University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE, an Apartment in the Tower.
Enter Aumerle, and Salisbury.
Aum.
By Heav'n, I think the Project cannot fail;
For Bolingbroke of Arms is so enamour'd,
Invite him but to Martial Exercise,
And send a Challenge to his fluttring Son,
Young Harry Monmouth, and you may with Ease
Lead 'em, like Sumpter Horses, round the Realm.

Sal.
You do agree, that if he does consent
To go for Oxford, and to see our Triumphs;
You will begin the rough Assault of Death,
And give a Signal to our Enterprize.

Aum.
And if I do not, may my Hands rot off,
And never more brandish revengeful Steel
Over the glittering Helmet of my Foe!

Sal.
But wherefore, when Carlisle is made a Party,
And Brother Vent'rer in this great Affair,
Did you object, that he shou'd not Subscribe,
Or know the full Scope of our Article?

Aum.
Soft, my good Lord of Salsbury, weigh it thus;
Carlisle is firm to re-instate King Richard;
But had we nam'd the Death of Bolingbroke,
The squeamish Churchman might, perhaps, have started,
And made some Scruples to imbark in Blood.
Then had we lost the Countenance of his Name,
Whose Rev'rence may hereafter give a Sanction,
And upright Comment to the Deed when done.

Sal.
I cry your Mercy, 'twas most fairly constru'd;
And is a Caution, that may much befriend us.

Aum.
But this same Duke of Exeter is slow,
And wants some spurring, or his Spirit sleeps:
Good my Lord, go, and rouze his slumb'ring Virtue:
For Me, my Breast, like Ætna, is on Fire,
And labours to throw out the blazing Ruin.

Sal.
I'll instantly solicite him to Haste:
Heav'n in our good Cause make us prosperous!

Aum.
Strong as a Tow'r in Hope, I cry, Amen!
Exit Salisbury at one Door, and Aumerle going out at the other, meets Lady Piercy.
The beauteous Piercy! O thou injur'd Maid!
Justly thou dost upbraid me with thy Eyes;
Let Indignation throw out all its Terrors;
See, Conscience sits in Blushes on my Face,
Owning my Guilt: It throws me at your Feet,
Like a poor Sinner at the last dread Hour,
Longing, and yet despairing of a Pardon.

Piercy.
My Lord, my Bosom swells with no Resentments,
Or treasures None, at least, against your Grace.
If you did wrong me, 'twas your Passion's Fault;
Which now looks back with Shame on its Offence,
And might reproach me, did I not forgive.

Aum.
I thank you; but, no more! Let me remember,
You did forbid me to discourse of Love,
And I must now be dumb: My Tongue, that once
Was licens'd to repeat your Name with Transport,
Is now become like to an Instrument
Of wond'rous Musick, put into his Hands
That knows no Touch to tune its Harmony.

Piercy.
Trust me, I share with you in this Distress;
Witness these streaming Eyes, this bleeding Heart:
But 'tis a dreadful thing to be divorc'd
From the dear Blessing of Paternal Love,
And earn an angry Father's dying Curses.

Aum.
Is it not dreadful too, when I had form'd
The Model of my Thoughts for big Delight,
When I had promis'd my exulting Soul
That Piercy wou'd be mine, the darling Treasure
Of all my Joys, the Softner of my Cares,
The Triumph of my Youth, and Age's Comfort,
Then to be dash'd at once from all my Hopes,
And have the Harvest of my Love o'erthrown,
And wither'd by a Tempest unforeseen?

Pier.
The Times may change, and the relenting Soul
Of stern Northumberland consent to bless us.
Tho' yet Obedience lay this strict Restraint,
And dire Necessity withhold my Hand,
Think, to delude the Rigour of our Fate,
My Heart has seal'd me in Reversion yours.

Aum.
O who can hold a Fire within his Hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus;
Or cloy the hungry Edge of Appetite,
By bare Imagination of a Feast?
The Apprehension of the Good, we want,
Gives but the stronger Feeling to the Worse:
The Times may change, they may, my lovely Piercy,
And I demand thee of thy cruel Father:
O! may I hope, shou'd Danger call me forth,
That Thou with Pray'rs wilt steel my Lance's Point,
Make swift my keen and executing Sword,
That it may fall, like Thunder, on the Head
Of my amaz'd, pernicious, Enemy?

Pier.
Why do you start me with the Name of Danger?
And yet if in the Royal Richard's Cause
The Sword of War is drawn, I must resign you;
I know, you will be foremost in that Quarrel.
But I, with supplicating Tears, will bribe
Each Guardian Pow'r to hover round your Head,
And screen you in the dreadful Ranks of Death.

Aum.
Thus I embrace the Omen of Success;
Thus, kneeling, pay the Tribute of my Thanks:
[Aum. pulling out his Handkerchief; drops a Parchment:
Ha! whence these Drops of Blood? why shake my Knees,
As ev'ry Nerve were instantly unbrac'd?
But, Superstition; Thou and I are Strangers;
Converse with Women, droning Priests, and Cowards;
'Tis injur'd Majesty unsheaths our Swords,
And Heav'n and Piercy are on Richard's Side.

Pier.
Alas! my Lord, I fear we are surpriz'd!
Behold, my Father this way bends his Steps:
O lead me from the Terror of his Brow.
My Heart is conscious that I have neglected
His awful Charge, and shudders at his Presence.

[Exit Piercy led by Aumerle.
Enter Northumberland, and Exton.
North.
Exton, did not our Daughter part from hence,
And with Aumerle?

Exton.
My Lord, I mark'd them not.

North.
No Matter; if She dares oppose my Will,
The Curse of Disobedience be her Portion!
But You were saying, that our Royal Master
Did throw out some dark Words with deep Concern.

Ext.
My Lord, but now I did attend his Grace,
Who seem'd most thoughtful and dissatisfy'd;
When, with a deep-fetch'd Groan, Have I, said He,
No Friend, will rid me of this living Fear?
Those were his very Words, Have I no Friend?
And, as he spoke, he wistly look'd on Me,
As who shou'd say, I wou'd, Thou wert the Man,
That wou'd divorce this Terror from my Heart.

North.
Methinks, it were not difficult t' expound
The Riddle of his Fears, or at what Price
Your self may raise your low, and abject, Fortunes.

Ext.
My Lord, 'tis worth a Thought.

North.
—You judge it well.
Exton, what Parchment's that?—

[Exton takes up the Parchment, and gives it to Northumberland]
Exton.
—The Means I know,
Whereby I might be great: 'Tis Richard's Blood
Alone secures Repose to Bolingbroke:
O that the Deed were good! Or, that my Thoughts
Wou'd shake off timerous and nice Regards,
I have a Soul that swells with big Desires,
And points me out the Road to sweet Reward.

North.
O heinous, strong, and bold Conspiracy!
Exton, this Writing is of dear Account:
See, that the Guard on Richard strait be doubled;
If he escapes, your Lives will answer it.
Fate, thou art kind! Aumerle, whom most I fear'd,
By This is fall'n into the Snares of Death;
And Piercy's Heart henceforth will be at Rest.
The Queen, and York!—My Business lies else where.
[Exit Northumberland.

Enter Queen, and Duke of York.
Queen.
Uncle, for Heav'n's sake speak some Words of Comfort.

York.
Comfort's in Heav'n, and We are on the Earth,
Where nothing lives but Crosses, Care, and Grief.
Your Husband is depos'd; the Regal State
Transferr'd to Bolingbroke: His Friends advanc'd;
And who are not so, brow-beat, and degraded;
Richard is but a Pris'ner now at large,
Guarded by Spies, and base informing Slaves,
Who watch Occasions to report with Malice,
And rise but by industrious Villany.

Queen.
Nimble Mischance! that art so light of Foot,
Does not thy Embassage belong to Me,
And am I last that knows it? O thou think'st
To serve me last, that I may longest keep
Thy Sorrow in my Breast. But did you say
My Richard was depos'd, torn from the Throne,
And made a Pris'ner?

York.
Little Joy have I
To breath these News; yet what I said, is true:
My Son Aumerle too is disgrac'd, suspected,
And frown'd at, but for being Richard's Friend:
I am in Parliament Pledge for his Truth,
And lasting Fealty to this Bolingbroke.

Queen.
Who are the Violets then, that strew the Lap
Of this new Spring? But what imports it Me?
I have no more to do with Courts and Fav'rites:
Courts are the Seats of Sorrow, and Unrest,
Where big Disquiet sits inshrin'd in State,
And deals out Torments in the Shape of Greatness.

York.
See, your disconsolate, heart-wounded Lord,
With folded Arms, and down cast Eyes, approaches.

Enter King Richard.
Queen.
How my fair Rose is wither'd with the Storm!
That Pity cou'd dissolve me to a Dew,
And wash him fresh again with true Love Tears!
Thou Map of Honour! Thou King Richard's Tomb,
And not King Richard! O my ruin'd Lord,
Raise from the Earth thy sick and heavy Eyes
And look upon me with a Beam of Comfort.

King.
If thou dost love me, do not speak of Comfort,
Let's talk of Graves, of Worms, and Epitaphs;
Make Dust our Paper, and with rainy Eves
Write Sorrow in the Bosom of the Earth.
Let's chuse 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.

Queen.
Fate yet may mend, and a glad Hour succeed
These sullen Frowns of stern Calamity.
Do not despair,—

King.
Why, who shall hinder me?
I will despair, and be at Enmity
With coz'ning Hope; he is a Flatterer,
A Parasite, a keeper back of Death;
Who gently wou'd dissolve the Bands of Life,
Which false Hopes linger out for new Afflictions.

York.
My gracious Liege, I hope your Majesty
Does, in your Apprehension, paint your Woe
In stronger Colours than the Cause requires.
Each Substance of a Grief has twenty Shadows,
Which shew like Grief it self yet are not so:
For Sorrow's Eye, glaz'd o'er with blinding Tears,
Divides one Object into many Forms:
So Fancy often, in the Mind's Presentment,
Finds Shapes of Grief, more than we need to wail!

King.
Uncle of York, I pray thee, good old Man,
For Thou canst have the Ear of Bolingbroke,
Go to him; and, in ruin'd Richard's Name,
Beg, he will suffer poor Carlisle t' attend me.

York.
Conclude it granted, and Ought else, my Liege,
That may contribute to asswage your Sorrow:
Learn to forget Afflictions, and believe,
You're still a King.
Exit York.

King.
Oh! that I were as great
As are my Griefs, or less than is my Name!
Or that I could forget what I have been,
Or not remember what I must be now!
Alas! my Queen, this is a dismal Day;
Thou must to France, my Love, and leave thy Richard;
There cloister thee in some religious House,
Thy Holy Life will purchase us a Crown,
Which no usurping Hand can snatch away.

Queen.
What, is my Richard both in Shape and Mind
Transform'd, and weaken'd? Has proud Bolingbroke,
Depos'd thy Spirit? Has he been in thy Heart?
The Lyon, dying, strugleth with his Pains,
And wounds the Earth, if nothing else, with Rage
To be o'er-power'd: And wilt Thou, who hast born
The Stamp and awful Character of King,
Take thy Correction mildly, kiss the Rod,
And fawn on Rage with base Humility?

King.
'Tis Heav'n that hath a Hand in these Events,
To whose high Will we must submit our Passions.
Had I been minded to have stood on Terms,
I might, with Friends at home, and foreign Aid,
Have rais'd a dang'rous and a doubtful War;
Laid waste this flourishing and prosp'rous Land,
And rear'd my Greatness on the Subject's Ruin.
But, to my Thought, the Crown it self retriev'd
At such a Price were Sacrilegious Gain.

Queen.
Alas! my Richard, little did I mean
To raise the Spirit of Contention up;
I urg'd thee but to be a King in Soul,
Not reassume the Toils of Regal Pow'r.
Call forth your Vertues, rise above your Griefs,
Let Bolingbroke enjoy the Crown he sought,
But let not the descanting Vulgar think,
Those Virtues, which adorn'd thee as a Prince,
Were link'd to the Possession of the Throne.

King.
Excellent Creature! O my Isabella,
Thy Words with strong Persuasion seize my Mind,
Like Harmony, that wounds the Air with Sweetness,
Piercing my Ear, they sink into my Soul.
O my fair Counsellor! Thou Mine of Comfort!
Be ever near my Heart; and, when I lose thee,
Fate in that dreadful Hour undo my Being!
Believe me, Love, the World's Ingratitude
Hangs with the Weight of Years upon my Frame.
Here let us rest, if this rebellious Earth
Have any Resting for her Sovereign's Griefs.

Queen.
Alas! this Place can yield us no Repose;
For Bolingbroke approaches—

King.
Does the Tyrant
Come, like the wand'ring Spectre of the Night,
To break upon our quiet Hours of Life?
Let us avoid: His Glories, now too bright
For my weak Eye-balls, pain the aking Sight.

[Exeunt.
Enter Bolingbroke, Ross, and Willoughby.
Bol.
Our gloomy Cousin doth decline our Presence,
As if, because we by the Peoples Voice,
And his Consent, stand vested of the Crown,
We were his Enemy, and meant him ill.

Ross.
There is a little Avarice, my Lord,
Planted in humane Breasts, which makes us quit
Ev'n with Regret the Things we cannot hold:
And thence we view, with a malignant Eye,
The Heirs that rise upon our ruin'd Fortunes.

Enter Northumberland hastily.
Bol.
What means our Cousin, that he looks so wildly,
And whence this Haste? Tell us how near is Danger,
That we may arm Us to encounter it

North.
Peruse this Writing, and instruct your Self.
[Giving Bolingbroke the Parchment]
Is it not monstrous, in a Land like This,
Where Justice for the Subject holds the Scales,
That harden'd Wretches shou'd, with impious Schemes,
Labour t' o'erturn the destin'd Work of Heav'n?—

Bol.
A Dozen of them here have deeply sworn,
And interchangeably have set their Hands,
To murder Me at Oxford.—

Will.
—Horrid Treason!

Enter Duke of York.
Bol.
York, there is foul Conspiracy abroad.
What wou'd your Grace advise against such Men,
As, by seal'd Compact, with assassine Hands
Presume t' attempt our Life?

York.
—What less than Death?
Death, in the ugly'st Form the Law can warrant.
Mercy itself would here be Criminal,
And lend it's Countenance to future Treasons.

Bol.
Strait let a Guard secure the Lord Aumerle.

York.
What means your Grace? How has my Son offended?

Bol.
Read there, and judge of his unnat'ral Guilt.
Seize Suffolk, Exeter, and Salisbury,
With all the rest of the consorted Crew;
Destruction strait shall dog them at the Heels.
Uncle, ev'n in the Glasses of thy Eyes
I see thy troubled Heart; but He must die.—

York.
A heavy Sentence, my most Sov'reign Liege,
And all unlook'd for from your Highness Mouth.

Bol.
Thy Son is sentenc'd upon good Advice,
Whereto thy Tongue, unknowing, gave a Verdict:
Why at our Justice do'st thou then repine?

York.
Things, sweet to Taste, are in Digestion sow'r:
You urg'd me as a Judge, as Such I spoke,
But, as a Father, I unsay that Sentence:
His Heart was not confed'rate with his Hand.

Bol.
It must be, e're his Hand did set it down.

York.
See, Nature pleading in an old Man's Griefs,
Bending the Knee, that never yet was bent
To Mortal Pow'r in vain: I sue for Mercy.—

Bol.
Uncle, forbear: You do forget your Self:
Mercy it self would here be Criminal,
And lend its Countenance to future Treasons!
Stand up, old Man.

York.
—Nay, do not say, stand up;
But pardon first, or I must grow to Earth:
He prays but faintly, that will be deny'd.

Bol.
Lose not a Pray'r, York, in so bad a Cause:
Were he our Brother, nay, our Kingdom's Heir,
Think not, That Nearness to our sacred Blood
Should priviledge such Crimes, or partialize
Th' unstooping Firmness of my upright Soul.

York.
O rigid, and inexorable Prince!
Join with the present Sickness that I have,
And thy Unkindness be like crooked Age,
To crop at once a too-long wither'd Flow'r.

Bol.
Forget him, as the Blemish of your Race,
You may have many happy Years to come.

York.
But not a Moment, King, that Thou canst give.
Shorten my Days thou may'st with sudden Sorrow,
And pluck Nights from me, but not lend an Hour:
O Richard! Thou had'st heard thy Kinsman's Voice,
Thou wert all Sweetness, mild as pitying Heav'n,
That waits but for our Sorrow to forgive!
But we contemn'd thy Mildness:—'Wou'd, we find not
With greater Courage greater Cruelty!

Bol.
Be dumb;—

York.
Old York is too far gone with Grief,
Or else he never had compar'd between.

Bol.
Convey him to his Chamber, there to dote,
And exercise his frozen Admonition:
Cousin Northumberland,—

North.
—Impute his Words
To wayward Sickliness, and Age in him;
'Tis his Grief speaks: He loves you, on my Life.

[Exeunt Bol. and North.
York.
Not all the Trials of my changing Life
Could ever make me sow'r my patient Cheek,
Or bend one Wrinkle on my Sov'reign's Face:
But This turns the Complection of my Faith,
And pricks my tender Patience to those Thoughts,
Which Honour and Allegiance dread to think.
Is He then gone? And poor Aumerle must dye!
Why do I live to know it? Stubborn Heart,
Can neither Pride, nor Sorrow, crack thy Strings?

[Exeunt.