University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE, the Outside of the Tower.
Enter Duke of York, Earl of Salisbury, Lord Ross and Lord Willoughby.
York.
Heav'n of his Mercy! What a Tide of Woes
Comes rushing on this ruin'd Land at once!
My Lords of Salisbury, Ross, and Willoughby,
What wou'd your Wisdoms counsel me to do?
I would, old York had dropt into his Grave,
E'er taken this unwieldy Task of Pow'r;
Here am I left to underprop the Land,
Who, weak with Age, can scarce support my Self:
I fear me, Bolingbroke comes on too fast.

Sal.
The haughty Lords, Northumberland and Wor'ster,
Cov'ring foul Treason with pretence of Wrongs,
Come in his Train, and draw their Brother Peers
To aid Rebellion, and dethrone King Richard.

York.
'Twas ill advis'd, when first th' unhappy King
Set out for this too fatal Irish War,
So rashly to proclaim Northumberland
A Traytor; on Surmise he was not Sound,
Because he wou'd not send the Force requir'd,
And, by disfurnishing the Northern Castles,
Invite Invasion from th' unfriendly Scots.

Ross.
By Heav'n, it shames us that such Wrongs are born,
That great Northumberland, and many more
Of noble Blood, in this declining Land,
Must crouch to Sycophants and base-born Slaves,
Or be content to meet the King's Displeasure.

Will.
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 he most severely prosecute
Against our Lives, our Fortunes, and our Heirs.

Ross.
The Commons hath he pill'd with grievous Taxes,
The Nobles hath he fin'd on ancient Quarrels,
And daily new Exactions are devis'd,
Benevolences, and I know not what.

Will.
But what becomes of all th' extorted Treasure?

Ross.
Wars have not wasted it, for war'd he hath not;
But basely yielded upon Compremise,
What his great Ancestors atchiev'd with Blows.

Will.
Nor had he Money for this Irish War,
His burthenous Taxations notwithstanding,
But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke,
Who now will pay himself.

York.
—My Lords, my Lords,
You do forget your selves, and are too bold:
'Tis not the business of a Subject's Tongue
Rashly to censure, and traduce his King;
A thousand Flatt'rers sit within a Crown,
Sway'd by whose Councils Richard may have err'd:
But since Correction lyeth in his Hands
That did the Fault, which we cannot correct,
Put we our Quarrel to the Will of Heaven.

Ross.
And see our Rights and Royalties usurp'd,
Pluck'd from our Arms perforce, and given away
To upstart Unthrifts! To submit to This,
You cannot call it Patience, but Despair;
That which in mean Men we entitle Patience,
Is pale, cold, Cowardice in noble Breasts.

York.
I see you take Advantage from the Time,
To shew your Dispositions; and bark loud,
Because my Power is weak, and all ill-left:
I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,
But if I cou'd, by Him that gave me Life,
I wou'd attach you both, and make you stoop
Unto the Sovereign Mercy of the King.
Urge me no farther, Lords; I wou'd not be
Compell'd to exert the Rage of gasping Pow'r,
And gripe You to Destruction.—

Will.
Come, my Lord,
We, that can hear this fearful Tempest sing,
Shou'd seek a Shelter to avoid the Storm.

Exeunt Ross and Willoughby.
Sal.
They go to swell the Force of Bolingbroke.

York.
Why, let 'em go;—I wou'd, the King were come!
For Age, and Sickness, that makes Years more irksome,
Join with the Weight of Pow'r to crush me down.

Sal.
Strange Superstitions side with Hereford's Arms,
To draw the People from King Richard's Cause.
Near Bedford, late, a River stopt its Course;
In Wales, they say, the Bay-trees all are wither'd;
And Meteors fright the fixed Stars of Heav'n;
The pale-fac'd Moon looks bloody on the Earth,
And lean-look'd Prophets whisper dreadful Change:
Signs that too oft forerun the Death of Kings!

York.
Ah! Richard! with wet Eyes, and 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,
And Night-birds triumph in his known Decay.

Enter Aumerle, who kneels to York.
[Sal. to York:]
But see, the noble Duke, your Son's arriv'd.

York.
Welcome, Aumerle;—Where is our Sovereign Liege?

Aum.
King Richard comes,—And so does Bolingbroke;
Pawning his Dignity to Shouting Slaves,
By prostituted Smiles and whore-like Kindness.
O I remember, when he first was banish'd,
Such was his Courtship to the Common People;
How did he seem to dive into their Hearts,
With humble and familiar Courtesie,
And patient under-bearing of his Fortune,
As 'twere to banish their Affections with him.
With,—Thanks, my Country Men, my loving Friends,
As England then were in Reversion His,
And he the Subject's next Degree in Hope.

York.
What must we do? The Task we undertake
Is numb'ring Sands, and drinking Oceans dry.

Aum.
Proclaim we him a Traytor strait, and dare him
To prove his Loyalty by Single Combat.

York.
Your Zeal points out too dangerous a Course.

Aum.
Why dangerous, my Lord? So thrive my Soul,
I'll answer him in any fair Degree,
Or Chivalrous Design of Knightly Trial,
And put his Treasons to the Sword's Decision:
Or if he fears, I will allow him Odds;
Or meet him, were I ty'd to run a-foot,
Ev'n to the frozen Ridges of the Alps,
Or any more unhospitable Spot,
Where ever Englishman durst set his Foot,
And there make good against him, Arm to Arm,
More than I here shou'd boast of.

York.
Be advis'd:
You are too hot, I say; and push Resentment
Beyond the Level of our Common Safeties.

Aum.
Never did Captive with a freer Heart
Cast off the Chains of Bondage, and embrace
His golden, uncontrol'd Enfranchisement,
More than my dancing Soul wou'd celebrate
This Feast of Battle with my Adversary!
More welcome is the Stroke of Death to me,
Than Bolingbroke to England.—

Salis.
All that love
King Richard must, with You, dread his Arrival.

Aum.
And shall we tamely Suffer him to lord it?
Mischief o'erwhelm me, if I had not rather
Sigh out my English Breath in foreign Clouds,
Eating the bitter Bread of Banishment,
Than bow my Neck to voluntary Shame,
And court his Injuries!

York.
Let him have way;
Tell me, Aumerle, how is the King attended?

Aum.
By some few private Friends who landed with him,
Such as the Rev'rend Prelate, old Carlisle,
In Number few, but rich in Estimation,
Loyal, and far above the Summer-Flies
That gild their Vanities in Rebellion's Sunshine.

Sal.
And did the Populace, my Lord, receive him
With Shews of Love, and Willingness to aid him?

Aum.
Wou'd I were dumb upon that Theme of Baseness,
Unless I cou'd, with pestilential Breath,
Blast the ungrateful Herd that did him Wrong.
'Twas Bolingbroke they did expect to meet,
And usher in with hateful Acclamations:
But when they miss'd the Object of their Wishes,
As, in our Theatres, the Eyes of Men,
After some well-grac'd Actor leaves the Stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his Prattle to be stale and tedious:
Ev'n so, or with much more Contempt, their Eyes
Did Scowl on Richard: No Man cry'd, Heav'n save him!
No Joyful Tongue gave him his Welcome home;
But some from Windows, with unrev'rend Hands,
Threw Dust and Rubbish on his Sacred Head;
Which with such gentle Sorrow he shook off,
His Face still combating with Tears and Smiles,
That had not Heav'n for some strong Purpose steel'd
The Wretches Hearts, they must perforce have melted,
And Barbarism it Self have pity'd him.

[Trumpets within.]
York.
But, hark! those Trumpets speak the King is enter'd
The Tower-Walls: Please you, my good Lord Salisbury,
From Us to greet the Queen, and bless her Ear
With the glad Tidings of her Lord's Return.

[Exit Salisbury.]
Aum.
I hope, tho' proud Northumberland revolts,
The Beauteous Piercy still attends her Highness.

York.
She still is faithful to her Queen and Vows.
Aumerle, I'm glad to think nor absent Hours,
Nor bustling War, cou'd from thy gen'rous Breast
Erase the Mem'ry of that beauteous Maid.

Aum.
O She was born to please, and to enslave me!
By Heaven, I've found the Influence of her Name
Add Proof unto my Armour in the Fight;
And with a two-fold Vigour lift me up
To reach at Victory above my Head.
Then, when the busy Hour of War was done,
Ev'n in the dead and sullen Waste of Night,
The bare Remembrance of her beauteous Eyes
Has kindled up the Gloom, and made it gay,
And entertaining, as the Golden Beams
Of the rich Planet that adorns the Day.
But This is prattling—See, the King's at hand.

Trumpets. Enter King Richard, Bishop of Carlisle, Lords, Guards, &c.
King.
Dear Earth, I do salute Thee with my Hand,
Tho' Rebels wound Thee with their Horses Hoofs:
As a long-parted Mother from her Child,
Plays fondly with her Tears, and smiles in meeting,
So weeping, smiling, greet I Thee, my Earth,
And do Thee Favour with my Royal Hands.
Feed not thy Sovereign's Foe, my Gentle Earth,
Nor with thy Sweets comfort his rav'nous Sense:
But let thy Spiders that suck up thy Venom,
And heavy-gated Toads lye in their Way,
Doing Annoyance to the treach'rous Feet
Which with usurping Steps do trample Thee.
Yield stinging Nettles to mine Enemies,
And when they from thy Bosom pluck a Flow'r,
Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking Adder,
Whose double Tongue may with a mortal Touch
Throw Death upon thy Sovereign's Enemies.
Mock not my senseless Conjuration, Lords,
This Earth shall have a Feeling, and these Stones
Prove armed Soldiers, e'er her native King
Shall falter under foul rebellious Arms.

Carl.
Distrust not but the Power, that made you King,
Hath Pow'r to keep you so, in Spight of Rebels.

York.
My gracious Lord,—

[To the King, kneeling.]
King.
O York, when we entrusted
Our England to your Charge, I little thought
You wou'd have let the dang'rous Enemy
Measure our Confines with such peaceful Steps;
—But Bolingbroke prevails.—

Aum.
And must prevail,
If we let Leisure yield the further Means
For his Advantage, and oppose it not.

King.
Discomfortable Cousin, know'st thou not,
That when the searching Eye of Heav'n is hid,
Behind the Globe, that lights the lower World,
Then Thieves and Robbers range abroad unseen,
In Outrage, and in Murthers bloody here;
But when from under this Terrestrial Ball
He fires the proud Tops of the Eastern Pines,
And darts his Lightning thro' each guilty Hole,
Then Murthers, Treasons, and detested Crimes,
The Cloak of Night being pluck'd from off their Backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves.
So when this Thief, this Traytor Bolingbroke,
Who all this while has revel'd 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.
Enter Salisbury.
Welcome, my Lord; How far off lies your Pow'r?

Sal.
Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious Liege,
Than this weak Arm; Discomfort guides my Tongue,
And bids me speak of nothing but Despair;
O call back Yesterday, bid Time return,
And twenty thousand fighting Men are thine:
Who now, on a false Rumour of your Death,
Are all dispers'd, or fled to Bolingbroke.

Carl.
Have Comfort, Royal Sir; your Grace looks pale.—

King.
And dost thou wonder that my Colour fades?
But now the Blood of twenty thousand Soldiers
Did triumph in my Face, and they are fled.
And till so much Blood thither comes again,
Have I not reason to look pale?

Carl.
My Lord,
Remember who you are; you do discourage
What Friends are left us by this ill-tim'd Sorrow.

King.
I had forgot my self:—Am I not King?
Awake, thou sluggard Majesty, awake!
Is not the King's Name forty thousand Names?
Arm, arm, my Name! A puny Subject strikes
At thy great Glory. Look not to the Ground,
Ye Fav'rites of a King: Are we not high?
High be our Thoughts.—Aumerle, thy Face is busy,
Thy Friendship has been out upon the Wing,
To fetch some stragling Comfort to thy Prince.

Aum.
More Health and Happiness betide my Liege,
Than can my care-tun'd Tongue deliver him.

King.
My Ear is open, and my Heart prepar'd.
The worst is worldly Loss thou canst unfold:
Say, is my Kingdom lost? Why, 'twas my Care:
And what Loss is it to be rid of Care?
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as We?
Greater he shall not be;—He may be happier!
Revolt our Subjects? That we cannot mend:
They break their Faith to Heaven, as well as Us;
And, who will break with Heav'n, what Ties can bind?

Aum.
Glad am I, that your Highness is so arm'd
To bear the Tidings of Calamity.
Like an unseasonable stormy Day,
Which makes the silver Rivers drown their Shores;
So, high above his Limits, swells the Rage
Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring the fearful Land
With hard bright Steel, and Hearts more hard than Steel.
Old bearded hoary Russians arm their thin
And hairless Scalps, and Boys, with Women's Voices,
Strive to speak big, and clap their Female Joints
In stiff unweildy Arms against thy Crown.
The very Beads-men learn to bend the Bow,
And Distaff-women manage rusty Bills:
Against thy State both Old and Young combine,
And All goes worse than I have Pow'r to tell.

King.
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?
Wou'd they permit Rebellion thus to march
Upon the peaceful Bosom of our Realm,
Frighting her pale-fac'd Villages with War;
If we prevail, their Heads shall pay for it.
I warrant, They've made Peace with Bolingbroke.

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

King.
O Villains! Vipers! damn'd without Redemption!
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any Man!
Snakes, in my Heart's-blood warm'd, that sting my Heart!
Wou'd They make Peace? Terrible Hell make War
Upon their spotted Souls for this Offence!

Carl.
Sweet Love, I see, changing his Property,
Turns to the sow'rest and most deadly Hate.
Again uncurse their Souls: Their Peace is made
With Heads, and not with Hands: I learn'd but now,
(But wou'd not grieve you with the heavy Tale,)
They fell into the Snare of Bolingbroke,
And dy'd at Bristol, Victims to his Rage.

King.
O Carlisle, thou hast said enough, and brought me
Again into the Road of sweet Despair:
By Heav'n, I'll hate him everlastingly,
That bids me be of Comfort any more:
But, see! She comes, whose lovely Face has Pow'r
To charm Calamity, and sooth my Sorrows.
Enter Queen, and Lady Piercy.
Welcome, my Queen! O welcome to my Arms,
Thou Rose of Beauty! Ha!—What mean these Tears,
That heaving Bosom, and this Burst of Sorrow?

Queen.
O Richard! These are but the Remnant Drops
Of that large Stock, with which I've mourn'd thy Absence;
But my poor Heart, tho' yet I hold thee safe,
Sickens at the bad Contention of the Times,
And, Prophet-like, shakes with approaching Horrors.

King.
O let not hateful Apprehension, Sweet,
With Giant Steps stride o'er thy peaceful Thoughts,
And shock the Quiet of thy tender Soul.
Not all the Water in the rough rude Sea
Can wash the Balm from an anointed King:
The Breath of Worldly Men cannot depose
The Deputy, and Substitute of Heav'n.
For ev'ry Man that Bolingbroke has prest
To lift the Sword against our sacred Crown,
Heav'n for his Richard hath in Heav'nly Pay
Miriads of Angels; and if Angels fight,
What Mortal Force can stand th' unequal Combat?

Queen.
But if the Pow'rs, that oft withhold the Scourge,
Till we have fill'd the Measure of our Crimes,
Shou'd stretch the Hand of Indignation out,
In fierce Revenge on the Licentious Land,
And suffer Usurpation to prevail,
Thou wou'dst not chide me for my loving Fears?
O let us arm against the worst, my Lord,
And better Fate will then be doubly welcome.

King.
But wilt Thou not despise me, when I fall,
And drag thee down to share my ruin'd Fortunes?
Wilt Thou not then, in bitterness of Anguish,
Reproach me, that I drew thy helpless Youth,
From the strong Sanctuary of paternal Love,
To share the State of an unscepter'd King,
And grow acquainted with the Bed of Sorrow?

Queen.
Tho' doubly I'm ally'd to Royalty,
Daughter of France, and Wife of England's King,
I have a Soul that can look down on Pomp,
And count it the Incumbrance of my Fortune.
Thy Virtues, not thy Scepter, make thee rich:
Let me enjoy the Blessing of thy Heart,
Tho' rude Ambition rob thee of the Crown,
In Privacy I shall be still the same,
Obey thee with the Duty of a Wife,
And the Devotion of a Subject's Love.

King.
So young, and so resign'd! Thou chid'st me well,
For setting up my Rest in giddy State,
And Ostentation of despised Empire.
By Heav'n, I want no Kingdom having thee:
Let restless Spirits parcel out the Globe,
And sweat for Limit and Prerogative;
Vexing the States, in which they Monarchize,
With Starts and Tumults of ungovern'd Pride.
I here disclaim all Thrones; nor will embroil
A Nation's Safety in my doubtful Quarrel.
All you, that wou'd be safe, fly from my Side;
Crowns shall no more from Love my Thoughts divide;
Discharge my Followers, let 'em hence, away,
From Richard's Night to Bolingbroke's fair Day.

[Exeunt.