak big and clap their female joints
in stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown

Both young and old rebel,
and all goes worse than I have power to tell

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 Bolingbroke
- Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord

O, villains, vipers, damned without redemption!
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!

Snakes, in my heart-blood warmed,
that sting my heart!

Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!

Would they make peace? Terrible hell make war
upon their spotted souls for this offence

Sweet love, I see, changing his property,
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, graved in the hollow ground

- Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?
- Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads

- Where is my father the duke with his power?
- 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 God′s sake let us sit upon the ground...

...and tell sad stories of the death of kings

How some have been deposed, some slain in war,
some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed

Some poisoned by their wives,
some sleeping killed, all murdered

For within the hollow crown that rounds
the mortal temples of a king keeps Death his court

And there the antic sits,
scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp

Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
to monarchise, be feared and kill with looks

Infusing him with self and vain conceit, as if this flesh
which walls about our life were brass impregnable

And humoured thus, comes at the last

and with a little pin bores through his castle walls,
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?

My lord, wise men ne′er wail their present woes,
but presently prevent the ways to wail

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

My father hath a power. Enquire of him
and learn to make a body of a limb

Thou chidest me well. Proud Bolingbroke, I come
to change blows with thee for thy 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

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 say

Your uncle York is joined with Bolingbroke,
and all your northern castles yielded up

And all your southern gentlemen
in arms upon his faction

Thou hast said enough.
Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth...

...of that sweet way I was in to despair!
What say you now? What comfort have we now?

By heaven, I′ll hate him everlastingly
that bids me be of comfort anymore

Go to Flint Castle. There I′ll pine away.
A king, woe′s slave, shall kingly woe obey

That power I have, discharge, and let ′em go
to ear the land that hath some hope to grow

For I have none. Let no man speak again
to alter this, for counsel is but vain

My liege, one word

He does me double wrong
that wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue

Discharge my followers. Let them hence away,
from Richard′s night to Bolingbroke′s fair day

So that by this intelligence we learn the Welshmen
are dispersed, and Salisbury is gone to meet the king

The news is fair,
Richard not far from hence hath hid his head

It would beseem the Lord Northumberland
to say ‵King Richard′

Alack the heavy day
when such a sacred king should hide his head

Your grace mistakes.
Only to be brief left I his title out

The time hath been, would you have been so brief
with him, he would have been so brief with you...

...to shorten you, for taking so the head,
your whole head′s length

Mistake not, uncle, further than you should

Take not, good cousin, further than you should,
lest you mistake. The heavens are o′er your head

I know it, uncle, and oppose not myself
against their will. But who comes here?

Welcome, Harry. What, will not this castle yield?

The castle royally is manned, my lord,
against thy entrance

- Royally? Why, it contains no king?
- Yes, my good lord, it doth contain a king

King Richard lies within the limits
of yond lime and stone

And with him the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury...

...Sir Stephen Scroop, besides a clergyman
of holy reverence, who, I cannot learn

O, belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle

Noble lord,
go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle

Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parle
into his ruined ears, and thus deliver:

Henry Bolingbroke upon his knees
doth kiss King Richard′s hand

And sends allegiance and true faith of heart
to his most royal person

Hither come even at his feet
to lay my arms and power...

...provided that my banishment repealed
and lands restored again be freely granted

If not, I′ll use the advantage of my power

And lay the summer′s dust with showers of blood
rained from the wounds of slaughtered Englishmen

The which, how far off
from the mind of Bolingbroke it is...

...such crimson tempest should bedrench
the fresh green lap of fair King Richard′s land...

...my stooping duty tenderly shall show

Methinks King Richard and myself should meet
with no less terror...

...than the elements of fire and water...

...when their thundering smoke
at meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven

Be he the fire, I′ll be the yielding water.
The rage be his...

...while on the earth I rain my waters:
on the earth, and not on him

See, see, King Richard doth himself appear

As doth the blushing discontented sun
from out the fiery portal of the east

When he perceives the envious clouds...

...are bent to dim his glory and to stain
the track of his bright passage to the occident

Yet looks he like a king. Behold, his eye, as bright
as is the eagle′s, lightens forth controlling majesty

Alack, alack, for woe,
that any harm should stain so fair a show

We are amazed, and thus long have we stood...

...to watch the fearful bending of thy knee,
because we thought ourself thy lawful king

And if we be, how dare thy joints forget
to pay their awful duty to our presence?

If we be not, show us the hand of God
that hath dismissed us from our stewardship

For well we know, no hand of blood and bone
can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre...

...unless he do profane, steal, or usurp

And though you think that all, as you have done...

...have torn their souls by turning them from us,
and we are barren and bereft of friends

Yet know, my master, God omnipotent, is mustering
in his clouds on our behalf armies of pestilence

And they shall strike
your children yet unborn and unbegot...

...that lift your vassal hands against our heads
and threat the glory of our precious crown

Tell Bolingbroke, for yond methinks he stands

That every stride he makes upon our land
is dangerous treason

He is come to ope the purple testament
of bleeding war

But ere the crown he looks for live in peace...

...ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers′ sons
shall ill become the flower of England′s face

Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace
to scarlet indignation

And bedew her pasture′s grass
with faithful English blood

The king of heaven forbid our lord the king
should so with civil and uncivil arms be rushed upon

Thy thrice-noble cousin,
Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy hand

And by the honourable tomb he swears,
that stands upon your royal grandsire′s bones:

His coming hither hath no further scope
than for his lineal royalties...

...and to beg enfranchisement
immediate on his knees

Which on thy royal party granted once,
his glittering arms he will commend to rust

His barbed steeds to stables, and his heart
to faithful service of your majesty

This swears he, as he is a prince, is just:
and, as I am a gentleman, I credit him

Northumberland, say thus the king returns.
His noble cousin is right welcome hither

And all the number of his fair demands
shall be accomplished without contradiction

With all the gracious utterance thou hast,
speak unto his gentle hearing kind commends

We do debase ourself, cousin, do we not,
to look so poorly and to speak so fair?

Shall we call back Northumberland,
and send defiance to the traitor, and so die?

No, good my lord, let′s fight with gentle words
till time lend friends, and friends their helpful swords

O God, O God, that e′er this tongue of mine...

...that laid the sentence of dread banishment
on yond proud man...

...should take it off again with words of sooth

O, that I were as great as is my grief,
or lesser than my name

Or that I could forget what I have been,
or not remember what I must be now

Swellest thou, proud heart?

I′ll give thee scope to beat, since...

- Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke
- What must the king do now?

Must he submit?
The king shall do it

Must he be deposed?
The king shall be contented

Must he lose the name of king?
O′ God′s name, let it go

I′ll give my jewels for a set of beads,
my gorgeous palace for a hermitage

My gay apparel for an almsman′s gown,
my figured goblets for a dish of wood

My sceptre for a palmer′s walking staff,
my subjects for a pair of carved saints

And my large kingdom for a little grave,
a little little grave, an obscure grave

Or I′ll be buried in the king′s highway

Some way of common trade, where subjects′ feet
may hourly trample on their sovereign′s head

For on my heart they tread now whilst I live,
and buried once, why not upon my head?

Aumerle, thou weepest, my tender-hearted cousin

We′ll make foul weather with despised tears

Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn,
and make a dearth in this revolting land

Or shall we play the wantons with our woes,
and make some pretty match with shedding tears?

As thus, to drop them still upon one place, till they
have fretted us a pair of graves within the earth

And, therein laid: there lies two kinsmen
digged their graves with weeping eyes

Would not this ill do well?
Well, well, I see I talk but idly, and you mock at me

Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland,
what says King Bolingbroke?

Will his majesty
give Richard leave to live till Richard die?

You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ‵ay′

My lord, in the base court he doth attend
to speak with you. May it please you to come down?

Down, down I come, like glistering Phaethon,
wanting the manage of unruly jades

In the base court? Base court where kings grow base,
to come at traitors′ calls and do them grace

In the base court, come down.

Down court, down king, for night-owls shriek
where mounting larks should sing

What says his majesty?

Sorrow and grief of heart
makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man

- Yet he is come
- Stand all apart, and show fair duty to his majesty

My gracious lord...

Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee
to make the base earth proud with kissing it

Me rather had my heart might feel your love
than my unpleased eye see your courtesy

Up, cousin, up! Your heart is up, I know,
thus high at least, although your knee be low

- My gracious lord, I come but for mine own
- Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all

So far be mine, my most redoubted lord,
as my true service shall deserve your love

Well you deserve. They well deserve to have,
that know the strongest and surest way to get

Uncle, give me your hands. Nay, dry your eyes.
Tears show their love, but want their remedies

Cousin, I am too young to be your father,
though you are old enough to be my heir

What you will have, I′ll give, and willing too,
for do we must what force will have us do

Set on towards London, cousin, is it so?

- Yea, my good lord
- Then I must not say no

What sport shall we devise here in this garden,
to drive away the heavy thought of care?

Madam, we′ll play at bowls

′Twill make me think the world is full of rubs,
and that my fortune runs against the bias

Madam, we′ll dance

My legs can keep no measure in delight
when my poor heart no measure keeps in grief

Therefore, no dancing, girl, some other sport

- Madam, we′ll tell tales
- Of sorrow or of joy?

- Of either, madam
- Of neither, girl

For if of joy, being altogether wanting,
it doth remember me the more of sorrow

Or if of grief, being altogether had,
it adds more sorrow to my want of joy

Madam, I′ll sing

′Tis well that thou hast cause, but thou shouldst
please me better, wouldst thou weep

I could weep, madam, would it do you good

And I could sing, would weeping do me good,
and never borrow any tear of thee

But stay, here come the gardeners.
Let′s step into the shadow of these trees

My wretchedness unto a row of pins...

...they′ll talk of state, for everyone doth so
against a change. Woe is forerun with woe

Go bind thou up yond dangling apricocks

Which, like unruly children, make their sire
stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight

Give some supportance to the bending twigs

Go then, and like an executioner...

...cut off the heads of too fast-growing sprays,
that look too lofty in our commonwealth

All must be even in our government

Why should we in the compass of a pale
keep law and form and due proportion...

...when our sea-walled garden,
the whole land, is full of weeds

Her fairest flowers are choked up,
her fruit-trees all unpruned, her hedges ruined

Her knots disordered and her wholesome herbs
swarming with caterpillars

Hold thy peace

He that hath suffered this disordered spring
hath now himself met with the fall of leaf

The weeds that his broad-spreading leaves did
shelter, that seemed in eating him to hold him up...

...are pulled up root and all by Bolingbroke:
I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green

What, are they dead?

They are. And Bolingbroke hath seized
the wasteful king

O, what pity is it that he had not so trimmed
and dressed his land as we this garden

Superfluous branches
we lop away, that bearing boughs may live

Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,
which waste and idle hours hath quite thrown down

What, think you the king shall be deposed?

Depressed he is already,
and deposed ′tis doubted he will be

O, I am pressed to death through want of speaking!

Thou, old Adam′s likeness, set to dress this garden...

...how dares thy harsh rude tongue
sound this unpleasing news?

What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested thee
to make a second fall of cursed man?

Why dost thou say King Richard is deposed?

Darest thou, thou little better thing than earth,
divine his downfall?

Say, when, where, and how,
camest thou by this ill tidings? Speak, thou wretch

Pardon me, madam. Little joy have I
to breathe these news, yet what I say is true

King Richard, he is in the mighty hold of Bolingbroke.
Their fortunes both are weighed

In your lord′s scale is nothing but himself,
and some few vanities that make him light

But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,
besides himself, are all the English peers

And with that odds he weighs King Richard down

Post you to London, and you′ll find it so,
I speak no more than everyone doth know

Nimble mischance, which art so light of foot

Doth not thy embassage belong to me,
and am I last that knows it?

Ladies, go to meet at London London′s king in woe

What, was I born to this, that my sad look
should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?

Gardener, for telling me this news of woe,
pray God the plants thou graftest may never grow

Poor queen, so that thy state might be no worse,
I would my skill were subject to thy curse

Here did she drop a tear. Here in this place
I′ll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace

Rue, e′en for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,
in the remembrance of a weeping queen

Call forth Bagot

Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind,
what thou dost know of noble Gloucester′s death

- Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle
- Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man

My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue
scorns to unsay what it hath once delivered

In that dead time when Gloucester′s death
was plotted, I heard you say:

‵Is not my arm of length, that reacheth from the restful
English court as far as Calais, to my uncle′s head?′

Amongst much other talk, that very time,
I heard you say...

...that you had rather refuse the offer of a hundred
thousand crowns than Bolingbroke′s return to England

Adding withal how blest this land would be
in this your cousin′s death

Princes and noble lords,
what answer shall I make to this base man?

There is my gage, the manual seal of death
that marks thee out for hell. I say thou liest

Bagot, forbear. Thou shalt not take it up

If that thy valour stand on sympathy,
there is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine

I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spakest it,
that thou wert cause of noble Gloucester′s death

- If thou deniest it twenty times, thou liest
- Thou darest not, coward, live to see the day

- Now by my soul, I would it were this hour
- Willoughby, thou art damned to hell for this

Aumerle, thou liest. His honour is as true
in this appeal as thou art all unjust

And that thou art so, there I throw my gage,
to prove it on thee

- Seize it, if thou darest
- And if I do not, may my hands rot off

My Lord Willoughby, I do remember well
the very time Aumerle and you did talk

My lord, ′tis very true. You were in presence then
and can witness with me this is true

- As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true
- Salisbury, thou liest

Dishonourable boy!
That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword...

...that it shall render vengeance and revenge
till thou the lie-giver and that lie...

...do lie In earth as quiet as thy father′s skull,
in proof whereof, there is mine honour′s pawn

- Engage it to the trial, if thou darest
- How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse!

If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live,
I dare meet Salisbury in a wilderness

And spit upon him,
whilst I say he lies, and lies, and lies

Besides, I heard the banished Mowbray say...

...that thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men
to execute the noble duke at Calais

Some honest Christian trust me with a gage

That Mowbray lies, here do I throw down this,
if he may be repealed, to try his honour

These differences shall all rest under gage
till Mowbray be repealed

Repealed he shall be, and though mine enemy,
restored again to all his lands and signories

When he′s returned,
against Aumerle we will enforce his trial

That honourable day shall ne′er be seen.
Many a time hath banished Mowbray fought...

...for Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field,
and toiled with works of war

Retired himself to Italy, and there at Venice
gave his body to that pleasant country′s earth

And his pure soul unto his captain Christ,
under whose colours he had fought so long

- Why, bishop, is Mowbray dead?
- As sure as I live, my lord

Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul
to the bosom of good old Abraham

Lords appellants, your differences shall all rest
under gage till we assign you to your days of trial

Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee
from plume-plucked Richard

Who with willing soul adopts thee heir, and his
high sceptre yields to the possession of thy royal hand

Ascend his throne, descending now from him,
and long live Henry, of that name the fourth

In God′s name, I′ll ascend the regal throne

Marry, God forbid!

Worst in this royal presence may I speak,
yet best beseeming me to speak the truth

Would God that any in this noble presence were
enough noble to be upright judge of noble Richard!

Then true noblesse would
learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong

What subject can give sentence on his king?
And who kneels here that is not Richard′s subject?

And shall the figure of God′s majesty...

...his captain, steward, deputy-elect, anointed,
crowned, planted many years...

...be judged by subject and inferior breath,
and he himself not present?

O, forbid it, God, that in a Christian climate
souls refined...

...should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed!

My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,
is a foul traitor to proud Hereford′s king

And if you crown him, let me prophesy:

The blood of English shall manure the ground,
and future ages groan for this foul act

Disorder, horror, fear and mutiny shall here inhabit

And this land be called
the field of Golgotha and dead men′s skulls

O, if you rear this house against this house...

...it will the woefullest division prove
that ever fell upon this cursed earth

Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so,
lest child, child′s children, cry against you ‵woe!′

Well have you argued, sir. And for your pains,
of capital treason we do arrest you here

My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge
to keep him safely till his day of trial

Fetch hither Richard,
that in common view he may surrender

So we shall proceed without suspicion

I will be his conduct

Alack, why am I sent for to a king, before I have
shook off the regal thoughts wherewith I reigned?

I hardly yet have learned
to insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee

Give sorrow leave awhile
to tutor me to this submission

Yet I well remember the favours of these men

Were they not mine?
Did they not sometime cry ‵All hail!′ to me?

So Judas did to Christ, but he in twelve
found truth in all but one. I, in twelve thousand, none

God save the king!

Will no man say ‵amen′?
Am I both priest and clerk? Well then, amen

God save the king, although I be not he.
And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me

To do what service am I sent for hither?

To do that office of thine own good will
which tired majesty did make thee offer

The resignation of thy state and crown
to Henry Bolingbroke

Give me the crown

Here, cousin, seize the crown

Here cousin...

On this side my hand, on that side thine

Now is this golden crown like a deep well
that owes two buckets, filling one another

The emptier ever dancing in the air,
the other down, unseen and full of water

That bucket down and full of tears am I,
drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high

- I thought you had been willing to resign
- My crown I am, but still my griefs are mine

You may my glories and my state depose,
but not my griefs. Still am I king of those

- Part of your cares you give me with your crown
- Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down

My care is loss of care, by old care done:
your care is gain of care, by new care won

The cares I give I have, though given away,
they tend the crown, yet still with me they stay

Are you contented to resign the crown?

Ay, no. No, ay, for I must nothing be:
therefore no ‵no′, for I resign to thee

Now mark me how I will undo myself

I give this heavy weight from off my head,
and this unwieldy sceptre from my hand

The pride of kingly sway from out my heart

With mine own tears I wash away my balm,
with mine own hands I give away my crown

With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,
with mine own breath release all duteous oaths

All pomp and majesty I do forgo

My manors, rents, revenues I forswear.
My acts, decrees, and statutes I deny

God pardon all oaths that are broke to me,
God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee

Make me, that nothing have, with nothing grieved,
and thou with all pleased, that hast all achieved

Long mayst thou live in Richard′s seat to sit,
and soon lie Richard in an earthy pit

‵God save King Henry′, unkinged Richard says,
‵and send him many years of sunshine days′

- What more remains?
- No more, but that you read these accusations...

...and these grievous crimes committed
by your person and your followers...

...against the state and profit of this land

That by confessing them, the souls of men
may deem that you are worthily deposed

Must I do so?
And must I ravel out my weaved-up follies?

Gentle Northumberland,
if thy offences were upon record...

...would it not shame thee in so fair a troop
to read a lecture of them?

If thou wouldst,
there shouldst thou find one heinous article...

...containing the deposing of a king
marked with a blot, damned in the book of heaven

Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me,
whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself

Though some of you with Pilate wash your hands,
showing an outward pity...

...yet you Pilates have here delivered me
to my sour cross

And water cannot wash away your sin

- My lord, dispatch. Read o′er these articles
- Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see

And yet salt water blinds them not so much
but they can see a sort of traitors here

Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,
I find myself a traitor with the rest

For I have given here my soul′s consent
to undeck the pompous body of a king

Made glory base and sovereignty a slave,
proud majesty a subject, state a peasant

- My lord...
- No lord of thine, thou haught insulting man

No, nor no man′s lord. I have no name, no title

No, not that name was given me at the font,
but ′tis usurped

Alack the heavy day,
that I have worn so many winters out

And know not now what name to call myself

O, that I were a mockery king of snow
standing before the sun of Bolingbroke...

...to melt myself away in water-drops

Good king, great king - and yet not greatly good -

An if my word be sterling yet in England,
let it command a mirror hither straight

That it may show me what a face I have,
since it is bankrupt of his majesty

Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass

- Read o′er this paper till the glass doth come
- Fiend, thou torments me ere I come to hell

- Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland
- The commons will not then be satisfied

They shall be satisfied. I′ll read enough...

...when I do see the very book indeed
where all my sins are writ, and that′s myself

Give me that glass, and therein will I read

No deeper wrinkles yet?

Hath sorrow struck so many blows upon this face
of mine, and left no deeper wound?

O flattering glass, like to my followers in prosperity,
thou dost beguile me

Was this face the face that every day
under his household roof did keep ten thousand men?

Was this the face
that like the sun did make beholders wink?

Is this the face that faced so many follies,
that was at last out-faced by Bolingbroke?

A brittle glory shineth in this face,
as brittle as the glory is the face

For there it is, cracked in an hundred shivers

Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,
how soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face

The shadow of your sorrow hath destroyed
the shadow of your face

Say that again.
The shadow of my sorrow?

Ha? Let′s see, ′tis very true, my grief lies all within,
and these external manners of laments...

...are merely shadows to the unseen grief
that swells with silence in the tortured soul

There lies the substance.
And I thank thee, king, for thy great bounty...

...that not only givest me cause to wail,
but teachest me the way how to lament the cause

I′ll beg one boon,
and then be gone and trouble you no more

- Shall I obtain it?
- Name it, fair cousin

‵Fair cousin′? Now I am greater than a king

For when I was a king,
my flatterers were then but subjects

Being now a subject, I have a king here to be
my flatterer. Being so great, I have no need to beg

- Yet ask
- And shall I have?

- You shall
- Then give me leave to go

- Whither?
- Whither you will, so I were from your sights

Go, some of you convey him to the Tower

O, good! ‵Convey′? Conveyers are you all,
that rise thus nimbly by a true king′s fall

On Wednesday next we solemnly set down
our coronation. Lords, prepare yourselves

A woeful pageant have we here beheld

The woe′s to come. The children yet unborn
shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn

You holy clergymen, is there no plot
to rid the realm of this pernicious blot?

My lord, before I freely speak my mind herein,
you shall not only take the sacrament...

...to bury mine intent, but also to effect
whatever I shall happen to devise

I see your brows are full of discontent,
your heart of sorrow and your eyes of tears

Come home with me to supper.
I′ll lay a plot shall show us all a merry day

This way the king will come

This is the way
to Julius Caesar′s ill-erected tower...

...to whose flint bosom my condemned lord
is doomed a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke

Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth
have any resting for her true king′s queen

But soft, but see, or rather do not see,
my fair rose wither

Yet look up, behold, that you in pity
may dissolve to dew

And wash him fresh again with true-love tears

Thou map of honour, thou King Richard′s tomb,
and not King Richard

Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,
to make my end too sudden

Learn, good soul,
to think our former state a happy dream

From which awaked, the truth of what we are
shows us but this

I am sworn brother, sweet, to grim Necessity,
and he and I will keep a league till death

Hie thee to France and cloister thee in some religious
house. Our holy lives must win a new world′s crown...

...which our profane hours here have stricken down

What, is my Richard both in shape and mind
transformed and weakened?

Hath Bolingbroke deposed thine intellect?
Hath he been in thy heart?

The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw, and wounds
the earth, if nothing else, with rage to be o′erpowered

And wilt thou, pupil-like,
take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod?

And fawn on rage with base humility,
which art a lion and a king of beasts?

A king of beasts, indeed. If aught but beasts,
I had been still a happy king of men

Good sometime queen,
prepare thee hence for France

Think I am dead and that even here thou takest,
as from my death-bed, thy last living leave

In winter′s tedious nights
sit by the fire with good old folks

And let them tell thee tales
of woeful ages long ago betid

And ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief...

...tell thou the lamentable tale of me
and send the hearers weeping to their beds

My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is changed.
You must to Pomfret, and not unto the Tower

And, madam, there is order ta′en for you:
with all swift speed you must away to France

Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
the mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne

The time shall not be many
hours of age more than it is

Ere foul sin, gathering head,
shall break into corruption

Thou shalt think, though he divide the realm
and give thee half, it is too little, helping him to all

He shall think that thou,
which knowest the way to plant unrightful kings...

...wilt know again, being ne′er so little urged, another
way to pluck him headlong from the usurped throne

My guilt be on my head, and there an end.
Take leave and part, for you must part forthwith

Part us, Northumberland. I towards the north,
where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime

My queen to France, from whence, set forth in pomp,
she came adorned hither like sweet May...

...sent back like Hallowmas or shortest of day

- And must we be divided? Must we part?
- Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart

- Banish us both and send the king with me
- That were some love, but little policy

- Then whither he goes, thither let me go
- So two, together weeping, make one woe

- Go, count thy ways with sighs, I mine with groans
- So longest way shall have the longest moans

One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part:
thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart

Give me mine own again. ′Twere no good part
to take on me to keep and kill thy heart

So, now I have mine own again, be gone,
that I may strive to kill it with a groan

We make woe wanton with this fond delay.
Once more, adieu. The rest let sorrow say

My lord, you told me you would tell the rest,
when weeping made you break the story off...

- ...of our two cousins coming into London
- Where did I leave?

At that sad stop, my lord,
where rude misgoverned hands...

...from windows′ tops
threw dust and rubbish on King Richard′s head

Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,
mounted upon a hot and fiery steed...

...with slow but stately pace kept on his course,
while all tongues cried ‵God save thee, Bolingbroke!′

You would have thought the very windows spake...

...so many greedy looks of young and old
through casements darted their desiring eyes

Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
bareheaded, lower than his proud steed′s neck...

...bespake them thus: ‵I thank you, countrymen′,
and thus still doing, thus he passed along

Alas, poor Richard! Where rides he the whilst?

As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
after a well-graced actor leaves the stage...

...are idly bent on him that enters next,
thinking his prattle to be tedious

Even so, or with much more contempt, men′s eyes
did scowl on Richard. No man cried ‵God save him′

But dust was thrown upon his sacred head

Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
his face still combating with tears and smiles

That had not God, for some strong purpose,
steeled the hearts of men...

...they must perforce have melted
and barbarism itself have pitied him

But heaven hath a hand in these events,
to whose high will we bound our calm contents

To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
whose state and honour I for aye allow

- Here comes my son Aumerle
- Aumerle that was

But that is lost for being Richard′s friend
and, madam, you must call him Rutland now

Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now
that strew the green lap of the new come spring?

Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not.
God knows I had as lief be none as one

Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
lest you be cropped before you come to prime

What news from Oxford?
Do these jousts and triumphs hold?

For aught I know, my lord, they do

- You will be there, I know
- If God prevent not, I purpose so

What seal is that, that hangs without thy bosom?
Yea, lookest thou pale? Let me see the writing

- My lord, ′tis nothing
- No matter, then, who sees it

- I will be satisfied. Let me see the writing
- I do beseech your grace to pardon me

It is a matter of small consequence,
which for some reasons I would not have seen

Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear...

What should you fear?

Tis nothing but some bond that he is entered into
for gay apparel against the triumph

Bound to himself?
What doth he with a bond that he is bound to?

Wife, thou art a fool.
Boy, let me see the writing

- I do beseech you pardon me. I may not show it
- I will be satisfied. Let me see it, I say

Treason, foul treason! Villain, traitor, slave!

What′s the matter, my lord?

Ho! Who′s within there? Saddle my horse!
God for his mercy, what treachery is here

- Why, what is it, my lord?
- Give me my boots, I say, saddle my horse

Now, by my honour, my life, my troth,
I will appeach the villain

- What is the matter?
- Peace, foolish woman

I will not peace. What is the matter, son?

Good mother, be content.
It is no more than my poor life must answer

Thy life answer?

Bring me my boots. I will unto the king

Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amazed

Hence, villain! Never more come in my sight

Give me my boots, I say!

Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?

Have we more sons? Or are we like to have?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age?

Thou fond mad woman,
wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?

A dozen of them here have ta′en the sacrament...

...and interchangeably set down their hands,
to kill the king at Oxford

He shall be none.
We′ll keep him here. Then what is that to him?

Away, fond woman!
Were he twenty times my son, I would appeach him

Hadst thou groaned for him as I have done
thou wouldst be more pitiful

But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect
that I have been disloyal to thy bed...

- ...and that he is a bastard, not thy son
- Make way, unruly woman!

After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse

Spur post, and get before him to the king,
and beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee

I′ll not be long behind. Though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York

And never will I rise up from the ground
till Bolingbroke have pardoned thee. Away, begone!

Can no man tell of my unthrifty son?
′Tis full three months since I did see him last

If any plague hang over us, ′tis he.
I would to God, my lords, he might be found

Enquire at London, amongst the taverns there

For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,
with unrestrained loose companions

My lord, some two days since I saw the prince,
and told him of these triumphs held at Oxford

- And what said the gallant?
- His answer was, he would unto the stews...

...and from the commonest creature pluck a glove,
and wear it as a favour

And with that
he would unhorse the lustiest challenger

As dissolute as desperate

Where is the king?

What means our cousin,
that he stares and looks so wild?

God save your grace! I do beseech your majesty,
to have some conference with your grace alone

Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.
What is the matter with our cousin now?

Forever may my knees grow to the earth,
unless a pardon ere I rise or speak

Intended or committed was this fault?

If on the first, how heinous e′er it be,
to win thy after-love I pardon thee

Then give me leave that I may turn the key,
that no man enter till my tale be done

Have thy desire

My liege, beware! Look to thyself: thou hast a traitor in thy presence there

- Villain, I′ll make thee safe
- Stay thy revengeful hand, thou hast no cause to fear

Open the door, secure, foolhardy king: open the door, or I will break it open

What is the matter, uncle?
Speak, recover breath, tell us how near is danger

Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know
the reason that my haste forbids me show

Remember, as thou readest, thy promise passed.
I do repent me: read not my name there

- My heart is not confederate with my hand
- It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down

I tore it from the traitor′s bosom, king.
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence

O, heinous, strong and bold conspiracy!
O loyal father of a treacherous son!

Thy overflow of good converts to bad,
and thy abundant goodness...

...shall excuse this deadly blot
in thy digressing son

So shall my virtue be his vice′s bawd,
thou killest me in his life

Giving him breath,
the traitor lives, the true man′s put to death

What ho, my liege! For God′s sake, let me in

- What shrill-voiced suppliant makes this eager cry?- A woman, and thine aunt, great king. ′Tis I

Speak with me, pity me, open the door: a beggar begs that never begged before

Our scene is altered from a serious thing,
and now changed to ‵The Beggar and the King′

My dangerous cousin, let your mother in.
I know she′s come to pray for your foul sin

If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
more sins for this forgiveness prosper may

O king, believe not this hard-hearted man.
Love loving not itself none other can

Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here?
Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?

- Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, gentle liege
- Rise up, good aunt

Not yet, I thee beseech

Forever will I kneel upon my knees,
and never see day that the happy sees...

...till thou give joy, until thou bid me joy,
by pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy

- Unto my mother′s prayers I add my knee
- Against them both my true joints bended be

Pleads he in earnest? Look upon his face

He prays but faintly and would be denied:
we pray with heart and soul and all beside

His weary joints would gladly rise, I know:
our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow

His prayers are full of false hypocrisy,
ours of true zeal and deep integrity

Our prayers do out-pray his: then let them have
that mercy which true prayers ought to have

Good aunt, stand up

Nay, do not say, ‵stand up′,
but ‵pardon′ first, and afterwards ‵stand up′

I never longed to hear a word till now:
say ‵pardon′, king, let pity teach thee how

- Speak it in French, king: say, ‵pardonnez-moi′
- Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?

Speak ‵pardon′ as ′tis current in our land:
this chopping French we do not understand

Good aunt, stand up

I do not sue to stand:
pardon is all the suit I have in hand

- I pardon him, as God shall pardon me
- O, happy vantage of a kneeling knee!

Yet am I sick with fear

Speak it again, twice saying ‵pardon′ doth not
pardon twain, but make one pardon strong

- I pardon him with all my heart
- A god on earth thou art

Good uncle, help to order several powers
to Oxford, or where′er these traitors are

They shall not live within this world, I swear,
but I will have them, if I once know where

Uncle, farewell, and, cousin, adieu:
your mother well hath prayed, and prove you true

Come, my old son. I pray God make thee new

I have been studying how I may compare
this prison 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 it out. My brain I′ll prove
the female to my soul, my soul the father

And these two beget a generation
of still-breeding thoughts

And these same thoughts people this little world...

...in humours like the people of this world,
for no thought is contented

Thus play I in one person many people

Sometimes am I king, then treason
makes me wish myself a beggar, and so I am

Then crushing penury
persuades me I was better when a king

Then am I kinged again, and by and by think that I am
unkinged by Bolingbroke, and straight am nothing

But whate′er I am,
nor I nor any man but that man is...

...with nothing shall be pleased
till he be eased with being nothing

Music do I hear?

Ha, ha! Keep time. How sour sweet music is
when time is broke and no proportion kept

So is it in the music of men′s lives

And here have I the daintiness of ear
to hear time broke in a disordered string

But in the concord of my state and time
I had not an ear to hear my true time broke

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me

This music mads me. Let it sound no more

Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me,
for ′tis a sign of love

And love to Richard
is a strange brooch in this all-hating world

Hail, royal prince

Thanks, noble peer.
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear

What art thou? And how comest thou hither
where no man ever comes...

...but that sad dog
that brings me food to make misfortune live?

I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
when thou wert king, who, travelling towards York...

...with much ado, at length have gotten leave
to look upon my sometimes royal master′s face

O, how it yearned my heart when I beheld
in London streets, that coronation-day...

...when Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary

That horse that thou so often had bestrid,
that horse that I so carefully have dressed

Rode he on Barbary?
Tell me, gentle friend, how went he under him?

- So proudly as if he had disdained the ground
- So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back?

That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand,
that hand hath made him proud with clapping him

Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down,
since pride must have a fall...

...and break the neck
of that proud man that did usurp his back?

Forgiveness, horse. Why do I rail on thee, since thou,
created to be awed by man, wast born to bear?

I was not made a horse,
and yet I bear a burden like an ass

Spur-galled and tired by jauncing Bolingbroke

Fellow, give place. Here is no longer stay

- If thou love me, ′tis time thou wert away
- What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say

- My lord, will it please you to fall to?
- Taste of it first, as thou wert wont to do

My lord, I dare not. There lately came
one from the king, commands the contrary

The devil take Henry Bolingbroke and thee!
Patience is stale, and I am weary of it

How now? What means death in this rude assault?

Villain, thine own hand yields thy death′s instrument.
Go thou, and fill another room in hell

That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire
that staggers thus my person

Thy fierce hand hath with the king′s blood
stained the king′s own land

Mount, mount, my soul, thy seat is up on high,
whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die

As full of valour as of royal blood.
Both have I spilled. O, would the deed were good

For now the devil that told me I did well
says that this deed is chronicled in hell

Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear
is that the rebels have consumed with fire...

...our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire,
but whether they be ta′en or slain we hear not

- Welcome, my lords. What is the news?
- First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness

The next news is, I have to London sent
the heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent

The manner of their taking may at large
appear discoursed in this paper here

We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains,
and to thy worth will add right worthy gains

My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
the heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely

Thy pains, my good lord, shall not be forgot.
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot

The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,
hath yielded up his body to the grave

But here is Carlisle living, to abide
thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride

Carlisle, this is your doom

Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
more than thou hast, and with it joy thy life

So as thou livest in peace, die free from strife

For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
high sparks of honour in thee have I seen

Great king!

Within this coffin I present thy buried fear

Herein all breathless lies
the greatest of thy mighty enemies

Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought

I thank thee not

For thou hast wrought a deed of slaughter with
thy fatal hand upon my head and all this famous land

From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed

They love not poison that do poison need,
nor do I thee

Though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer, love him murdered

The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
but neither my good word nor princely favour

With Cain go wander through shades of night,
and never show thy head by day nor light

Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
that blood should sprinkle me to make me grow

I′ll make a voyage to the Holy Land,
to wash this blood from off my guilty hand