University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE, an Apartment before the King's Closet.
Carlisle and Salisbury meeting.
Sal.
Good Morning, my good Lord; how fares the King?

Carl.
Why just like one, my Lord, whom tardy Custom
Has sunk too long in riotous Excess:
Now the sick Hour's come that his Surfeits made,
He with a forc'd Severity reproaches
The Lux'ry of his late ungovern'd Conduct.

Sal.
Unhappy Prince! Old Gaunt did prophesy
His rash fierce Blaze of Riot cou'd not last;
For violent Fires do soon burn out themselves.
His Court was fill'd with Praises of his State,
And baneful Flatt'ries; to whose venom Sound
The open Ear of Youth does always listen.

Carl.
And Counsel evermore is heard too late,
Where Will doth mutiny 'gainst wiser Reason.
Is Bolingbroke return'd?

Sal.
But now, my Lord.

Carl.
I cannot reason, why he thro' the City
Shou'd make this pompous Cavalcade.—

Sal.
—'Tis thought,
'Twas done to please, and to disperse the People,
Who throng'd with a tumultuous Zeal to see him:
For Crowds, like Rivers, when they flow too strong,
Must e'en be sluic'd into divided Channels,
Or swell above their Banks.

Carl.
Were you, my Lord,
Spectator of the Pageantry?

Sal.
I was,
And saw his Triumph with a grudging Eye.
Mounted upon a hot and fiery Steed,
Which his aspiring Rider seem'd to know,
With slow, but stately Pace, he rode along;
While all Tongues cry'd, Heav'n save thee, Bolingbroke!
You wou'd have thought the very Windows spoke,
So many greedy Looks of Young and Old,
Thro' Casements, darted their desiring Eyes
Upon his Visage; and that all the Walls,
With painted Imag'ry, had said at once,
The Heav'ns preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke!
While He, from one Side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud Steed's Neck,
Bespoke them thus; I thank you, Countrymen:
And, thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

Carl.
Our Master shortly will be but a Name,
The Cypher of himself; for Bolingbroke
Will ease him of th'administrating Pow'r.

Sal.
He has begun to play the Prince already,
And issu'd Writs out, in King Richard's Name,
Convening all the Lords in Town, forthwith,
To make a Parliament here in the Tower.
Where Mem'ry, ever faithful to Revenge,
Will rouze up Motives in proud Bolingbroke,
To work the Fate of All, whom he suspects
But voted to promote his Banishment.

Carl.
Think you, this hot Convention will proceed
T' affect the Crown, and to depose King Richard?

Sal.
Depress'd He is already, and depos'd,
'Tis doubted, he will be; What can prevent?—
His Northern Castles are all yielded up,
And all the Southern Gentlemen in Arms
Upon the Faction of this Bolingbroke;
And with these Odds he weighs King Richard down.
Does my Friend purpose to attend the Court?

Carl.
Else Heav'n forbid! Believe me, noble Lord,
I wou'd not have it said in after Age,
That Carlisle, when the Times look'd frowningly,
Did shrink from Danger, and decline his Duty.

Sal.
The Closet opens, and the King comes forth;
How full of careful Business are his Looks!
Let us withdraw; it may displease him much
To be surpriz'd, when he has chose Retirement.

Exeunt Salsbury and Carlisle.
Enter King Richard.
King.
My Brain's disorder'd, and the sick'ning Soul
Starts at the Objects of its own Creation:
While Recollection sets before my View
A thousand Stories of the Death of Kings:
How Some have been depos'd, Some slain in War,
Some haunted by the Ghosts they have depos'd,
Some poison'd by their Wives, Some sleeping kill'd,
All murther'd—For within the hollow Crown,
That rounds the mortal Temples of a King,
Keeps Death his Court; and there the Antick fits,
Scoffing his State, and grinning at his Pomp;
Allowing him a Breath, a little Scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with Looks;
Infusing him with self and vain Conceit,
As if this Flesh, which walls about our Life,
Were Brass impregnable; and humour'd thus,
Comes at the Last, and with his potent Dart
Strikes thro' the Soul of brittle Majesty.

Enter Queen.
Queen.
What have I done, O Richard? For what Crime
Am I neglected, that no more you meet me
With wonted Tenderness, and young Desire;
No more embrace me in the Arms of Love?
How is it with you, Sir, that you do chuse
To hold Discourse with baneful Solitude,
And Thought, the dire Companions of Distress,
And care-incumber'd Minds? You are not well;
Your languid Eyes confess some inward Pain,
That preys upon your Heart, and racks your Soul.

King.
Join not with Grief, fair Creature, do not so,
To make my End too sudden. Learn, my Love,
To think our former State a happy Dream,
From which awak'd, the Truth of what we are,
Shews us but This:—I am sworn Brother, Sweet,
To grim Necessity, and He and I
Must keep a League till Death.

Queen.
Admit Me too
Into this Partnership of lasting Sorrow:
I will be wondrous faithful to Despair,
And copy Sadness from your Looks and Gesture.
Sit silent as the Night, and mingle Tears,
Count Sigh for Sigh, and answer ev'ry Groan.
I have a Heart dispos'd to welcome Grief,
Some unborn Sorrow, ripe in Fortune's Womb,
Is coming towards me, and my inward Soul
Trembles and shudders at the threaten'd Woe.

King.
These are Convulsions of too strong Conceit,
Thy Fondness working on thy Woman's Weakness:
Love is a Being made of Hopes and Fears,
Soothing us with imaginary Joys,
And giving real Pain from fancy'd Terrors.

Queen.
Mine may be but the Shadow of a Grief,
Like other Shadows, not to be divorc'd
From the strong Source, and Substance, whence it springs!
My lab'ring Heart is anxious but for You;
Your Safety gives it this Alarm of Fear;
It beats, and throbs with a tumultuous Motion,
As it wou'd warn me of approaching Danger.

King.
Torment not thy poor Breast; all will be well.
Alas! Thou weep'st, my tender-hearted Love;
We'll make foul Weather with despised Tears;
They, and our Sighs shall lodge the Summer Corn,
And make a Dearth in this revolting Land.

Queen.
But let us leave this ill-erected Tower;
A thousand Terrors fill the hideous Place,
And grisly Death broods on its flinty Bosom:
Here Apprehension takes the part of Grief,
And starts me from the peaceful Arms of Sleep.

King.
Harbour no Fears; the Business of my Life
Shall be but to requite your Love. How now?—

Enter Lieutenant of the Tower.
Lieut.
The Lord Northumberland attends your Pleasure.

King.
'Tis well:—

Queen.
O there again my Fears return;
I shudder at the Sight of that proud Man:
Why does He come?

King.
I sent for him, my Love: Nay, be not Sad:
Thy Smiles, like Sun-Shine that dispels the Clouds,
Will make the Fates asham'd to low'r upon us.
Tho' Sorrow may be proud to be thy Guest,
Yet trust it not; for, like a treach'rous Friend,
Twill sooth but to betray, and blast thy Beauties.

Exeunt.
SCENE changes to a large Hall.
A Throne at the Upper End.
Bolingbroke, Ross, Willoughby, York, Aumerle, Carlisle, Salisbury, &c. discover'd as in Parliament.
Bol.
This I have urg'd the more at large, to shew you,
'Twas not to vindicate a private Wrong,
Or, on a desperate Discontent, to put
The King in Fear, the Kingdom in a Flame,
Or with ambitious Purpose for the Crown,
I ventur'd to set Footing on the Realm:
But, lest you shou'd surmize that I have open'd
The Flaws of Government, and charg'd Mis-rule,
Rather with Malice than Regard to Truth,
'Tis meet we trace some Matters to their Proof.
Call forth Sir Pierce of Exton.
Enter Exton.
Now declare
What thou do'st know of noble Gloster's Death:
Who wrought it with the King, and who perform'd
The bloody Office of his timeless End.

Exton.
Then set before my Face the Lord Aumerle.

Bol.
Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that Man.

Aum.
This is Confed'racy! Does his Ambition
Follow the Scent of Blood so hot already?

Ext.
My Lord Aumerle, I know, your daring Tongue
Scorns to unsay what it hath once deliver'd.
In that dead time, when Glo'ster's Death was plotted,
I heard you say, Is not my Arm of Length,
That reacheth from the restful English Court
So far as Calais, to my Uncle's Head?
Amongst much other Talk, that very Time,
You likewise said you rather wou'd refuse
The Offer of a hundred thousand Crowns,
Than Bolingbroke shou'd e'er return to England;
Adding withal, how blest this Land might be,
Were He but Dead.—

Aum.
Princes, and noble Lords,
What Answer shall I make to this base Man?
Yet can I not of such tame Patience boast,
As to be hush'd, and nought at all to say.
Shall I so much dishonour my fair Stars,
On equal Terms to give him Chastisement?
Either I must, or have my Honour spoil'd
With the Attainder of his sland'rous Lips.
There is my Gage; and, in King Richard's Name,
I challange Law, and do demand the Combat.

Bol.
Exton, forbear; you shall not take it up.

Aum.
Setting aside his high Blood's Royalty,
And let him be no Kinsman to my Liege,
I wou'd he were the best in all this Presence,
Hath mov'd me so.—

Sal.
My Lord,—

York.
Aumerle, be patient.

Aum.
I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and scandaliz'd;
Pierc'd to the Soul with Slander's venom'd Spear,
The which no Balm can cure, but his Heart's Blood,
Who breath'd this Poison,

Bol.
Exton, wait without:
Cousin Aumerle, you shall have Justice done you:
This Difference shall rest, till stiller Times
Give Scope, and Leisure to debate the Question.

Enter Northumberland.
North.
Great Duke of Lancaster, to You I come
From Royal Richard, who with willing Soul
Adopts you Heir, and his high Scepter yields
To the Possession of your gracious Hand:
Ascend the Throne, descending now from him,
And long live Henry, of that Name the Fourth.

Ross.
With Joy we tender to your Grace our Homage.

Carl.
Worst in this Royal Presence may I speak,
Yet best beseems it me to speak the Truth.
Let us not, Lords, infringe and overturn
The sacred Laws with this ungovern'd Heat.
What Subject can give Sentence on his King?
And who sits here that is not Richard's Subject?
Thieves are not judg'd, but they are by to hear,
Altho' apparent Guilt be seen in them;
And shall the Figure of Heav'n's Majesty,
His Captain, Steward, and Deputy elect,
Anointed, crown'd, and planted many Years,
Be judg'd by Subjects, and inferior Breath,
And he himself not present? O forbid it,
That, in a Christian Climate, Souls refin'd
Shou'd shew so heinous and so black a Deed.

Will.
You know, my Lord, if Richard be depos'd,
It is no Precedent with us in England.

Carl.
What if it be no Precedent, my Lord,
We are to live by Law, and not Example.
But, granting Royal Richard were depos'd,
What Claim has Lancaster to wear the Crown?
All his Pretence must be by Right of Conquest;
'Tis a bad Argument will take no Colour,
What Conquest can a Subject make, where War
Is Insurrection, and the Victory Treason?

North.
Well have you argu'd, Sir, and for your Pains
Of Capital Treason we arrest you here.

Carl.
Death cannot fright me, Lords; I have declar'd
My Judgment with more Words, perhaps, than Wisdom,
But not so many as the Cause requires.
I speak to Subjects, and a Subject speaks,
Stir'd up by Heav'n thus boldly for his King:
My Lord of Hereford here, whom You call King,
Has heavily transgress'd against the Realm,
And, if you Crown him, let me prophecy,
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 War
Shall Kin with Kin, and Kind with Kind, confound;
Disorder, Horror, Fear and Mutiny
Shall here inhabit, and this cursed Earth
Be subject to th' avenging Wrath of Heav'n.
I have discharg'd my Duty, Lords, and leave it
To your good Consciences, and better Wisdoms.
[Exit Carlisle.

North.
Bid the Lieutenant let a Guard attend him,
Till the Lords Pleasures shall be farther known.
Please it your Grace, the Commons think it fit,
Richard be sent for, that in common View
He may Surrender.

Bol.
Let it then be so.

York.
It wou'd beseem the Lord Northumberland
To say King Richard.

North.
Only to be brief
Left I his Title out.

York.
The Time has been,
Shou'd you have been so brief with him, my Lord,
He wou'd have shorten'd you the whole Head's Length.

Bol.
Mistake not, Uncle, farther than you shou'd.

York.
Take not, good Cousin, farther than you shou'd;
Lest you mistake,—the Heav'ns are o'er your Head.

Bol.
I do not, Uncle, nor oppose my Self
Against their Will; but do not let us jarr,
Nor foil our Dignities with course Contention,
Wrangling like Robbers, that in drunken Broils
Divide the Spoil of their illegal Earning.

North.
The King,—

Enter King Richard Crown'd, and in Robes.
Aum.
There is a Gloom about his Brows:
So looks the blushing discontented Sun,
When he perceives the envious Clouds are bent
To dim the Glory of his radiant Progress.

King.
Why am I sent for to attend a King,
Before I have shook off the Regal Thoughts
With which I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd
T' insinuate, flatter, crouch, and bend the Knee;
Give Sorrow Leave a while to reconcile me
To base Submission: I will strive with Pride,
And rein the stubborn Passions to Obedience.
To do what Service am I sent for hither?

North.
To do that Office, of your own free Will,
Which tired Majesty did make you offer;
The Resignation of your State, and Crown,
To Henry Bolingbroke.

King.
Here, Cousin, seize the Crown: Call your Desires
Forth to your Arm, and wrest it from my Gripe.

Bol.
I thought, you had been willing to resign.

King.
My Crown, I am; but take not Honour from me:
I dread that Shame shou'd live upon my Grave,
And base Records reproach my blushing Name,
That I, with abject Willingness of Heart,
Poorly submitted to unking my Self.

Bol.
Are you contented to resign the Crown?

King.
Ay, no;—No, ay;—I have a War within:
Irresolution fights with my Intent,
And gives this Pause, and Respite from Disgrace.
Yet mark me, how I will undo my self.
I give this heavy Diadem from my Head,
And this unwieldy Scepter from my Hand,
The Pride of Kingly Sway from out my Heart;
With my own Tongue deny my Sacred State,
With my own Breath release all dutious Oaths;
All Pomp and Majesty I do forswear;
My Mannors, Rents, Revenues, I forego;
My Acts, Decrees, and Statutes, I deny;
Heav'n pardon ev'ry Oath is broke to Me,
And keep unbroke each Vow they make to You.
Long may'st Thou live in Richard's Seat to sit;
And soon lye Richard in his peaceful Grave.
What more remains?—

North.
No more; but that you read
These Accusations, and this List of Crimes,
Committed by your Person, and your Followers,
Against the State, and Profit of the Land:
That, by confessing them, the Souls of Men
May deem that you are worthily depos'd.

King.
Break Heart! Split Brain!—Sweet Heav'n! It is too much,
Too much for Mortal Man to bear, and live!
Must I do This? And must I ravel out
My weav'd up Follies? Gentle Northumberland,
If thy Offences were upon Record,
Wou'd it not shame thee in so fair a Troop
To read a Lecture of them? If thou did'st,
There should'st thou find One heinous Article,
Containing the Deposing of a King,
And cracking the strong Warrant of an Oath,
Mark'd with a Blot, damn'd in the Book of Heav'n.—
Nay, All of You that stand and look upon me,
Whilst that my Wretchedness doth bait my Self,
Tho' Some of you with Pilate wash your Hands,
Shewing an outward Pity, yet you'll find
That Water cannot wash away your Sin.

North.
My Lord, dispatch; read o'er these Articles.

King.
My Eyes are full of Tears, I cannot see;
And yet Salt Water blinds them not so much,
But they can see a Set of Traytors here.
Nay, if I turn my Eyes upon my Self,
I find my Self a Traytor with the rest.
For I have giv'n here my Soul's Consent,
T' undeck the pompous Body of a King;
Made Glory base, a Sovereign a Slave,
Proud Majesty a Subject, State a Peasant.

North.
My Lord,—

King.
No Lord of thine, insulting Man;
Nor no Man's Lord; I have no Name, no Title,
Not ev'n the Name was giv'n me at the Font;
But 'tis usurp'd.—O dreadful Revolution,
That I have worn so many Winters out,
And know not now what Name to call my Self!
If that my Word be Sterling yet in England,
Let it command a Mirror hither strait:
[Sals. goes out.]
That it may shew me what a Face I have,
Since it is Bankrupt of it's Majesty.

Nor.
Read o'er this Paper, while the Glass doth come.

King.
Fiend, thou torment'st me.

Bol.
—Urge it not, my Lord.

North.
The Commons will not then be satisfy'd.

King.
They shall be satisfy'd: I'll read enough,
When I do see the very Book indeed,
Where all my Sins are writ, and that's My Self.
Re-enter Salsbury, with a Glass.
Give me that Glass, and therein will I read.
No deeper Wrinkles yet? Has Sorrow struck
So many Blows upon this Face of mine,
And made no deeper Wounds? O flattering Glass!
Like to my Followers in Prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me.—Was this the Monarch's Face
That ev'ry Day under his household Roof
Did keep ten thousand Men? Was this the Face
That, like the Sun, did make Beholders wink?
A brittle Glory shineth in this Face;
And brittle as the Glory is the Face;
[Breaks the Glass against the Ground.
For there it is, crack'd in an hundred pieces.

Bol.
The Shadow of your Sorrow has destroy'd
The Shadow of your Face.

King.
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 meerly Shadows to the unseen Grief,
That swells with Silence in the tortur'd Soul.
There lies the Substance; and I thank thee, King,
For thy great Bounty, that not only giv'st me
Cause to lament, but teachest me the way
How to lament the Cause. I've but one Suit,
And then I'll go, and trouble you no more.

Bol.
Name it, Fair Cousin, and call it a Command.

King.
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 give me Leave to go.—

Bol.
Whither, my Lord?

King.
Whither you will, so I were from your Sights:
I'll fly all Commerce, all Discourse with Men;
Steal to some Desart, couch with Snakes and Adders;
Or make my Bed upon a rocky Shore,
Where dashing Billows, and the whistling Winds
Shall hush my Sorrows with a louder Tempest.
[Exit King.

Bol.
Uncle of York, attend his Majesty.
Enter Exton.
Exton, your Ear: Have Eye upon our Guard;
See, they attend the King, and watch him close.
Our Crown, at best, hangs on a slender Thread
In Richard's Life; but if he scape our Hands,
Danger and Dissolution will o'erwhelm us.
Lords, you shall hear, as we do farther need you:
Cousin Northumberland, come You with us.

Exeunt Bol. North. Ross, Will. &c.
Manent Aumerle, and Salisbury.
Sal.
A woful Pageant have we here beheld.

Aum.
O Salisbury, I do fear the Woe's to come.
I see your Brow is full of Discontent,
Your Heart of Sorrow, and your Eyes of Tears.
Is there no great Expedient to be found,
How we may shake this Yoak of Bondage off,
Imp out our drooping Country's broken Wing,
Set a new Lustre on the blemish'd Crown,
And make high Majesty look like it Self?

Sal.
If you wou'd aid the Cause of Royal Richard,
Set on, and Salisbury shall go hand in hand,
In Ought you can devise or execute.

Aum.
Nobly resolv'd!—O we will make a League,
Shou'd shake the Counsels of united Monarchs.
The unborn Scheme swells my distended Breast,
And labours to be ripen'd into Form.

Exeunt.