All language subtitles for The.Hollow.Crown.S01E01.720p.BluRay.x265

Let's talk of graves,
of worms and epitaphs,

Write sorrow on the bosom
of the earth.

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.

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Old John of Gaunt,
time-honoured Lancaster.

Hast thou 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 far as I could sift him
on that argument,

On some apparent danger seen
in the Duke

Aimed at your highness.

Then call them to our presence.

Face to face,

And frowning brow to brow,
ourselves will hear

The accuser
and the accused freely speak.

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!

In the devotion of a subject's love,

And free from
other misbegotten hate,

Come I appellant
to this princely presence.

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,

Since the more fair and crystal
is the sky,

The uglier seem the clouds
that in it fly.

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 doubled 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.

What doth our cousin lay
to Mowbray's charge?

Look what I speak,
my life shall prove it true:

I say that Mowbray hath received
eight thousand nobles

In name of lending
for your highness' soldiers,

The which he hath detained
for lewd employments,

Like a false
traitor and injurious villain.

Besides I say,
and will in battle prove,

That all the treasons
for these 18 years

Complotted and contrived
in this land

Fetch from false Mowbray
their first head and spring.

And by the glorious
worth of my descent,

This arm shall prove it,
or this life be spent!

HE CHUCKLES

How high a pitch
his resolution soars!

Mowbray,
impartial are our eyes and ears.

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.

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 month 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 Norfolk, throw down his.

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

Norfolk, give me his gage.
Lions make leopards tame.

Yea, but not change his spots.

My dear, dear, lord,

The purest treasure
mortal times afford

Is spotless reputation;

Mine honour is my life;
both grow in one.

Take honour from me,
and my life is done.

Cousin, throw down your gage;
do you begin?

O God defend my soul
from such deep sin.

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.

Marshal,

demand of yonder knights in arms

Both who they are
and why they come hither

Thus plated in habiliments of war.

In God's name and the King's,
say who thou art

And why thou com'st
thus knightly clad in arms.

My name is Thomas Mowbray,

Duke of Norfolk,

Who hither come engaged by my oath

Both to defend my loyalty and truth

To God, my king

and my succeeding issue

Against the Duke of Hereford

To prove him,
in defending of myself,

A traitor to my God, my king and me.

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 is a traitor,
foul and dangerous,

To God of heaven, King Richard
and to me.

On pain of death,

no person be so bold

Or daring-hardy as to touch
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.

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.

My loving lord,
I take my leave of you.

Of you, my noble cousin,
Lord Aumerle.

O thou, the earthly
author of my blood,

Whose youthful spirit
in me regenerate,

Doth with a twofold vigour
lift me up

To reach at victory
above my head,

Add proof unto mine armour
with thy prayers.

God in thy good cause
make thee prosperous.

Be swift like lightning in the
execution. Be valiant and live.

Mine innocence
and Saint George to thrive!

Order the trial, Marshal, and begin.

HORSES NEIGH AND SNORT

LORD MARSHALL: Stay!

Stay! The King hath thrown
his warder down.

Let them lay their helmets by.

Draw near.

For that our kingdom's earth
should not be soiled

By that dear blood
which it hath fostered

And for our eyes do hate
the dire aspect

Of civil wounds ploughed up
with neighbours' sword

And for we think
the eagle-winged pride

Of sky-aspiring
and ambitious thoughts,

Set you on,

We therefore banish you
our territories

You, cousin Hereford,
upon pain of life,

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,

The 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.

Norfolk,
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.

The language I have learnt
these 40 years,

My native English,
now I must forego.

Within my mouth
you have engaoled my tongue,

Doubly portcullised with my teeth
and lips,

And dull, unfeeling,
barren ignorance

Is made my gaoler to attend on me.

What is thy sentence then,
but speechless death,

Which robs my tongue
from breathing native breath?

It boots thee not
to be compassionate.

After our sentence,
plaining comes too late.

Return again,
and take an oath with me.

Lay on our royal sword
your banished hands.

Swear by the duty that you owe to God

Our part therein
we banish with yourselves

To keep the oath that we administer

You never shall,
so help you truth and God,

Embrace each other's love
in banishment

Nor never look upon
each other's face

Nor never write,
regreet, nor reconcile

This louring tempest
of your home-bred hate

Nor never 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,

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.

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
from my son's exile

But little vantage
shall I reap thereby

For, ere the six years
that he hath to spend

Have changed their moons
and brought their times around

My oil-dried lamp
and time-bewasted light

Shall be extinct with age
and endless night.

HE CHUCKLES

Why, uncle,
thou hast many years to live.

But not a minute, King,
that thou canst give.

Shorten my days thou canst
with sullen sorrow,

And pluck nights from me,
but not lend a morrow.

Cousin, farewell,
and uncle, bid him so.

Six years we banish him,
and he SHALL go.

Teach thy necessity to reason thus -

Think not the King did banish thee,

But thou the King.

Look what thy soul holds dear,

Imagine it
to lie that way thou goest,

Not whence thou com'st.

Suppose the singing birds musicians,

The flowers fair ladies,

And thy steps no more

Than a delightful measure
or a dance

For gnarling sorrow
has 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?

No,

the apprehension of the good

Gives but the greater feeling
to the worse.

Come, come, my son,

be though 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
that bears me yet!

Where'er I wander,
boast of this I can,

Though banished,

Yet a true-born Englishman.

Cousin Aumerle,

How far brought you high Hereford
on his way?

I brought high Hereford, if you
call him so,

But to the shoreline,
and there I left him.

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.

We did observe his courtship
of the common people.

How he did seem to dive
into their hearts

With humble and familiar courtesy,

What reverence
he did throw away on slaves.

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.

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 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,

You shall subscribe them
for large sums of gold,

And send them after
to supply our wants

For we will make for Ireland
presently.

Scroop, what news?

Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick,
my lord,

Suddenly taken,
and hath sent post-haste

To entreat your majesty
to visit him.

Where lies he? At Lancaster.

Now put it, God,
in the physician's mind

To help him to his grave
immediately!

The lining 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.

Where words are scarce,
they are seldom spent in vain,

For they breathe truth
that breathe their words in pain.

Though Richard my life's counsel
would not hear,

Yet my death's sad tale
may yet undeaf his ear.

No, it is stopped with other,
flattering sounds.

His rash fierce blaze of riot
cannot last,

For violent fires
soon burn out themselves

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 land of such dear souls,

This dear, dear land,

Is now leased out -

I die pronouncing it -

Like to a tenement
on a pelting farm.

England, bound in
with the triumphant sea,

Is now bound in with shame!

DOOR OPENS

How fares our noble uncle Lancaster?

How is't with aged Gaunt?

O how that name
befits my composition!

Old Gaunt indeed,
and gaunt in being old.

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,

And therein fasting
hast thou made me gaunt.

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
with those that live?

Oh, no,

men living flatter those that die.

Thou, now a-dying,
say'st thou flatterest me.

No, no,

Thou diest, though I the sicker be.

I am in health,

I breathe and 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,

Committ'st 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.

Landlord of England art thou now,
not king.

And thou...

A lunatic lean-witted fool!

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 my father's
father's son,

This tongue that runs so roundly
in thy head

Should run thy head
from thy unreverent shoulders!

Live in thy shame!

But die not shame with thee!

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 highness.

What says he?

Nay, nothing.

All is said.

His tongue now
is 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,

We must supplant those rough
rug-headed kerns,

Which live like venom
where no venom else

But only they have privilege to live.

And, for these great affairs
do ask some charge,

Towards our assistance
we do seize to us

The plate, coin, revenues
and moveables

Whereof our uncle Gaunt
did stand possessed.

How long shall I be patient?

Ah, how long

Shall tender duty
make me suffer wrong?

I am the last
of noble Edward's sons,

Of whom thy father,
Prince of Wales, was first.

In war was never lion raged
more fierce,

In peace was never gentle lamb
more mild.

Than was that young
and princely gentleman.

His face thou hast, for even so
looked he, O Richard!

York is far too gone with grief,

Or else
he never would compare between...

Why, uncle, what's the matter?

O my liege,
Pardon me, if you please

Seek you to seize and grip
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 the one
not deserve to have an heir?

Is not the 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

If you do wrongfully seize
Hereford's rights,

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
can not 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 here after
there's none can tell.

Tomorrow next

We will for Ireland, and 'tis time.

And we create,
in absence of ourself,

Our uncle York
Lord Governor of England,

For he is just and always
loved us well.

Tomorrow must we part.

Be merry,
for our time of stay is short.

NORTHUMBERLAND: Well, lords,

the Duke of Lancaster is dead.

ROSS: And living, too,
for now his son is duke.

WILLOUGHBY: Barely in titles,
not in revenues.

Richly in both,
if justice had it right.

My heart is great, but it must break
with silence

'Ere it be disburdened
with a liberal tongue.

Nay, speak thy mind, and let him
ne'er speak more

That speaks thy words again
to do thee harm.

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,

Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

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, against
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.

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,

And yet seek no shelter
to avoid the storm.

We see the wind sit sore
upon our sails,

And yet we strike not,
but securely perish.

We see the very wreck
that we must suffer,

And unavoidable is the danger now.
Not so.

Even through the hollow eyes
of Death

I spy life peering,
but dare not say

How near the tiding
of our comfort is.

Nay, let us hear thy thoughts
as thou dost ours.

Be confident to speak,
Northumberland.

We three are but thyself,
and, speaking so,

Thy words are but as thoughts.

Therefore, be bold.

Then thus - I have
from Port le Blanc, a bay

In Brittany, received intelligence

That Harry, Duke of Hereford,

Is making hither
with all due expedience,

And shortly means to touch
our northern shore.

Perhaps he hath 'ere this,
but stays upon

The first departing
of the King for Ireland.

If then,
we shall shake off our slavish yoke,

Imp out our drooping country's
broken wing,

Redeem from broking pawn
the blemished crown,

And make high majesty
look like itself,

Away with me in post to meet
him there.

But if you faint,
as fearing to do so,

Stay and be secret,
and myself will go.

To horse, to horse!
Urge doubts to them that fear.

Hold out my horse
and I will be first there.

Madam, your majesty is too much sad.

You promised,
when you parted with the King,

To lay aside
life-harming heaviness

And entertain a cheerful
disposition.

To please the King I did,

To please myself I cannot do it.

The banished Bolingbroke
repeals himself,

And with uplifted arms
is safe arrived

At Ravenspurgh.
Now God in heaven forbid!

Madam, 'tis too true.
Despair not, madam.

Who shall hinder me?

Uncle, for God's sake,
speak comfortable words.

Should I do so,
I should belie my thoughts.

Comfort's in heaven,
and we are on the earth,

Where nothing lives but crosses,
cares and grief.

Your husband,
he is gone to save far off,

Whilst others come to make him
lose at home.

Here am I left to underprop
his land,

Who, weak with age,
cannot support myself.

I know not what to do!

Gentlemen, will you go muster men?

Come, cousin, I'll dispose of you.

The wind sits fair for news
to go for Ireland,

But none returns.

For us to levy power

Proportionable to the enemy is all
unpossible.

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 judgment lie in them,
then so do we,

Because we ever have
been near the King.

Well, I will for refuge
straight to Bristol Castle.

Thither will I with you,

Will you go along with us?

No,

I will to Wales to rouse
the troops.

The men there will stay loyal
to his majesty.

Farewell.

If heart's presages be not vain,

We three here part that ne'er
shall meet again.

That's as York thrives to beat back
Bolingbroke.

Alas, poor Duke!

The task he undertakes

Is numbering sands
and drinking oceans dry.

Where one on his side fights,
thousands will fly.

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.

These high wild hills
and rough uneven ways

Draw out our miles
and make them wearisome.

And yet your 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?

My noble uncle!

You show me thy humble heart,
and not thy knee,

Whose duty is deceivable and false.

My gracious uncle...

Tut, tut! You grace me no grace,
nor uncle me no uncle.

Why have those 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?

Com'st thou
because the anointed King is hence?

Why, foolish boy,
the King is left behind,

And in my loyal bosom
lies his power.

Were I but now the lord
of such hot youth

As when brave Gaunt,
thy father, and myself

Rescued the Black Prince,
that young Mars of men,

From forth the ranks
of many thousand French,

O then how quickly should this arm
of mine chastise thee

And minister correction
to thy fault!

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 cousin.

Had you first died
and he been thus trod down,

He would have found
his uncle Gaunt a father

To rouse his wrongs
and chase them to the bay.

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 much
abused.

It stands your grace upon
to do him right.

Base men by his endowments
are made great.

My lords of England,
let me tell you this.

I have had feelings
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 wrong -
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 are all strongly sworn
to give him aid.

And let him never see joy
that breaks that oath!

Well, well.
HE CHUCKLES

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
unto you I do remain as neuter.

So, fare you well.

But we must win your grace
to go with us

To my father's seat

To see those lands
I must again call mine.

Nor friends nor foes to me
welcome you are.

Things past redress are now with me
past care.

My lord, 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 reposes
all his confidence in thee.

'Tis thought the King is dead.

We will not stay.

The bay trees in our country
are all 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 the 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.

The friends are fled to wait
upon thy foes,

And crossly to thy good
all fortune goes.

FIRE CRACKLES

SOBBING

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,

A happy gentleman
in blood and lineaments,

By you unhappied
and disfigured clean.

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
by 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,

Disparked my parks
and felled my forest woods,

From my own window torn
my household coat,

Rased out my imprese,
leaving me no sign

Save men's opinions
and my living blood

To show the world
I am a gentleman.

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.

Lords,

farewell.

HE SOBS
No!

My only comfort is that heaven
will take our souls

And plague injustice
with the pains of hell.

Come, lords, away.

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,

So weeping, smiling, greet I thee,
my earth,

And do thee favours
with my royal hands.

Feed not thy sovereign's foe,
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

That 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 power.

Discomfortable cousin,

Knowest thou not that when
the searching eye of heaven is hid,

Behind the globe
that lights the lower world

Then thieves and robbers
range abroad unseen?

But when, from over
this terrestrial ball,

He fires the proud tops
of the eastern pines

And darts his light through every
guilty hole,

Then murders, treasons
and detested sins

Stand bare and naked,
trembling at themselves.

So, when this thief,
this traitor, Bolingbroke -

Who all the while hath revelled
in the night

Whilst we were wandering
with the Antipodes -

Shall see us rising
in our throne, the East,

His treasons will sit blushing
in his face,

Not all the water
in the rough, rude sea

Can wash the balm off
from an anointed king.

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.

One day too late, I fear me,
noble lord,

Hath clouded
all thy happy days on earth.

O call back yesterday,
bid Time return,

And thou shalt have
twelve thousand fighting men!

Today, today, unhappy day, too late,

O'er throws thy joys,
friends, fortune and thy state.

For all the Welshmen,
hearing thou wert dead,

Are gone to Bolingbroke,
dispersed, fled.

Comfort, my liege.

Why looks thou so pale?

But now the blood of twenty thousand
men did triumph in my face,

And they are fled.

And till such 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.

WHISPERS: Remember who you are.

I had forgot myself.

THEY BOTH LAUGH

Am I not king?

Is not the King's name
twenty thousand names?

HE LAUGHS

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.

And what loss is it
to be rid of care?

Strives Bolingbroke
to be as great as we?

Greater he shall not be.

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,

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.

Boys with women's voices

Strive to speak big
and clap their female joints

In stiff and unwieldy arms
against thy crown.

Both young and old rebel,

And all goes worse
than I have power to tell.

What is become of Bushy?

Where is Green?

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!

HE SOBS

Dogs easily won to fawn on any man!

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

Judases, each one. Worse than Judas!

Would they make peace?

Terrible hell make war
upon their spotted souls for this!

Again uncurse their souls.

Their peace is made with heads,
and not with hands.

Are Bushy and Green dead?

Aye.

Both of them
at Lancaster lost their heads.

Where's the Duke, my father,
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 wall and,

Farewell, King!

Cover your heads.

And mock not flesh and blood
with solemn reverence.

Throw away respect, tradition,
form and ceremonious duty

For you have but mistook me
all this while.

I live with bread, like you

Feel want

Taste grief

Need friends.

Subjected thus,
how can you say to me I am a king?

My lord, wise men ne'er sit
and wail their woes,

But presently prevent
the ways to wail.

My father hath a power.

Enquire of him.

And learn to make a body of a limb.

Thou chid'st me well.

HE LAUGHS

Proud Bolingbroke, I come!

To change blows with thee
for our day of doom.

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.

I play the torturer,
by small and small,

To lengthen out the worst
that must be spoken.

Your uncle, York,
is joined with Bolingbroke,

And all your northern castles
yielded up,

And all your southern gentlemen
in arms upon his party.

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 any more.

Go to Flint Castle.

There I'll pine away.

A king, woe's slave,
shall kingly woe obey.

My lord, 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.

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 yon lime and stone,

And with him are the Lord Aumerle,
Bagot, 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 parley

Into his ruined ears,
and thus deliver

Henry Bolingbroke

On both 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.

Go signify as much.

Methinks King Richard and myself
should meet with no less terror

Than the elements of fire
and water,

When their thundering shock
at meeting

Tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven.

Be he the fire.

I'll be the yielding water.

The rage be his,

Whilst, on the earth,
I rain my waters.

On the earth and not on him.

March on.

And mark King Richard how he looks.

HORSE WHINNIES

See, see.

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?

No hand of blood and bone

Can grip 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 my head

And threat the glory
of my precious crown.

Tell Bolingbroke.

For yond methinks he stands.

That every stride he makes
upon my land is dangerous treason.

He is come to open 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 pastures' 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,

And by the buried hand
of warlike Gaunt,

And by the worth
and honour of himself,

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

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.

We do debase ourselves, 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.

Oh, God. Oh, God!

Thate'er this tongue of mine,

That laid the sentence of dread
banishment on yon 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!

Swell'st thou, proud heart?

I'll give thee scope to beat,

Since foes have scope to beat
both thee and me.

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?

In God's name, let it go.

I'll give my jewels
for a set of beads,

My gorgeous palace for a hermitage,

My figured goblets
for a dish of wood,

My subjects
for a pair of carved saints

And my large kingdom
for a little grave.

HE LAUGHS

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 weep'st,
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 laugh at me.

Most mighty prince,

My Lord Northumberland,

What says King Bolingbroke?

My lord, he doth attend
to speak with you

May it please you to come down.

THE SOLDIERS ROAR

'Down, down I come.

'Like a glistering Phaeton,
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.

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 strong'st
and the surest way to get!

YORK SOBS

Uncle, give me your hand.

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 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.

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.

Go thou 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 keep law and form
and due proportion,

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

Her fairest flowers choked up,

Her fruit-trees all upturned,
her hedges ruined,

Her knots disorder'd

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 which his broad-spreading
leaves did shelter,

That seemed in eating him
to hold him up,

Are plucked up root
and all by Bolingbroke,

I mean the favourites of the King,
Bushy and 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.

We at time of year

Do wound the bark,

Lest, being over-proud in sap
and blood,

It confound itself:

Had he done so
to great and growing men,

They might have lived to bear
and he to taste

Their fruits of duty.

What, think you then
the king shall be deposed?

Depressed he is already,
and deposed he will be.

Thou!

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?

Speak, thou wretch.

Pardon me, madam,

Little joy have I

To breathe this 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,

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 will find it so; I speak
no more than every man doth know.

And am I last that knows it?

Come, lady, go,

To meet at London,
London's king in woe.

Was I born to this,
that my sad look

Should grace the triumph
of great Bolingbroke?

Gardener, for telling me
these news of woe,

Pray God the plants
thou graft'st may never grow.

Poor queen!

Great Duke of Lancaster,

I come to thee

From plume-plucked Richard;

Who with willing soul

Adopts thee heir

Ascend his throne,

Descending now from him;

And long live Henry,
fourth of that name!

In God's name,

I'll ascend the regal throne.

Marry. God forbid!

Would God that any
in this noble presence

Were enough noble
to be upright judge

Of noble Richard!

What subject can give
sentence on his king?

And who sits 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 forfend it, God,

That in a Christian climate
souls refined

Should show so heinous,
black, obscene a deed!

I speak to subjects,
and a subject speaks,

Stirred up by God,

Thus boldly for his king,

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;

Peace shall go sleep with Turks
and infidels,

And in this seat of peace
tumultuous wars

Shall kin with kin
and kind with kind confound;

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 raise this house
against this house,

It will the woefullest division
prove

That ever fell upon
this cursed earth!

Well have you argued, sir;
and, for your pains,

Of capital treason
we 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.

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 limbs

Give sorrow leave awhile
to tutor me

To this submission.

HE SOBS

Yet I well remember the favours
of these men

Were they not mine?

Did they not sometimes 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?

HE LAUGHS

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,
and on that side yours.

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.

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;

BELL CHIMES

I give this heavy weight
from off my head,

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 duty's rites

All pomp and majesty I do forswear;

Make me, that nothing have,

With nothing grieved,

And thou with all pleased,

That hath all achieved!

Long mayst thou live
in Richard's seat to sit,

And soon lie Richard
in an earthy pit!

God save King Harry,

Unkinged Richard says,

And send him many years
of sunshine days!

What more remains?

No more, but that you read over

These accusations
and grievous crimes

Committed by yourself
and your followers

Against the state
and profit of this land;

That, by confessing them,
the souls of men

May deem you worthily deposed.

Must I do so?

And must I ravel out
My weaved-up folly?

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.

Nay, all of you that stand
and look upon,

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

That 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,

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,

And 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
while the glass doth come.

Fiend, thou torment'st me
ere I come to hell!

Urge it no more,
my Lord Northumberland.

The commons will not 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 the glass,
and therein will I read.

No deeper wrinkles yet?

Hath sorrow struck

So many blows
upon this face of mine,

And made no deeper wounds?

O flattering glass,

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?

Was this the face that faced
so many follies,

And 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 a 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

It is 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"?

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 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.

This way the king will come;

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.

In nomine Patris et Filii
et Spiritus Sancti.

In nomine Patris et Filii
et Spiritus Sancti.

You holy clergymen,

is there no plot

To rid the realm
of this pernicious blot?

I see your brows
are full of discontent,

Your hearts of sorrow
and your eyes of tears

Come home with me to supper;
and I'll lay

A plot shall show us all
a merry day.

But soft, but see,
or rather do not see,

My fair rose wither.

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

Shall keep a league till death.

What, has my Richard
both in shape and mind

Transformed and weakened?

Hath Bolingbroke deposed
thine intellect?

Hath he been in thy heart?

Good sometime Queen,

prepare thee hence for France

Think I am dead
and that even here though takest,

As from my death-bed,
thy last living leave.

Learn 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 griefs,

Tell thou the lamentable tale of me

And send the hearers weeping
to their beds.

My lord,
you must straight to the Tower.

And, madam,
there is orders 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

Shalt break into corruption

Thou shalt think,

Though he divide the realm
and give thee half,

It is too little,

Helping him to all;

And he shall think that thou,
which know'st 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.

Doubly divorced!

Bad men, you violate

A twofold marriage,
'twixt my crown and me,

And then betwixt me
and my married wife.

Let me unkiss the oath
'twixt thee and me;

And yet not so,
for with a kiss 'twas made.

Part us, Northumberland.

Banish us both
and send the king with me.

That were some love
but little policy.

Then whither he goes,
thither let me go.

My lord

You told me
you would tell the rest?

Then, as I said,

The duke,

Great Bolingbroke,

Mounted upon
a hot and fiery steed

With slow but stately pace
kept on his course,

Whilst 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

Upon his visage.

Alack, poor Richard!

Where was he the whilst?

As in a theatre,

The eyes of men,

After a well-graced actor
leaves the stage,

Are idly bent
on him who enters next,

Thinking his prattle to be tedious;

Even so,

Or with much more contempt,

Men's eyes did scowl
on gentle Richard;

No man cried "God save him!"

But dust was thrown
upon his sacred head

Which with such gentle sorrow
he shook off,

That had not God,
for some strong purpose, steeled

The hearts of men,
they must perforce have melted

But heaven hath a hand
in these events,

And to Bolingbroke
are we sworn subjects now.

My son, Aumerle.
What news from Oxford?

Jousts and triumphs?

For aught I know, my lord.

You will be there, I know.

If God prevent not, I purpose so.

What seal is that?

Yea, look'st thou pale?

Let me see the writing.

My lord, 'tis nothing.
No matter, then, who see 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 reason, SIR,

I mean to see.

I fear. What should you fear?

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.

It's treason!

Foul treason!

What is the matter, my lord?
Ho! Who's within there?

Saddle my horse!
Give me my boots I say!

What is the matter?
Peace, foolish woman!

I will not peace.
What is the matter, Aumerle?

Good mother, be content;

It is no more
than my poor life must answer.

Thy life answer!
I will unto the king.

Aumerle? Poor boy, thou art amazed.

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?

A dozen of them here
have ta'en the sacrament,

And interchangeably
set down their hand,

To kill the new-crowned king.

He shall be none;

We'll keep him here,
then what is that to him?

Were he twenty times my son,
I would impeach him.

Hadst thou groan'd 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

Sweet York, sweet husband,
be not of that mind

He is as like thee as a man may be!

Make way!

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;

Away, be gone!

Who comes here?

What means our cousin that he
stares and looks so wildly?

God save your grace.

I do beseech your majesty,

To have some conference
with your grace alone.

Withdraw yourselves,
and leave us here alone.

Then give me leave that
I may turn the key,

That no man enter
till my tale be done.

Have thy desire.

KNOCKS ON DOOR

My liege, beware;

Thou hast a traitor
in thy presence there.

Villain, I'll make thee safe.

Stay thy revengeful hand;
thou hast no cause to fear.

My liege.

Open the door or
I will break it open!

What is the matter, uncle? Speak.

Peruse this writing here,

And thou shalt know

The treason that my haste
forbid me show.

I do repent me;
read not my name there

My heart was 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, 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.

Thou kill'st me in his life;
giving him breath,

The traitor lives,
the true man's put to death.

KNOCK AT DOOR

What ho, my liege!
For God's sake, let me in!

What shrill-voiced suppliant
makes this eager cry?

A woman.

And thy aunt, great king; 'tis I.

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.

SHE CONTINUES TO KNOCK

My dangerous cousin,
let your mother in:

I know she is come
to pray for your foul sin.

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
another traitor rear?

Sweet York, be patient.

Hear me, gentle liege.

Rise up, good aunt!

Not yet, I thee beseech,
for ever will I walk upon my knees,

Until thou bid me joy,

By pardoning my transgressing boy.

Unto my mother's prayers
I bend my knee.

Against them both
my true joints bended be.

Ill mayst thou thrive,
if thou grant any grace!

Pleads he in earnest?

Look upon his face;

His eyes do drop no tears,

His prayers are in jest;

His words come from his mouth,
ours from our breast.

Good aunt, stand up.

Nay, do not say, "stand up"

Say, "pardon" first,
and afterwards "stand up".

I never long'd to
hear a word till now;

Say "pardon," king;

Let pity teach thee how:

The word is short,
but not so short as sweet;

No word like "pardon"
for kings' mouths so meet.

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;

With all my heart

I pardon him.

A god on earth thou art!

But for our trusty Bishop
and the Abbot,

With all the rest
of that consorted crew,

Destruction straight shall dog them
at the heels.

Good uncle,
help to order several powers

To Oxford,
or where'er these traitors are:

They shall not live
within this world,

But I will have them,
if I once know where.

Uncle, farewell.

And, cousin too, adieu:

Your mother well hath prayed,

And prove you true.

Come, my old son.

I pray God make thee new.

Didst thou not mark the king,

What words he spake.

"Have I no friend will rid
me of this living fear?"

Was it not so? Quoth he.

He spake it twice,

And urged it twice together,
did he not?

He did.

And speaking it,
he wistly looked on thee,

And who should say,

"I would thou wert the man

"That would divorce
this terror from my heart;"

Meaning the king in the Tower.

Come...let's go

We are the king's friends,

And will rid his foe.

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,

Thoughts tending to ambition,
they do plot

Unlikely wonders;
how these vain weak nails

May tear a passage
through the flinty ribs

Of this hard world,

My ragged prison walls,

And, for they cannot,
die in their own pride.

Thoughts tending to content

Flatter themselves

That they are not the first
of fortune's slaves,

Nor shall not be the last;

Like silly beggars

Who sitting in the stocks
refuge their shame,

That many have and others must
sit there;

And in this thought
they find a kind of ease,

Bearing their own misfortune
on the back

Of such as have
before endured the like.

Thus play I in one person
many people,

And none contented:

Sometimes am I king;

Then treasons make 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 be,

Nor I nor any man that but man is

With nothing shall be pleased,

Till he be eased

With being nothing.

DISTANT MUSIC PLAYS

HE LAUGHS

Music do I hear?

HE LAUGHS

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.

I wasted time,

And now doth time waste me.

This music mads me;
let it sound no more;

For though it have holp
madmen to their wits,

In me it seems
it will make wise men mad.

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;

What art thou?

And how comest thou hither,

Where no man never 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, with much ado,
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 hast 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 disdained
the ground.

So proud that Bolingbroke
was on his back?

That jade hath eat bread
from my royal hand;

This hand hath made him proud
with clapping him.

Would he not 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,

Spurred, galled

and tired by jouncing Bolingbroke.

DOOR CREAKS OPEN

If thou love me,
'tis time thou wert away.

How now!

Villain, thy own hand yields
thy death's instrument.

HE GARGLES

HE GASPS

Go now and fill another room in hell.

Welcome, my lord. What news?

First, to thy sacred state
wish I all happiness.

The next news is,
I have to London brought

The heads of Oxford,
Salisbury, Blunt, and Kent.

We thank thee for thy pains.

My Lord, I have from
Oxford brought to London

The heads of Bagot
and Sir Stephen Scroop.

Thy pains, Willoughby,
shall not be forgot.

The Conspirator,
Abbot of Westminster,

Hath yielded up
his body to the grave!

But here is Carlisle living.

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.

Within this coffin I present

Thy buried fear

Herein all breathless lies

The mightiest
of thy greatest enemies,

Richard of Bordeaux,

By me hither brought.

Aumerle,

I thank thee not;

For thou hast wrought

A deed of slander

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.

Lords, I protest,
my soul is full of woe,

That...blood should sprinkle me

To make me grow

Come, mourn with me
for what I do lament,

And put on sullen
black incontinent

I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,

To wash this blood
off from my...guilty hand.

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