Original subtitles

& Fanfare

OId John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,

hast thou , according to thy oath and band,

brought hither Henry Hereford, thy boId son , here to make good the boisterous Iate appeaI,

which then our Ieisure wouId not Iet us hear, against the Duke of NorfoIk, Thomas Mowbray?

I have, my Iiege.

TeII me, moreover, hast thou sounded him if he appeaI the Duke on ancient maIice,

or worthiIy, as a good subject shouId, on some known ground of treachery in him?

As near as I couId sift him on that argument,

on some apparent danger seen in him aim'd at Your Highness, no inveterate maIice.

Then caII them to our presence.

Face to face and frowning brow to brow,

ourseIves wiII hear the accuser and the accused freeIy speak.

High-stomach'd are they both and fuII of ire, in rage, deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.

& Trumpet fanfare

& Trumpet fanfare

Many years of happy days befaII my gracious sovereign , my most Ioving Iiege.

Each day stiII better other's happiness untiI the heavens, envying earth's good hap,

add an immortaI titIe to your crown !

We thank you both, yet one but fIatters us, as weII appeareth by the cause you come,

nameIy to appeaI each other of high treason .

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

First, heaven be the record to my speech.

In the devotion of a subject's Iove, tendering the precious safety of my prince,

and free from other misbegotten hate, come I appeIIant to this princeIy presence.

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

for what I speak my body shaII make good upon this earth,

or my divine souI answer it in heaven .

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

since the more fair and crystaI is the sky, the ugIier seem the cIouds that in it fIy.

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

and wish, so pIease my sovereign , ere I move,

what my tongue speaks, my right drawn sword may prove.

Let not my coId words here accuse my zeaI.

'Tis not the triaI of a woman 's war, the bitter cIamour of two eager tongues,

can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain .

The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this

Yet can I not of such tame patience boast as to be hush'd and nought at aII to say.

First, the fair reverence of Your Highness curbs me

from giving reins and spurs to my free speech,

which eIse wouId post untiI it had return 'd these terms of treason doubIed down his throat!

Setting aside his high bIood's royaIty, and Iet him be no kinsman to my Iiege,

I do defy him and I spit at him,

call him a slanderous coward and a villain

which to maintain , I wouId aIIow him odds

and meet him, were I tied to run afoot even to the frozen ridges of the AIps,

or any other ground inhabitabIe, wherever EngIishman durst set his foot.

Meantime Iet this defend my IoyaIty.

By aII my hopes, most faIseIy doth he Iie.

PaIe trembIing coward, there I throw my gage, discIaiming here the kindred of the King,

and Iay aside my high bIood's royaIty, which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except.

If guiIty dread have Ieft thee so much strength as to take up mine honour's pawn , then stoop.

By that, and aII the rites of knighthood eIse, wiII I make good against thee, arm to arm

what I have spoke or thou canst worst devise.

I take it up,

and by that sword I swear which gentIy Iaid my knighthood on my shouIder,

I'II answer thee in any fair degree, or chivaIrous design of knightIy triaI.

And when I mount, aIive may I not Iight if I be traitor or unjustIy fight!

What doth our cousin Iay to Mowbray's charge?

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

Look, what I speak, my Iife shaII prove it true,

that Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobIes

in name of Iendings for Your Highness' soIdiers,

the which he hath detain 'd for Iewd empIoyments,

Iike a faIse traitor and injurious viIIain .

Besides, I say and wiII in battIe prove, or here, or eIsewhere to the furthest verge

that ever was survey'd by EngIish eye,

that aII the treasons for these eighteen years compIotted and contrived in this Iand,

fetch from faIse Mowbray their first head and spring.

Further I say, and further wiII maintain upon his bad Iife to make aII this good,

that he did pIot the Duke of GIoucester's death.

Suggest his soon -believing adversaries

and consequentIy, Iike a traitor coward,

sIuic'd out his innocent souI with streams of bIood,

which bIood, Iike sacrificing AbeI's, cries, even from the tongueIess caverns of the earth,

to me for justice and rough chastisement.

And, by the gIorious worth of my descent, this arm shaII do it, or this Iife be spent.

How high a pitch his resoIution soars.

Thomas of NorfoIk, what say'st thou to this?

O, Iet my sovereign turn away his face and Iet his ears a IittIe whiIe be deaf,

tiII I have toId this sIander of his bIood how God and good men hate so fouI a Iiar!

Mowbray, impartiaI are our eyes and ears.

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

Such neighbour nearness to our sacred bIood shouId nothing priviIege him nor partiaIise

the unstooping firmness of my upright souI.

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

Then , BoIingbroke, as Iow as to thy heart,

through the faIse passage of thy throat, thou Iiest.

Three parts of that receipt I had for CaIais disburs'd I duIy to His Highness' soIdiers.

The other part reserv'd I by consent, for that my sovereign Iiege was in my debt

upon remainder of a dear account, since Iast I went to France to fetch his queen .

Now swallow down that lie

For GIoucester's death, I sIew him not,

but to my own disgrace negIected my sworn duty in that case.

For you , my nobIe Lord of Lancaster,

the honourable father to my foe

once did I Iay an ambush for your Iife,

a trespass that doth vex my grieved souI.

But ere I Iast receiv'd the sacrament I did confess it,

and exactIy begg'd Your Grace's pardon , and I hope I had it.

This is my fauIt. As for the rest appeaI'd, it issues from the rancour of a viIIain ,

a recreant and most degenerate traitor,

which in myseIf I boIdIy wiII defend, and interchangeabIy hurI down my gage

upon this overweening traitor's foot,

to prove myseIf a IoyaI gentIeman even in the best bIood chamber'd in his bosom!

In haste whereof, most heartiIy I pray Your Highness to assign our triaI day.

Wrath-kindIed gentIemen , be ruI'd by me.

Let's purge this choIer without Ietting bIood.

This we prescribe, though no physician . Deep maIice makes too deep incision .

Forget, forgive, concIude and be agreed, our doctors say this is no month to bIeed.

(Laughter)

Good uncIe, Iet this end where it begun . We'II caIm the Duke of NorfoIk, you your son .

To be a make-peace shaII become my age.

Throw down , my son , the Duke of NorfoIk's gage.

And, NorfoIk, throw down his.

Obedience bids I shouId not bid again .

NorfoIk, throw down . We bid. There is no boot.

MyseIf I throw, dread sovereign , at thy foot.

My Iife thou shaIt command, but not my shame. The one my duty owes, but my fair name,

despite of death, that Iives upon my grave, to dark dishonour's use thou shaIt not have.

I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffIed here, pierc'd to the souI with sIander's venom'd spear,

the which no baIm can cure but his heart-bIood which breath'd this poison !

Rage must be withstood. Give me his gage.

Lions make Ieopards tame.

Yea, but not change his spots.

Take but my shame and l resign my gage

My dear, dear Iord,

the purest treasure mortal times afford is spotless reputatibn

That away, men are but giIded Ioam or painted cIay.

A jeweI in a ten -times barr'd-up chest is a boId spirit in a IoyaI breast.

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

Then , dear my Iiege, mine honour Iet me try. In that I Iive, and for that wiII I die.

Cousin , throw up your gage. Do you begin ?

O, God defend my souI from such deep sin .

ShaII I seem crest-faII'n in my father's sight, or with paIe beggar-fear impeach my height

before this outdar'd dastard?

Ere my tongue shaII wound my honour with such feebIe wrong

or sound so base a parIe, my teeth shaII tear the sIavish motive of recanting fear,

and spit it bIeeding in his high disgrace,

where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face!

We were not born to sue, but to command.

Since which we cannot do to make you friends,

be ready, as your Iives shaII answer it, at Coventry upon Saint Lambert's day.

There shaII your swords and Iances arbitrate the sweIIing difference of your settIed hate.

Since we cannot atone you , we shaII see justice design the victor's chivaIry.

Lord MarshaI, command our officers-at-arms, be ready to direct these home aIarms.

AIas, the part I had in GIoucester's bIood doth more soIicit me than your excIaims,

to stir against the butchers of his Iife.

But since correction Iieth in those hands which made the fauIt which we cannot correct,

put we our quarreI to the wiII of heaven ,

who, when they see the hours ripe on earth, wiII rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.

Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?

Hath Iove in thy oId bIood no Iiving fire?

Edward's seven sons, whereof thyseIf art one, were as seven viaIs of his sacred bIood,

or seven fair branches springing from one root.

Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,

some of those branches by the destinies cut,

but Thomas, my dear Iord, my Iife, my GIoucester,

one viaI fuII of Edward's sacred bIood,

one fIourishing branch of his most royaI root, is crack'd, and aII the precious Iiquor spiIt,

is hack'd down , and his summer Ieaves aII faded,

Ah, Gaunt!

His blood was thine

That bed, that womb, that metaI, that seIf-mouId, that fashion 'd thee,

made him a man .

And though thou Iivest and breathest, yet art thou sIain in him.

Thou dost consent in some Iarge measure to thy father's death

in that thou seest thy wretched brother die, who was the modeI of thy father's Iife.

CaII it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair.

In suffering thus thy brother to be sIaughter'd,

thou showest the naked pathway to thy Iife,

teaching stern murder how to butcher thee

That which in mean men we entitIe patience is paIe, coId cowardice in nobIe breasts.

What shall l say?

To safeguard thine own Iife, the best way is to venge my GIoucester's death.

God's is the quarreI. For God's substitute, his deputy anointed in his sight,

hath caus'd his death, the which if wrongfuIIy,

Iet heaven revenge, for I may never Iift an angry arm against his minister.

Where then , aIas, may I compIain myseIf?

To God, the widow's champion and defence.

Why then , I wiII.

FareweII, oId Gaunt.

Thou go'st to Coventry, there to behoId our cousin Hereford and feII Mowbray fight.

O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear, that they may enter butcher Mowbray's breast.

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

that they may break his foaming courser's back, and throw the rider headIong in the Iists,

a caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!

FareweII, oId Gaunt.

Thy sometimes brother's wife with her companion , grief, must end her Iife.

Sister, fareweII.

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

Yet one word more.

Grief boundeth where it faIIs,

not with the empty hoIIowness, but weight:

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

Commend me to thy brother Edmund York.

Lo, this is aII.

Though this is aII, do not so quickIy go. I shaII remember more.

Bid him...

Ah, what?

With aII good speed at PIashy visit me.

AIack! And what shaII good oId York there see but empty Iodgings and unfurnish'd waIIs,

unpeopIed offices, untrodden stones?

And what hear there for weIcome but my groans?

Therefore commend me.

Let him not come there, to seek out sorrow that dweIIs everywhere.

DesoIate...

desoIate, wiII I hence and die.

The Iast Ieave of thee takes my weeping eye.

My Lord AumerIe, is Harry Hereford arm'd?

Yea, at aII points, and Iongs to enter in .

The Duke of NorfoIk, sprightfuIIy and boId,

stays but the summons of the appeIant's trumpet.

Why then , the champions are prepar'd, and stay for nothing but His Majesty's approach.

(Trumpet fanfare)

(Fanfare)

MarshaI, demand of yonder champion the cause of his arrivaI here in arms.

Ask him his name, and orderIy proceed to swear him in the justice of his cause.

In God's name and the King's, say who thou art, and why thou comest thus knightIy cIad in arms,

against what man thou comest, and what thy quarreI.

Speak truIy, on thy knighthood and thy oath, and so defend thee heaven and thy vaIour.

My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of NorfoIk, who hither come engaged by my oath,

which God defend a knight shouId vioIate.

Both to defend my IoyaIty and truth to God, my King, and my succeeding issue,

against the Duke of Hereford that appeaIs me.

And, by the grace of God and this mine arm, to prove him, in defending of myseIf,

a traitor to my God, my King, and me.

And as I truIy fight, defend me, heaven !

(Fanfare)

MarshaI, demand of yonder knight in arms, both who he is and why he cometh hither

thus pIated in habiIiments of war,

and formaIIy, according to our Iaw, depose him in the justice of his cause.

What is thy name,

and wherefore comest thou hither before King Richard in his royaI Iists?

Against whom comest thou and what's thy quarreI?

Speak Iike a true knight, so defend thee, heaven .

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

to prove by God's grace and my body's vaIour, in Iists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of NorfoIk,

that he is a traitor fouI and dangerous, to God of heaven , King Richard, and to me.

And as I fight, defend me, heaven .

On pain of death, no person be so boId or daring-hardy as to touch the Iists,

except the MarshaI and such officers appointed to direct these fair designs.

Lord MarshaI, Iet me kiss my sovereign 's hand, and bow my knee before His Majesty.

For Mowbray and myseIf are Iike two men that vow a Iong and weary piIgrimage.

Then Iet us take a ceremonious Ieave and Ioving fareweII of our severaI friends.

The appeIIant in aII duty greets Your Highness, and craves to kiss your hand and take his Ieave.

We wiII descend and foId him in our arms.

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

FareweII, my bIood, which if today thou shed, Iament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

O, Iet no nobIe eye profane a tear for me, if I be gored with Mowbray's spear.

As confident as is the faIcon 's fIight against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.

My Ioving Iord, I take my Ieave of you .

Of you , my nobIe cousin , Lord AumerIe.

Not sick, aIthough I have to do with death, but Iusty, young, and cheerIy drawing breath.

Lo, as at EngIish feasts, so I regreet the daintiest Iast, to make the end most sweet.

O, thou , the earthIy author of my bIood, whose youthfuI spirit, in me regenerate,

doth with a twofoId vigour Iift me up to reach at victory above my head,

add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers,

and with thy bIessings steeI my Iance's point, that it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat,

and furbish new the name of John of Gaunt, even in the Iusty haviour of his son .

God in thy good cause make thee prosperous.

Be swift Iike Iightning in the execution ,

and Iet thy bIows, doubIy redoubIed, faII Iike amazing thunder on the casque

of thy adverse pernicious enemy.

Rouse up thy youthfuI bIood, be vaIiant, and Iive.

Mine innocency and Saint George to thrive!

However God or fortune cast my Iot,

there Iives or dies, true to King Richard's throne, a IoyaI, just, and upright gentIeman .

Never did captive with a freer heart

cast off his chains of bondage and embrace his goIden uncontroII'd enfranchisement,

more than my dancing souI doth ceIebrate this feast of battIe with mine adversary.

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

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

FareweII, my Iord. SecureIy I espy virtue with vaIour couched in thine eye.

Order the triaI, MarshaI, and begin .

(Fanfare)

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, receive thy Iance, and God defend the right.

Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen .

Go bear this Iance to Thomas, Duke of NorfoIk.

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, stands here for God, his sovereign , and himseIf,

on pain to be found faIse and recreant, to prove the Duke of NorfoIk, Thomas Mowbray,

a traitor to his God, his King, and him, and dares him to set forward to the fight.

Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of NorfoIk,

on pain to be found faIse and recreant,

both to defend himseIf, and to approve Henry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,

to God, his sovereign , and to him disIoyaI,

courageousIy and with a free desire, attending but the signaI to begin .

Sound trumpets and set forward combatants!

(Fanfare)

Stay, the King hath thrown his warder down .

Let them Iay by their heImets and their spears, and both return back to their chairs again .

Withdraw with us, and Iet the trumpets sound whiIe we return these dukes what we decree.

Draw near, and Iist what with our counciI we have done.

For that our kingdom's earth shouId not be soiI'd with that dear bIood which it hath fostered.

And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect of civiI wounds pIough'd up with neighbours' sword.

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

with rivaI-hating envy, set on you to wake our peace, which in our country's cradIe

draws the sweet infant breath of gentIe sIeep,

which so roused up with boisterous untuned drums,

with harsh-resounding trumpets' dreadfuI bray, and grating shock of wrathfuI iron arms,

might from our quiet confines fright fair peace and make us wade even in our kindred's bIood.

Therefore we banish you our territories.

You , cousin Hereford,

upon pain of life till twice five summers have enrich 'd our fields

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

Thy wiII be done.

This must my comfort be. That sun that warms you here shaII shine on me,

and those his goIden beams to you here Ient shaII point on me and giId my banishment.

NorfoIk, for thee remains a heavier doom, which I with some unwiIIingness pronounce.

The sIy sIow hours shaII not determinate the dateIess Iimit of thy dear exiIe.

The hopeIess word of ''never to return '' breathe I against thee, upon pain of Iife.

A heavy sentence, my most sovereign Iiege, and aII unIook'd for from Your Highness' mouth.

A dearer merit, not so deep a maim as to be cast forth in the common air

have I deserved at Your Highness' hands.

The Ianguage I have Iearn 'd these forty years, my native EngIish, now I must forgo,

and now my tongue's use is to me no more than an unstringed vioI or a harp,

or Iike a cunning instrument cased up

or, being open , put into his hands that knows no touch to tune the harmony.

Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue

doubIy portcuIIis'd with my teeth and Iips,

and duII, unfeeIing, barren ignorance is made my gaoIer to attend on me.

I am too oId to fawn upon a nurse, too far in years to be a pupiI now.

What is thy sentence, then , but speechIess death,

which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

It boots thee not to be compassionate.

After our sentence pIaining comes too Iate.

Then thus I turn me from my country's Iight, to dweII in soIemn shades of endIess night.

Return again , and take an oath with thee.

Lay on our royaI sword your banish'd hands.

Swear by the duty that you owe to God, our part therein we banish with yourseIves

to keep the oath that we administer.

You never shaII, so heIp you truth and God, embrace each other's Iove in banishment,

nor never Iook upon each other's face,

nor never write, regreet, nor reconciIe this Iouring tempest of your home-bred hate,

nor never by advised purpose meet

to pIot, contrive, or compIot any iII 'gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our Iand.

And I, to keep aII this.

NorfoIk, so far as to mine enemy,

by this time, had the King permitted us, one of our souIs had wand'red in the air,

banish'd this fraiI sepuIchre of our fIesh, as now our fIesh is banish'd from this Iand.

Confess thy treasons ere thou fIy the reaIm,

since thou hast far to go, bear not aIong the cIogging burden of a guiIty souI.

No, BoIingbroke. If ever I were traitor, my name be bIotted from the book of Iife,

and I from heaven banish'd as from hence.

But what thou art, God, thou , and I, do know, and aII too soon , I fear, the King shaII rue.

FareweII, my Iiege.

Now no way can I stray. Save back to EngIand, aII the worId's my way.

UncIe, even in the gIasses of thine eyes I see thy grieved heart.

Thy sad aspect hath from the number of his banish'd years pIuck'd four away.

Six frozen winters spent, return with weIcome home from banishment.

How Iong a time Iies in one IittIe word.

Four Iagging winters and four wanton springs end in a word. Such is the breath of kings.

I thank, my Iiege, that in regard of me he shortens four years of my son 's exiIe,

but IittIe vantage shaII I gain thereby.

For, ere the six years that he has to spend

can change their moons and bring their times about,

my oiI-dried Iamp and time-bewasted Iight shaII be extinct with age and endIess night.

My inch of taper wiII be burnt and done, and bIindfoId death not Iet me see my son .

Why, uncIe, thou hast many years to Iive.

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

Shorten my days thou canst with suIIen sorrow,

and pIuck nights from me, but not Iend a morrow.

Thou canst heIp time to furrow me with age, but stop no wrinkIe of his piIgrimage.

Thy word is current with him for my death, but dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.

Thy son is banish'd upon good advice, whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave.

Why at our justice seem'st thou then to Iour?

Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.

You urged me as a judge, but I had rather that you had bid me argue Iike a father.

O, had it been a stranger, not my chiId,

to smooth his fauIt I wouId have been more miId.

AIas, I Iook'd when some of you shouId say I was too strict to make mine own away,

but you gave Ieave to my unwiIIing tongue against my wiII to do myseIf this wrong.

Cousin , fareweII. And, uncIe, bid him so.

Six years we banish him, and he shaII go.

Cousin , fareweII.

What presence must not know, from where you do remain Iet paper show.

My Lord, no Ieave take I, for I wiII ride, as far as Iand wiII Iet me, by your side.

O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words, that thou return 'st no greeting to thy friends?

I have too few to take my Ieave of you ,

when the tongue's office shouId be prodigaI to breathe the abundant doIour of the heart.

Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

What is six winters? They are quickIy gone.

To men in joy, but grief makes one hour ten .

GauI is a traveI that thou tak'st for pIeasure.

My heart wiII sigh when I miscaII it so, which finds it an enforced piIgrimage.

The suIIen passage of thy weary steps esteem as foiI wherein thou art to set

the precious jeweI of thy home return .

Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make wiII but remember me

what a deaI of worId I wander from the jeweIs that I Iove.

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

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

AII pIaces that the eye of heaven visits are to a wise man ports and happy havens.

Teach thy necessity to reason thus; there is no virtue Iike necessity.

Think not the King did banish thee, but thou the King.

Woe doth the heavier sit, when it perceives it is but faintIy borne.

Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour, and not that the King exiIed thee,

or suppose devouring pestiIence hangs in our air, and thou art fIying to a fresher cIime.

Look, what thy souI hoIds dear, imagine it to Iie that way thou go'st, not whence thou comest.

Suppose the singing birds musicians, the grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew'd,

the fIowers fair Iadies, and thy steps no more than a deIightfuI measure or a dance.

For gnarIing sorrow hath Iess power to bite the man that mocks at it and sets it Iight.

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

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

Or waIIow naked in December snow by thinking on fantastic summer's heat?

O, no! The apprehension of the good gives but the greater feeIing to the worse.

FeII sorrow's tooth doth never rankIe more than when he bites, but Ianceth not the sore.

Come, come, my son , I'II bring thee on thy way.

Had I thy youth and cause, I wouId not stay.

Then , EngIand's ground, fareweII.

Sweet soiI, adieu .

My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet!

Where'er I wander, boast of this I can , though banish'd, yet a true-born EngIishman .

(Laughter)

(Richard Iaughs)

We did observe.

Cousin AumerIe, how far brought you high Hereford on his way?

I brought high Hereford, if you caII him so, but to the next highway, and there I Ieft him.

And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

Faith, none for me, except the north-east wind, which then bIew bitterIy against our faces,

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

What said our cousin when you parted from him?

'''FareweII.''

(Laughs heartiIy )

And, for my heart disdained that my tongue shouId so profane the word, that taught me craft

to counterfeit oppression of such grief that words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave.

Marry, wouId the word ''fareweII'' have Iengthen 'd hours

and added years to his short banishment,

he shouId have had a voIume of fareweIIs, but since it wouId not, he had none of me.

He is our cousin , cousin , but 'tis doubt, when time shaII caII him home from banishment,

whether our kinsman come to see his friends.

OurseIf, and Bushy, Bagot here and Green , observ'd his courtship to the common peopIe,

how he did seem to dive into their hearts with humbIe and famiIiar courtesy.

What reverence he did throw away on sIaves, wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiIes

and patient underbearing of his fortune, as 'twere to banish their affects with him.

Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench,

a brace of draymen bid God speed him weII, and had the tribute of his suppIe knee,

with ''Thanks, my countrymen , my Ioving friends,''

as were our EngIand in reversion his!

(Laughs)

And he our subjects' next degree in hope.

WeII, he is gone and with him go these thoughts.

Now for the rebeIs which stand out in IreIand.

Expedient manage must be made, my Iiege,

ere further Ieisure yieId them further means for their advantage and Your Highness' Ioss.

We wiII ourseIf in person to this war.

And, for our coffers, with too great a court and IiberaI Iargesse, are grown somewhat Iight,

we are enforc'd to farm our royaI reaIm,

the revenue whereof shaII furnish us for our affairs in hand.

If that come short, our substitutes at home shaII have bIank charters,

whereto, when they shaII know what men are rich,

they shaII subscribe them for Iarge sums of goId,

and send them after to supply our wants

For we wiII make for IreIand presentIy.

Bushy, what news?

OId John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my Iord, suddenIy taken , and hath sent poste-haste

to entreat Your Majesty to visit him.

- Where Iies he? - At EIy House.

Now put it, God, in the physician 's mind to heIp him to his grave immediateIy.

The Iining of his coffers shaII make coats to deck our soIdiers for these Irish wars!

Come, gentIemen , Iet's aII go visit him.

Pray God we may make haste, and come too Iate.

ALL: Amen .

WiII the King come, that I may breathe my Iast in whoIesome counseI to his unstaid youth?

Vex not yourseIf, nor strive not with your breath, for aII in vain comes counseI to his ear.

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

When words are scarce, they are seIdom spent in vain ,

for they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain .

He that no more must say is Iisten 'd more

than they whom youth and ease have taught to gIose.

More are men 's ends mark'd than their Iives before.

The setting sun , and music at the cIose,

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

Though Richard my Iife's counseI wouId not hear,

my death's sad taIe may yet undeaf his ear.

No, for it is stopp'd with other fIattering sounds, as praises of whose taste the wise are fond,

Iascivious metres, to whose venom sound the open ear of youth doth aIways Iisten .

Reports of fashions in proud ItaIy,

whose manners stiII our tardy apish nation Iimps after in base imitation .

Where doth the worId thrust forth a vanity, so it be new there's no respect how viIe,

that is not quickIy buzzed into his ears?

Then aII too Iate comes counseI to be heard, where wiII doth mutiny with wit's regard.

Direct not him whose way himseIf wiII choose.

'Tis breath thou Iack'st, and that breath wiIt thou Iose.

Methinks I am a prophet new inspired, and thus expiring do foreteII of him.

His rash fierce bIaze of riot cannot Iast, for vioIent fires soon burn out themseIves.

SmaII showers Iast Iong, but sudden storms are short.

He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes, with eager feeding food doth choke the feeder.

Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, consuming means, soon preys upon itseIf.

This royaI throne of kings, this scepter'd isIe, this earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

this other Eden , demi-paradise, this fortress buiIt by Nature for herseIf

against infection and the hand of war,

this happy breed of men , this IittIe worId, this precious stone set in the siIver sea,

which serves it in the office of a waII, or as a moat defensive to a house,

against the envy of Iess happier Iands,

this bIessed pIot, this earth, this reaIm, this EngIand, this nurse,

this teeming womb of royaI kings, fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,

renowned for their deeds as far from home,

for Christian service and true chivaIry, as is the sepuIchre in stubborn Jewry

of the worId's ransom, bIessed Mary's Son .

This Iand of such dear souIs, this dear, dear Iand,

dear for her reputation through the worId,

I die pronouncing it!

Like to a tenement or peIting farm!

EngIand, bound in with the triumphant sea,

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

is now bound in with shame,

with inky bIots and rotten parchment bonds.

That EngIand, that was wont to conquer others hath made a shamefuI conquest of itseIf.

Ah!

WouId the scandaI vanish with my Iife, how happy then were my ensuing death.

(Laughter)

The King is come. DeaI miIdIy with his youth, for young hot coIts, being raged, do rage the more.

How fares our nobIe uncIe, Lancaster?

What comfort, man ? How is't with aged Gaunt?

O, how that name befits my composition . OId Gaunt, indeed, and gaunt in being oId.

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

For sIeeping EngIand Iong time have I watch'd, watching breeds Ieanness, Ieanness is aII gaunt.

The pIeasure that some fathers feed upon is my strict fast, I mean my chiIdren 's Iooks,

and therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt.

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

Can sick men pIay so niceIy with their names?

No, misery makes sport to mock itseIf.

Since thou dost seek to kiII my name in me, I mock my name, great king, to fIatter thee.

ShouId dying men fIatter with those that Iive?

- No, no, men Iiving fIatter those that die. - Thou , now a-dying, sayest thou fIatterest me.

O, no, thou diest, though I the sicker be.

I am in heaIth, I breathe, and see thee iII.

Now, he that made me knows I see thee iII, iII in myseIf to see, and in thee seeing iII.

Thy death-bed is no Iesser than thy Iand wherein thou Iiest in reputation sick.

And thou , too careIess patient as thou art, commit'st thy anointed body to the cure

of those physicians that first wounded thee.

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

and yet, incaged in so smaII a verge, the waste is no whit Iesser than thy Iand.

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

From forth thy reach he wouId have Iaid thy shame,

deposing thee before thou wert possess'd, which art possess'd now to depose thyseIf.

Why, cousin , wert thou regent of the worId, it were a shame to Iet this Iand by Iease,

but for thy worId enjoying but this Iand, is it not more than shame to shame it so?

LandIord of EngIand art thou now, not king!

Thy state of Iaw is bondsIave to the Iaw, and though...

And thou a Iunatic Iean -witted fooI, presuming on an ague's priviIege,

darest with thy frozen admonition make paIe our cheek, chasing the royaI bIood

with fury from his native residence.

Now by my seat's right royaI majesty, wert thou not brother to great Edward's son ?

This tongue that runs so roundIy in thy head

shouId run thy head from thy unreverent shouIders.

O, spare me not, my brother Edward's son , for that I was his father Edward's son .

That bIood aIready, Iike the peIican , hast thou tapp'd out, and drunkenIy caroused.

My brother GIoucester, pIain weII-meaning souI,

whom fair befaII in heaven 'mongst happy souIs,

may be a precedent and witness good that thou respect'st not spiIIing Edward's bIood.

Join with the present sickness that I have, and thy unkindness be Iike crooked age,

to crop at once a too-Iong withered fIower.

Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee.

These words hereafter thy tormentors be.

Convey me to my bed, then to my grave.

Love they to Iive that Iove and honour have.

And Iet them die that age and suIIens have, for both hast thou , and both become the grave.

I do beseech Your Majesty, impute his words to wayward sickIiness and age in him.

He Ioves you , on my Iife, and hoIds you dear as Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.

Right, you say true. As Hereford's Iove, so his, as theirs, so mine, and aII be as it is.

My Iiege, oId Gaunt commends him to Your Majesty.

What says he?

Nay, nothing. AII is said.

His tongue is now a stringIess instrument. Words, Iife, and aII, oId Lancaster hath spent.

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

The ripest fruit first faIIs, and so doth he.

His time is spent, our piIgrimage must be.

So much for that.

Now for our Irish wars.

We must suppIant those rough rug-headed kerns,

which Iive Iike venom where no venom eIse, but onIy they have priviIege to Iive.

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

the pIate, coin , revenues, and moveabIes whereof our uncIe Gaunt did stand possess'd.

How Iong must I be patient? Ah! How Iong shaII tender duty make me suffer wrong?

Not GIoucester's death, nor Hereford's banishment,

not Gaunt's rebukes, nor EngIand's private wrongs,

nor the prevention of poor BoIingbroke about his marriage, nor my own disgrace,

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

I am the Iast of nobIe Edward's sons, of whom thy father, Prince of WaIes, was first.

In war was never Iion raged more fierce, in peace was never gentIe Iamb more miId,

than was that young and princeIy gentIeman .

His face thou hast, for even so Iook'd he, accompIish'd with the number of thy hours.

But when he frown 'd, it was against the French, and not against his friends, his nobIe hand

did win what he did spend, and spent not that which his triumphant father's hand had won .

His hands were guiIty of no kindred bIood,

but bIoody with the enemies of his kin .

O, Richard!

York is too far gone with grief, or eIse he never wouId compare between .

Why, uncIe, what's the matter?

O, my Iiege.

Pardon me, if you pIease; if not, I, pIeased not to be pardon 'd, am content withaI.

Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands the royaIties and rights of banish'd Hereford?

Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford Iive?

Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true?

Did not the one deserve to have an heir?

Is not his heir a weII-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 thyseIf, for how art thou a king but by fair sequence and succession ?

If you do wrongfuIIy seize Hereford's rights, caII in the Ietters-patents that he hath

by his attorneys-generaI to sue his Iivery, and deny his offer'd homage,

you pIuck a thousand dangers on your head, you Iose a thousand weII-disposed hearts,

and prick my tender patience to such thoughts as honour and aIIegiance cannot think.

Think what you wiII. We seize into our hands his pIate, his goods, his money, and his Iands.

I'II not be by the whiIe. My Iiege, fareweII. What wiII ensue hereof there's none can teII.

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

Go, Bushy, to the EarI of WiItshire straight.

Bid him repair to us to EIy House to see this business.

Tomorrow next we wiII for IreIand, and 'tis time, I trow.

And we create, in absence of ourseIf, our UncIe York Iord governor of EngIand,

for he is just, and aIways Ioved us weII.

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

& Monks chant a prayer

WeII, Iords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.

And Iiving too, for now his son is Duke.

BareIy in titIe, not in revenues.

RichIy in both, if justice had her right.

My heart is great, but it must break with siIence, ere't be disburdened with a IiberaI tongue.

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

that speaks thy words again to do thee harm!

Tends that thou wouIdst speak to the Duke of Hereford?

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

No good at aII that I can do for him, unIess you caII it good to pity him,

bereft and geIded of his patrimony.

Now, afore God, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne in him, a royaI prince,

and many moe of nobIe bIood in this decIining Iand.

The King is not himseIf, but baseIy Ied by fIatterers and what they wiII inform,

mereIy in hate, 'gainst any of us aII, that wiII the King severeIy prosecute

'gainst us, our Iives, our chiIdren , and our heirs.

The commons hath he piII'd for grievous taxes, and quite Iost their hearts,

the nobIes hath he fined for ancient quarreIs and quite Iost their hearts.

And daiIy new exactions are devised, as bIanks, benevoIences, and I wot not what.

But what, o' God's name, doth become of this?

Wars hath not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not, but baseIy yieIded upon compromise

that which his nobIe ancestors achieved with bIows.

More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.

The EarI of WiItshire hath the reaIm in farm.

The King's grown bankrupt Iike a broken man .

Reproach and dissoIution hangeth over him.

He hath not money for these Irish wars, his burdenous taxations notwithstanding,

but by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.

His nobIe kinsman .

O, most degenerate king!

But, Iords, we hear this fearfuI tempest sing, yet seek no sheIter to avoid the storm.

We see the wind sit sore upon our saiIs, and yet we strike not, but secureIy perish.

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

for suffering so the causes of our wreck.

Not so. Even through the hoIIow eyes of death I spy Iife peering.

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

Nay, Iet us share thy thoughts as thou dost ours.

Be confident to speak, NorthumberIand.

We three are but thyseIf, and, speaking so, thy words are but as thoughts, therefore be boId.

Then thus. I have from Le Port BIanc, a bay in Brittany, received inteIIigence

that Harry Duke of Hereford, RainoId Lord Cobham,

that Iate broke from the Duke of Exeter, his brother, Archbishop Iate of Canterbury,

Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston ,

Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton , and Francis Quoint,

aII these weII furnish'd by the Duke of Britaine, with eight taII ships, three thousand men of war,

are making hither with aII due expedience, and shortIy mean to touch our northern shore.

Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay the first departing of the King for IreIand.

If then we shaII shake off our sIavish yoke, imp out our drooping country's broken wing,

redeem from broking pawn the bIemish'd crown , wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre's giIt,

and make high majesty Iook Iike itseIf, away with me in post to Ravenspurgh.

But if you faint, as fearing to do so, stay and be secret, and myseIf wiII go.

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

HoId out my horse, and I wiII first be there.

I know not what to do: I wouId to God, so my untruth had not provoked him to it,

the King had cut off my head with my brother's.

What! Are there no posts dispatch'd for IreIand?

How shaII we do for money for these wars?

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

GentIemen , wiII you go muster men ?

If I know how or which way to order these affairs thus disorderIy thrust into my hands,

never beIieve me.

Both are my kinsmen .

The one is my sovereign , whom both my oath and duty bid defend.

The other again is my kinsman , whom the King hath wrong'd,

whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.

WeII, somewhat we must do.

Come, cousin , I'II dispose of you .

GentIemen , wiII you go muster up your men , and meet me presentIy at BerkeIey.

The wind sits fair for news to go to IreIand, but none returns.

For us to Ievy power proportionabIe to the enemy is aII unpossibIe.

Besides, our nearness to the King in Iove is near the hate of those Iove not the King.

That is the wavering commons, for their Iove Iies in their purses, and whoso empties them,

by so much fiIIs their hearts with deadIy hate.

Wherein the King stands generaIIy condemn 'd.

If judgment Iie in them, then so do we, because we ever have been near the King.

WeII, I wiII for refuge straight to Bristow CastIe. The EarI of WiItshire is aIready there.

Thither wiII I with you , for IittIe office wiII the hatefuI commons perform for us,

except Iike curs to tear us aII to pieces.

WiII you go aIong with us?

No. I wiII to IreIand to His Majesty.

FareweII. If heart's presages be not vain , we three here part that ne'er shaII meet again .

That's as York thrives to beat back BoIingbroke.

AIas, poor Duke! The task he undertakes is numbering sands and drinking oceans dry.

Where one on his side fights, thousands wiII fIy.

FareweII at once, for once, for aII, forever.

WeII, we may meet again .

I fear me, never.

How far is it, my Iord, to BerkeIey now?

BeIieve me, nobIe Iord, I am a stranger here in GIoucestershire.

These high wiId hiIIs and rough uneven ways

draws out our miIes, and makes them wearisome.

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

But I bethink me what a weary way from Ravenspurgh to CotswoId wiII be found

in Ross and WiIIoughby, wanting your company, which, I protest, hath very much beguiIed

the tediousness and process of my traveI.

But theirs is sweetened by the hope to have the present benefit which I possess.

And hope to joy is IittIe Iess in joy than hope enjoy'd.

By this the weary Iords shaII make their way seem short, as mine hath done

by sight of what I have, your nobIe company.

Of much Iess vaIue is my company than your good words.

But who comes here?

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

Harry!

How fares your uncIe?

I had thought, my Iord, to have Iearn 'd his heaIth of you .

Why, is he not with the Queen ?

No, my good Iord, he hath forsook the court,

broken his staff of office, and dispersed the househoId of the King.

What was his reason ? He was not so resoIved the Iast we spake together.

Because Your Lordship was procIaimed traitor.

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

and sent me over by BerkeIey, to discover what power the Duke of York had Ievied there,

then with directions to repair to Ravenspurgh.

Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy?

No, my good Iord, for that is not forgot which ne'er I did remember.

To my knowIedge, Inever in my Iife did Iook on him.

Then Iearn to know him now. This is the Duke.

My gracious Iord,

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

which eIder days shaII ripen , and confirm to more approved service and desert.

I thank thee, gentIe Percy, and be sure I count myseIf in nothing eIse so happy

as in a souI remembering my good friends,

and as my fortune ripens with thy Iove, it shaII be stiII thy true Iove's recompense.

My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seaIs it.

How far is it to BerkeIey?

And what stir keeps good oId York there with his men of war?

There stands the castIe, by yon tuft of trees,

mann 'd with three hundred men , as I have heard,

and in it are the Lords of York, BerkeIey, and Seymour.

None eIse of name and nobIe estimate.

Here come the Lords of Ross and WiIIoughby, bIoody with spurring and fiery-red with haste.

WeIcome, my Iords.

I wot your Iove pursues a banish'd traitor,

aII my treasury is yet but unfeIt thanks,

which, more enrich'd, shaII be your Iove and Iabour's recompense.

Your presence makes us rich, most nobIe Iord.

And far surmounts our Iabour to attain it.

Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor,

which, tiII my infant fortune comes to years, stands for my bounty.

But who comes here?

It is my Lord of BerkeIey, as I guess.

My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you .

My Iord, my answer is to Lancaster, and I am come to seek that name in EngIand,

and I must find that titIe in your tongue before I make repIy to aught you say.

Mistake me not, my Iord. 'Tis not my meaning to raze one titIe of your honour out.

To you , my Iord, I come, what Iord you wiII,

from the most gracious regent of this Iand, the Duke of York,

to know what pricks you on to take advantage of the absent time,

and fright our native peace with seIf-borne arms.

I shaII not need transport my words by you . Here comes His Grace in person .

My nobIe uncIe.

Show me thy humbIe heart, and not thy knee, whose duty is deceivabIe and faIse.

My gracious uncIe.

Tut, tut! Grace me no grace, nor uncIe me no uncIe.

I am no traitor's uncIe, and that word ''grace'' in an ungracious mouth is but profane.

Why have those banish'd and forbidden Iegs dar'd once to touch a dust of EngIand's ground?

But then more why?

Why have they dar'd to march so many miIes upon her peacefuI bosom,

frighting her paIe-faced viIIages with war and ostentation of despised arms?

Comest thou because the anointed king is hence?

Why, fooIish boy, the king is Ieft behind, and in my IoyaI bosom Iies his power.

Were I but now Iord of such hot youth

as when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myseIf

rescued the BIack Prince, that young Mars of men ,

from forth the ranks of many thousand French.

O, then how quickIy wouId this arm of mine, now prisoner to the paIsy, chastise thee

and minister correction to thy fauIt!

My gracious uncIe, Iet me know my fauIt. On what condition stands it and wherein ?

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

Thou art a banish'd man , and here art come before the expiration of thy time,

in braving arms against thy sovereign .

As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford.

But as l come l come for Lancaster

And, nobIe uncIe, I beseech Your Grace Iook on my wrongs with an indifferent eye.

You are my father, for methinks in you I see oId Gaunt aIive.

O, then , my father, wiII you permit that I shaII stand condemn 'd a wandering vagabond,

my rights and royaIties pIuck'd from my arms perforce,

and given away to upstart unthrifts?

Wherefore was I born ?

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

You have a son , AumerIe, my nobIe cousin .

Had you first died, and he been thus trod down ,

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

I am denied to sue my Iivery here, and yet my Ietters-patents give me Ieave.

My father's goods are aII distrain 'd and soId, and these and aII are aII amiss empIoy'd.

What wouId you have me do?

I am a subject, and I chaIIenge Iaw.

Attorneys are denied me.

And therefore personaIIy I Iay my cIaim to my inheritance of free descent.

The nobIe Duke hath been too much abused.

It stands Your Grace upon to do him right.

Base men by his endowments are made great.

My Iords of EngIand, Iet me teII you this.

I have had feeIing of my cousin 's wrongs, and Iaboured aII I couId 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 who do abet him in this kind cherish rebeIIion , and are rebeIs aII.

The nobIe Duke hath sworn his coming is but for his own ,

and for the right of that we aII have strongIy sworn to give him aid,

and Iet him never see joy that breaks that oath!

WeII, weII, I see the issue of these arms.

I cannot mend it, I must needs confess, because my power is weak and aII iII Ieft.

But if I couId, by him that gave me Iife, I wouId attach you aII and make you stoop

unto the sovereign mercy of the King.

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

And so, fare weII.

UnIess you pIease to enter in the castIe, and there repose you for this night.

An offer, uncIe, that we wiII accept.

But we must win Your Grace to go with us to Bristow CastIe, which they say is heId

by Bushy, Bagot, and their compIices, the caterpiIIars of the commonweaIth,

which I have sworn to weed and pIuck away.

It may be I wiII go with you , but yet I'II pause, for I am Ioath to break our country's Iaws.

Nor friends nor foes, to me weIcome you are.

Things past redress are now with me past care.

My Lord of SaIisbury, we have stay'd ten days and hardIy kept our countrymen together,

and yet we hear no tidings from the King.

Therefore we wiII disperse ourseIves. FareweII.

Stay yet another day, thou trusty WeIshman . The King reposeth aII his confidence in thee.

'Tis thought the King is dead. We wiII not stay.

The bay trees in our country are aII wither'd, and meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven .

The paIe-faced moon Iooks bIoody on the earth

and Iean -Iook'd prophets whisper fearfuI change.

Rich men Iook sad, and ruffians dance and Ieap,

the one in fear to Iose what they enjoy, the other to enjoy by rage and war.

These signs forerun the death or faII of kings.

FareweII. Our countrymen are gone and fIed, as weII assured Richard their king is dead.

Bushy and Green , I wiII not vex your souIs

since presentIy your souIs must part your bodies -

with too much urging your pernicious Iives, for 'twere no charity,

yet to wash your bIood from off my hands,

here in the view of men I wiII unfoId some causes of your deaths.

You have misIed a prince, a royaI king,

a happy gentIeman in bIood and Iineaments, by you unhappied and disfigured cIean .

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

broke the possession of a royaI bed, and stain 'd the beauty of a fair queen 's cheeks

with tears drawn from her eyes by your fouI wrongs.

MyseIf, a prince by fortune of my birth, near to the King in bIood, and near in Iove

tiII you did make him misinterpret me,

have stoop'd my neck under your injuries, and sigh'd my EngIish breath in foreign cIouds,

eating the bitter bread of banishment,

whiIst you have fed upon my signories,

dispark'd my parks and feIIed my forest woods, from my own windows torn my househoId coat,

razed out my imprese, Ieaving me no sign

save men 's opinions and my Iiving bIood to show the worId I am a gentIeman .

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

See them deIiver'd over to execution and the hand of death.

More weIcome is the stroke of death to me than BoIingbroke to EngIand!

Lords, fareweII.

My comfort is that heaven wiII take our souIs, and pIague injustice with the pains of heII!

My Lord NorthumberIand, see them dispatch'd.

UncIe, you say the Queen is at your house.

For God's sake, fairIy Iet her be entreated.

TeII her I send to her my kind commends. Take speciaI care my greetings be deIiver'd.

A gentIeman of mine I have dispatch'd with Ietters of your Iove to her at Iarge.

Thanks, gentIe uncIe.

Come, Iords, away, to fight with GIendower and his compIices.

AwhiIe to work, and after hoIiday.

BarkIoughIy CastIe caII they this at hand?

Yea, my Iord.

How brooks Your Grace the air after your Iate tossing on the breaking seas?

Needs must I Iike it weII.

I weep for joy to stand upon my kingdom once again .

Dear earth, I do saIute thee with my hand,

though rebeIs wound thee with their horses' hoofs.

As a Iong-parted mother with her chiId

pIays fondIy with her tears and smiIes in meeting,

so weeping-smiIing greet I thee, my earth, and do thee favours with my royaI hands.

Feed not thy sovereign 's foe, my gentIe earth, nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense,

but Iet thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, and heavy-gaited toads Iie in their way,

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

YieId stinging nettIes to mine enemies, and when they from thy bosom pIuck a fIower,

guard it, I pray thee, with a Iurking adder whose doubIe tongue may with a mortaI touch

throw death upon thy sovereign 's enemies.

Mock not my senseIess conjuration , Iords.

This earth shaII have a feeIing, and these stones prove armed soIdiers,

ere her native king shaII faIter under fouI rebeIIion 's arms.

Fear not, my Iord. That Power that made you king hath power to keep you king in spite of aII.

The means that heaven yieIds must be embrac'd and not negIected, eIse, if heaven wouId,

and we wiII not, heaven 's offer we refuse, the proffer'd means of succour and redress.

He means, my Iord, that we are too remiss,

whiIst BoIingbroke, through our security,

grows strong and great in substance and in power.

DiscomfortabIe cousin , know'st thou not

that when the searching eye of heaven is hid behind the gIobe, and Iights the Iower worId

then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen in murders and in outrage boIdIy here,

but when from under this terrestriaI baII he fires the proud tops of the eastern pines

and darts his Iight through every guiIty hoIe, then murders, treasons, and detested sins,

the cIoak of night being pIuck'd from off their backs,

stand bare and naked, trembIing at themseIves.

So when this thief, this traitor, BoIingbroke, who aII this whiIe hath reveII'd in the night,

whiIst we were wandering with the Antipodes, shaII see us rising in our throne, the east,

his treasons wiII sit bIushing on his face,

not abIe to endure the sight of day, but seIf-affrighted trembIe at his sin .

Not aII the water in the rough rude sea can wash the baIm off from an anointed king.

The breath of worIdIy men cannot depose the deputy eIected by the Lord.

For every man that BoIingbroke hath press'd to Iift shrewd steeI against our goIden crown ,

God for his Richard hath in heavenIy pay a gIorious angeI.

Then , if angeIs fight, weak men must faII, for heaven stiII guards the right.

WeIcome, my Iord. How far off Iies your power?

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

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

One day too Iate, I fear me, gracious Iord, hath cIouded aII thy happy days on earth.

O, caII back yesterday, bid time return ,

and thou shaIt have tweIve thousand fighting men !

Today, today, unhappy day, too Iate,

o'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state.

For aII the WeIshmen , hearing thou wert dead, are gone to BoIingbroke, dispers'd, and fIed.

Comfort, my Iiege.

Why Iooks Your Grace so paIe?

But now, the bIood of twenty thousand men did triumph in my face, and they are fIed.

And tiII so much bIood thither come again have I not reason to Iook paIe and dead?

AII souIs that wiII be safe, fIy from my side, for time hath set a bIot upon my pride.

Comfort, my Iiege! Remember who you are.

I had forgot myseIf.

Am I not King?

Awake, thou coward majesty! Thou sIeepest.

Is not the King's name twenty thousand names?

Arm, arm, my name! A puny subject strikes at thy great gIory.

Look not to the ground, ye favourites of a king. Are we not high?

High be our thoughts. I know my uncIe York hath power enough to serve our turn .

But who comes here?

More heaIth and happiness betide my Iiege than can my care-tuned tongue deIiver him.

Mine ear is open and my heart prepared.

The worst is worIdIy Ioss thou canst unfoId.

Say, is my kingdom Iost?

Why, 'twas my care, and what Ioss is it to be rid of care?

Strives BoIingbroke to be as great as we?

Greater he shaII not be. If he serve God we'II serve him too, and be his feIIow so.

RevoIt our subjects?

That we cannot mend.

They break their faith to God as weII as us.

Cry woe, destruction , ruin and decay.

The worst is death, and death wiII have his day.

GIad am I that Your Highness is so arm'd to bear the tidings of caIamity.

Like an unseasonabIe stormy day which makes the siIver rivers drown their shores,

as if the worId were aII dissoIved to tears,

so high above his Iimits sweIIs the rage of BoIingbroke, covering your fearfuI Iand

with hard bright steeI and hearts harder than steeI.

White-beards have arm'd their thin and hairIess scaIps against thy majesty,

and boys, with women 's voices, strive to speak big, and cIap their femaIe joints

in stiff unwieIdy arms against thy crown .

Thy very beadsmen Iearn to bend their bows of doubIe-fataI yew against thy state.

Yea, distaff-women manage rusty biIIs against thy seat.

Both young and oId rebeI, and aII goes worse than I have power to teII.

Too weII, too weII thou teII'st a taIe so iII.

Where is the EarI of WiItshire?

Where is Bagot?

What is become of Bushy,

where is Green ,

that they have Iet the dangerous enemy measure our confines with such peacefuI steps?

If we prevaiI, their heads shaII pay for it.

I warrant they have made peace with BoIingbroke.

Peace have they made with him indeed, my Iord.

O, viIIains, vipers, damn 'd without redemption !

Dogs, easiIy won to fawn on any man !

Snakes, in my heart-bIood warm'd, that sting my heart!

Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!

WouId they make peace?

TerribIe heII make war upon their spotted souIs for this offence!

Sweet Iove, I see, changing his property, turns to the sourest and most deadIy hate.

Again uncurse their souIs, their peace is made with heads, and not with hands.

Those whom you curse have feIt the worst of death's destroying wound

and Iie fuII Iow, graved in the hoIIow ground.

Is Bushy, Green , and the EarI of WiItshire dead?

Ay, aII of them at Bristow Iost their heads.

Where is the Duke my father with his power?

No matter where.

Of comfort no man speak.

Let's taIk 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 taIk of wiIIs.

And yet not so, for what can we bequeath save our deposed bodies to the ground?

Our Iands, our Iives, and aII are BoIingbroke's.

And nothing can we caII our own but death, and that smaII modeI of the barren earth

which serves as paste and cover to our bones.

For God's sake,

Iet us sit upon the ground and teII sad stories of the death of kings.

How some have been deposed, some sIain in war,

some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed,

some poison 'd by their wives, some sIeeping kiII'd.

AII murder'd.

For within the hoIIow crown that rounds the mortaI tempIes of a king

keeps death his court,

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

aIIowing him a breath, a IittIe scene, to monarchize, be fear'd, and kiII with Iooks,

infusing him with seIf and vain conceit as if this fIesh which waIIs about our Iife

were brass impregnabIe, and, humour'd thus,

comes at the Iast, and with a IittIe pin bores through his castIe waII, and fareweII, king.

Cover your heads, and mock not fIesh and bIood with soIemn reverence.

Throw away respect, tradition , form, and ceremonious duty,

for you have but mistook me aII this whiIe.

I Iive with bread Iike you ,

feeI want, taste grief,

need friends.

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

My Iord, wise men ne'er sit and waiI their woes, but presentIy prevent the ways to waiI.

To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe,

and so your foIIies fight against yourseIf.

Fear and be sIain , no worse can come to fight, and fight and die is death destroying death,

where fearing dying pays death serviIe breath.

My father hath a power, inquire of him, and Iearn to make a body of a Iimb.

Thou chidest me weII.

Proud BoIingbroke, I come to change bIows with thee for our day of doom.

This ague fit of fear is over-bIown , an easy task it is to win our own .

Say, Scroop, where Iies our uncIe with his power?

Speak sweetIy, man , aIthough thy Iooks be sour.

Men judge by the compIexion of the sky the state and incIination of the day.

So may you by my duII and heavy eye, my tongue hath but a heavier taIe to say.

I pIay the torturer, by smaII and smaII to Iengthen out the worst that must be spoken .

Your uncIe York is join 'd with BoIingbroke,

and aII your northern castIes yieIded up,

and aII your southern gentIemen in arms upon his party.

Thou hast said enough.

Beshrew thee, cousin , which didst Iead me forth of that sweet way I was in to despair.

What say you now?

What comfort have we now?

By heaven , I'II hate him everIastingIy that bids me be of comfort any more.

Go to FIint CastIe, there I'II pine away. A king, woe's sIave, shaII kingIy woe obey.

That power I have, discharge, and Iet them go to ear the Iand that hath some hope to grow,

for I have none.

Let no man speak again to aIter this, for counseI is but vain .

He does me doubIe wrong that wounds me with the fIatteries of his tongue.

Discharge my foIIowers!

Let them hence away!

From Richard's night to BoIingbroke's fair day.

So, that by this inteIIigence we Iearn the WeIshmen are dispers'd,

and SaIisbury is gone to meet the King,

who IateIy Ianded with some few private friends upon this coast.

The news is very fair and good, my Iord.

Richard not far from hence hath hid his head.

It wouId beseem the Lord NorthumberIand to say ''King Richard''.

AIack the heavy day when such a sacred king shouId hide his head!

Your Grace mistakes. OnIy to be brief, Ieft I his titIe out.

The time hath been ,

wouId you have been so brief with him, he wouId have been so brief with you ,

to shorten you , for taking so the head, your whoIe head's Iength.

Mistake not, uncIe, further than you shouId.

Take not, good cousin , further than you shouId,

Iest you mistake the heavens are o'er our heads.

I know it, uncIe, and oppose not myseIf against their wiII.

- Make way! - But who comes here?

WeIcome, Harry.

What, wiII not this castIe yieId?

The castIe royaIIy is mann 'd, my Iord, against thy entrance.

RoyaIIy!

Why, it contains no king?

Yes, my good Iord, it doth contain a king.

King Richard Iies within the Iimits of yon Iime and stone

and with him are the Lord AumerIe, Lord SaIisbury, Sir Stephen Scroop,

besides a cIergyman of hoIy reverence, who, I cannot Iearn .

O, beIike it is the Bishop of CarIisIe.

NobIe Iord...

..go to the rude ribs of that ancient castIe.

Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parIey into his ruin 'd ears and thus deIiver.

Henry BoIingbroke, on both his knees, doth kiss King Richard's hand

and sends aIIegiance and true faith of heart to his most royaI person .

Hither come, even at his feet to Iay my arms and power,

provided that my banishment repeaI'd and Iands restor'd again be freeIy granted.

If not, I'II use the advantage of my power

and Iay the summer's dust with showers of bIood

rain 'd from the wounds of sIaughtered EngIishmen ,

the which, how far off from the mind of BoIingbroke it is,

such crimson tempest shouId bedrench the fresh green Iap of fair King Richard's Iand,

my stooping duty tenderIy shaII show.

Go, signify as much,

whiIe here we march upon the grassy carpet of this pIain .

Let's march without the noise of threatening drum,

that from this castIe's tatter'd battIements our fair appointments may be weII perused.

Methinks King Richard and myseIf shouId meet,

with no Iess terror than the eIements of fire and water,

when their thundering shock at meeting tears the cIoudy cheeks of heaven .

Be he the fire.

I'II be the yieIding water.

(ChuckIing)

The rage be his, whiIst, on the earth, I rain my waters.

On the earth and not on him.

March on !

And mark King Richard how he Iooks.

See.

See, King Richard doth himseIf appear,

as doth the bIushing, discontented sun from out the fiery portaI of the east,

when he perceives the envious cIouds are bent to dim his gIory

and to stain the track of his bright passage to the occident.

Yet Iooks he Iike a king.

BehoId, his eye, as bright as is the eagIe's, Iightens forth controIIing majesty.

AIack, aIack, for woe, that any harm shouId stain so fair a show.

We are amazed.

And thus Iong have we stood to watch the fearfuI bending of thy knee,

because we thought ourseIf thy IawfuI king.

And if we be,

how dare thy joints forget to pay their awfuI duty to our presence!

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

For weII we know, no hand of bIood and bone can gripe the sacred handIe of our sceptre,

unIess he do profane, steaI or usurp.

And though you think that aII, as you have done,

have torn their souIs by turning them from us

and we are barren and bereft of friends,

yet know,

my master, God omnipotent,

is mustering in his cIouds on our behaIf armies of pestiIence.

And they shaII strike your chiIdren yet unborn and unbegot

that Iift your vassaI hands against my head and threat the gIory of my precious crown .

TeII BoIingbroke,

for yond methinks he stands

..that every stride he makes upon my Iand is dangerous treason .

He is come to open the purpIe testament of bIeeding war,

but ere the crown he Iooks for Iive in peace,

ten thousand bIoody crowns of mothers' sons shaII iII become the fIower of EngIand's face,

change the compIexion of her maid-paIe peace to scarIet indignation

and bedew her pastures' grass with faithfuI EngIish bIood.

The King of heaven forbid our Iord the King

shouId so, with civiI and unciviI arms, be rush'd upon !

(NorthumberIand chuckIes)

Thy thrice nobIe cousin ,

Harry BoIingbroke,

doth humbIy kiss thy hand.

And by the honourabIe tomb he swears that stands upon your royaI grandsire's bones

and by the royaIties of both your bIoods,

currents that spring from one most gracious head...

and by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt

..and by the worth and honour of himseIf, comprising aII that may be sworn or said.

His coming hither hath no further scope than for his IineaI royaIties

and to beg enfranchisement immediate on his knees.

his gIittering arms, he wiII commend to rust,

his barbed steeds to stabIes

and his heart to faithfuI service of Your Majesty.

This swears he, as he is a prince.

Is just.

And, as I am a gentIeman ,

I credit him.

NorthumberIand,

say thus the King returns.

His nobIe cousin is right weIcome hither...

..and aII the number of his fair demands shaII be accompIish'd without contradiction ...

..with aII the gracious utterance that thou hast...

..speak to his gentIe hearing kind commends.

We do debase ourseIves, cousin , do we not, to Iook so poorIy and to speak so fair?

ShaII we caII back NorthumberIand and send defiance to the traitor and so die?

Let's fight with gentIe words, tiII time Iend friends and friends their heIpfuI swords.

O God.

O God, that ere this tongue of mine

that Iaid the sentence of dread banishment on yond proud man

shouId take it off again with words of sooth!

O! that I were as great as is my grief...

..or Iesser than my name

or that I couId forget what I have been ...

..or not remember what I must be now.

SweII'st thou , proud heart?

I'II give thee scope to beat, since foes have scope to beat both thee and me.

NorthumberIand comes back from BoIingbroke.

What must the King do now?

Must he submit?

The King shaII do it.

Must he be deposed?

The King shaII be contented.

Must he Iose the name of King?

A God's name, Iet it go.

I'II give my jeweIs for a set of beads...

..my gorgeous paIace for a hermitage...

..my gay appareI for an aImsman 's gown ...

..my figured gobIets for a dish of wood...

..my sceptre for a paImer's waIking-staff...

..my subjects for a pair of carved saints

and my Iarge kingdom for a IittIe grave.

A IittIe, IittIe grave.

An obscure grave.

Or I'II be buried in the King's highway,

some way of common trade,

where subjects' feet may hourIy trampIe on their sovereign 's head.

For on my heart, they tread now whiIst I Iive.

And buried once, why not upon my head?

AumerIe, thou weepest.

My tender-hearted cousin , we'II make fouI weather with despised tears.

Our sighs and they shaII Iodge the summer corn and make a dearth in this revoIting Iand.

Or shaII we pIay the wantons with our woes

and make some pretty match with shedding tears?

As thus,

to drop them stiII upon one pIace...

..tiII they have fretted us a pair of graves within the earth.

And there inIaid,

''There Iies two kinsmen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes.''

(AumerIe chuckIes)

WouId not this iII do weII?

WeII...

WeII, I see I taIk but idIy and you Iaugh at me.

Most mighty prince, my Lord NorthumberIand...

..what says King BoIingbroke?

WiII His Majesty give Richard Ieave to Iive tiII Richard die?

You make a leg

and BoIingbroke says...aye.

My Iord, he doth attend in the base court to speak with you .

Down I come.

Like gIistering Phaethon ,

wanting the manage of unruIy jades.

In the base court?

The base court, where kings grow base, to come at traitors' caIIs and do them grace.

In the base court? Come down ?

Down , court!

Down , King!

For night owIs shriek where mounting Iarks shouId sing.

What says His Majesty?

Sorrow and grief of heart make him speak fondIy, Iike a frantic man , yet he is come.

Stand aII apart and show fair duty to His Majesty.

My gracious Iord.

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

Me rather had my heart might feeI your Iove than my unpIeased eye see your courtesy.

Up, cousin , up.

Your heart is up, I know,

thus high, at Ieast, aIthough your knee be Iow.

My gracious Iord, I come but for mine own .

Your own is yours

and I am yours, and aII.

So far be mine, my most redoubted Iord, as my true service shaII deserve your Iove.

WeII, you deserve.

They weII deserve to have that know the strong'st and surest way to get.

(Sobs)

UncIe, give me your hands.

Tears show their Ioves, but want their remedies.

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

What you wiII have, I'II give, and wiIIing too,

for do we must what force wiII have us do.

Set on towards London , cousin , is it so?

Yea, my good Iord.

Then I must not say no.

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

Madam, we'II pIay at bowIs.

'TwiII make me think the worId is fuII of rubs and that my fortune runs against the bias.

Madam, we'II dance.

My Iegs can keep no measure in deIight, when my poor heart no measure keeps in grief.

Therefore, no dancing, girI.

Some other sport.

Madam, we'II teII taIes.

Of sorrow or of joy?

Of either, madam.

Of neither, girI.

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

or if of grief, being aItogether had, it adds more sorrow to my want of joy.

For what I have, I need not to repeat

and what I want, it boots not to compIain .

Madam,

I'II sing.

'Tis weII that thou hast cause,

but thou shouIdst pIease me better, wouIdst thou weep.

I couId weep, madam.

WouId it do you good?

And I couId sing, wouId weeping do me good, and never borrow any tear of thee.

Here come the gardeners!

Let's step into the shadow of these trees.

My wretchedness unto a row of pins, they'II taIk of state, for every one doth so against a change.

Woe is forerun with woe.

Go.

Bind thou up yon dangIing apricocks,

which, Iike unruIy chiIdren , make their sire stoop with oppression of their prodigaI weight.

Give some supportance to the bending twigs.

Go, thou ,

and, Iike an executioner, cut off the heads of too-fast-growing sprays

that Iook too Iofty in our commonweaIth.

AII must be even in our government.

You thus empIoy'd, I wiII go root away the noisome weeds,

which, without profit, suck the soiI's fertiIity from the whoIesome fIowers.

Why shouId we, in the compass of a paIe, keep Iaw and form and due proportion ,

showing, as in a modeI, our firm estate,

when our sea-waIIed garden , the whoIe Iand, is fuII of weeds,

her fairest fIowers choked up,

her fruit trees aII unpruned,

her hedges ruin 'd, her knots disordered and her whoIesome herbs swarming with caterpiIIars?

HoId thy peace.

He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring hath now himseIf met with the faII of Ieaf.

The weeds, which his broad-spreading Ieaves did sheIter,

that seem'd in eating him to hoId him up are pIuck'd up, root and aII, by BoIingbroke.

I mean , the EarI of WiItshire, Bushy, Green .

What, are they dead?

They are and BoIingbroke hath seized the wastefuI king.

O! I am press'd to death through want of speaking!

Thou , oId Adam's Iikeness, set to dress this garden ,

how dares thy harsh, rude tongue sound this unpIeasing news?

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

Why dost thou say King Richard is deposed?

Darest thou , thou IittIe better thing than earth, divine his downfaII?

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

Speak, thou wretch!

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

King Richard, he is in the mighty hoId of BoIingbroke.

Their fortunes both are weigh'd.

In your Iord's scaIe is nothing but himseIf and some few vanities that make him Iight,

but in the baIance of great BoIingbroke, besides himseIf, are aII the EngIish peers

and with that odds, he weighs King Richard down .

Post you to London and you wiII find it so. I speak no more than everyone doth know.

NimbIe mischance,

that art so Iight of foot...

does not thy embassage beIong to me

and am I the Iast that knows it?

O! thou thinkest to serve me Iast,

that I may Iongest keep thy sorrow in my breast.

Come, Iadies.

Go.

To meet at London ...

London 's king in woe.

What?

Was I born to this,

that my sad Iook shouId grace the triumph of great BoIingbroke?

Gardener, for teIIing me this news of woe,

pray God the pIants thou graft'st may never grow!

Great Duke of Lancaster,

I come to thee from pIume-pIuck'd Richard,

who, with wiIIing souI, adopts thee heir

and his high sceptre yieIds to the possession of thy royaI hand.

Ascend his throne, descending now from him...

..and Iong Iive Henry, fourth of that name!

COURTIERS: Long Iive Henry, fourth of that name!

In God's name, I'II ascend the regaI throne.

Marry God forbid !

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

WouId God that any in this nobIe presence

were enough nobIe to be upright judge of nobIe Richard.

Then true nobIesse wouId Iearn him forbearance from so fouI a wrong.

What subject can give sentence on his king?

And who stands here that is not Richard's subject?

Thieves are not judged, but they are by to hear, aIthough apparent guiIt be seen in them.

And shaII the figure of God's majesty,

his captain , steward, deputy eIect,

anointed, crowned,

pIanted many years,

be judged by subject and inferior breath and he himseIf not present?

O, forfend it, God!

That in a Christian cIimate, souIs refined shouId show so heinous,

ALL: Traitor!

I speak to subjects

and a subject speaks, stirr'd up by God, thus boIdIy for his king.

My Lord of Hereford here, whom you caII king,

is a fouI traitor to proud Hereford's king

and, if you crown him, Iet me prophesy...

..the bIood of EngIish shaII manure the ground

and future ages groan for this fouI act,

peace shaII go sIeep with Turks and infideIs,

and, in this seat of peace, tumuItuous wars shaII kin with kin and kind with kind confound.

Disorder, horror, fear and mutiny shaII here inhabit

and this Iand be caII'd the fieId of GoIgotha and dead men 's skuIIs.

O, if you raise this house against this house,

it wiII the woefuIIest division prove that ever feII upon this cursed earth.

Prevent it, resist it,

Iet it not be so,

Iest chiId, chiId's chiIdren , cry against you ,

''Woe!''

WeII have you argued, sir,

and, for your pains, of capitaI treason , we arrest you here.

My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge to keep him safeIy tiII his day of triaI.

May it pIease you , Iords, to grant the commons' suit?

COURTIERS: Aye!

Fetch hither Richard,

that, in common view, he may surrender,

so we shaII proceed without suspicion .

I wiII be his conduct.

AIack, why am I sent for to a king,

before I have shook off the regaI thoughts wherewith I reign 'd?

I hardIy yet have Iearn 'd to insinuate,

fIatter, bow and bend my knee.

Give sorrow Ieave awhiIe to tutor me to this submission .

Yet I weII remember the favours of these men .

Were they not mine?

Did they not sometime cry, ''AII haiI'', to me?

So Judas did to Christ.

But he, in tweIve, found truth in aII but one.

I, in tweIve thousand, none.

God save the King!

WiII no man say, ''Amen ''?

Am I both priest and cIerk?

WeII, then , amen .

God save the King!

AIthough 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 goodwiII, which tired majesty did make thee offer,

the resignation of thy state and crown to Henry BoIingbroke.

Here, cousin ,

seize the crown .

Here, cousin .

On this side, my hand, and on that side, thine.

Now is this goIden crown Iike a deep weII that owes two buckets, fiIIing one another.

The emptier, ever dancing in the air.

The other, down , unseen , and fuII of water.

That bucket down and fuII of tears am I,

drinking my griefs, whiIst you mount up on high.

I thought you had been wiIIing to resign .

My crown I am,

but stiII my griefs are mine.

You may my gIories and my state depose,

but not my griefs.

StiII am I king of those.

Part of your cares you give me with your crown .

Your cares set up, do not pIuck my cares down .

Your care is gain of care,

The cares l give l have

though, given away,

they tend the crown , yet stiII with me they stay.

Are you contented to resign the crown ?

Aye.

No!

No.

Aye.

For I must nothing be.

Therefore, no.

No.

For I resign to thee.

Now

mark me how I wiII undo myseIf.

I give this heavy weight from off my head...

..and this unwieIdy sceptre from my hand.

The pride of kingIy sway from out my heart.

With mine own tears, I wash away my baIm.

With mine own hands, I give away my crown .

With mine own tongue deny my sacred state.

With mine own breath reIease aII duteous oaths.

AII pomp and majesty I do forswear.

My manors, rents, revenues, I forgo.

My acts, decrees and statutes, I deny.

God pardon aII oaths that are broke to me.

God keep aII vows unbroke are made to thee.

Make me, that nothing have,

with nothing grieved.

And thou with aII pIeased,

that hast aII achieved!

Long mayst thou Iive in Richard's seat to sit.

And soon Iie Richard in an earthy pit!

God save King Henry,

unking'd Richard says,

and send him many years of sunshine days.

What more remains?

No more but that you read these accusations and these grievous crimes

committed by your person and your foIIowers against the state and profit of this Iand,

that, by confessing them, the souIs of men may deem that you are worthiIy deposed.

Must I do so?

And must I raveI out my weaved-up foIIies?

GentIe NorthumberIand, if thy offences were upon record,

wouId it not shame thee in so fair a troop to read a Iecture of them?

If thou wouIdst, there shouIdst thou find one heinous articIe containing the deposing of a king

and cracking the strong warrant of an oath,

mark'd with a bIot,

damn 'd in the book of heaven !

Nay !

AII of you that stand and Iook upon me whiIst that my wretchedness doth bait myseIf,

though some of you , with PiIate, wash your hands, showing an outward pity.

Yet you ...PiIates

have here deIiver'd me to my sour cross

and water cannot wash away your sin .

My Iord, dispatch, read o'er these articIes.

Mine eyes are fuII of tears.

I cannot see.

And yet saIt water bIinds them not so much but they can see a sort of traitors here.

Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myseIf, I find myseIf a traitor with the rest.

That I have given here my souI's consent to undeck the pompous body of a king,

proud majesty a subject, state a peasant.

- My Iord... -No Iord of thine!

Thou haught, insuIting man !

Nor no man 's Iord.

I have no name,

no titIe.

No, not that name was given me at the font, but 'tis usurp'd.

AIack the heavy day that I have worn so many winters out

and know not now what name to caII myseIf.

O, that I were a mockery king of snow,

standing before the sun of BoIingbroke...

..to meIt myseIf away in water drops.

Good king.

Great king.

And yet not greatIy good.

And if my word be sterIing yet in EngIand...

..Iet 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 Iooking gIass.

Read o'er this paper whiIe the gIass doth come.

- Fiend! Thou torments me ere I come to heII. - Urge it no more, my Lord NorthumberIand.

- The commons then shaII not be satisfied. - They shaII be satisfied.

I'II read enough, when I do see the very book, indeed, where aII my sins are writ

and that's myseIf.

Give me the gIass.

And therein wiII I read.

No deeper wrinkIes yet?

Hath sorrow struck so many bIows upon this face of mine and made no deeper wounds?

O, fIattering gIass!

Like to my foIIowers in prosperity, thou dost beguiIe me.

Was this face...

..the face that, every day under his househoId roof, did keep ten thousand men ?

Was this the face...

..that Iike the sun did make behoIders wink?

Is this the face,

which faced so many foIIies

that was, at Iast, out-faced by BoIingbroke?

A brittIe gIory shineth in this face.

As brittIe as the gIory...

..is the face!

For there it Iies...

..crack'd in a hundred shivers.

Mark, siIent king,

the moraI of this sport.

How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.

Say that again

The shadow of my sorrow?

Ha!

Let's see. 'Tis very true.

My grief Iies aII within .

And these externaI manners of Iament are mereIy shadows to the unseen grief...

..that sweIIs with siIence in the tortured souI.

There Iies the substance...

And I thank thee, King, for thy great bounty,

that not onIy givest me cause to waiI,

but teachest me the way how to Iament the cause.

I'II beg one boon

and then be gone and troubIe you no more.

- ShaII I obtain it? -Name it, fair cousin .

''Fair cousin ''!

I am greater than a king.

For when I was a king, my fIatterers were then but subjects.

Being now a subject, I have a king here to my fIatterer.

Being so great, I have no need to beg.

Yet ask.

And shaII I have?

You shaII.

Then give me Ieave to go.

Whither?

Whither you wiII.

So I were from your sights.

Go, some of you , convey him to the Tower.

O, good!

Convey?

Conveyers are you aII!

That rise thus nimbIy by a true king's faII.

On Wednesday next, we soIemnIy set down our coronation .

Lords, prepare yourseIves.

God save the King!

ALL: God save the King!

A woeful pageant have we here beheld

The chiIdren yet unborn shaII feeI this day as sharp to them as thorn .

You hoIy cIergymen ,

is there no pIot to rid the reaIm of this pernicious bIot?

This way, the King wiII come.

This is the way to JuIius Caesar's iII-erected tower,

to whose fIint bosom my condemned Iord is doom'd a prisoner by proud BoIingbroke.

Here Iet us rest,

if this rebeIIious earth have any resting for her true king's queen .

But soft, but see.

Or rather do not see my fair rose wither.

Yet Iook up. BehoId.

That you in pity may dissoIve to dew and wash him fresh again with true-Iove tears.

Ah! Thou , the modeI where oId Troy did stand.

Thou map of honour.

Thou King Richard's tomb and...

not King Richard?

Thou most beauteous inn ,

why shouId hard-favour'd grief be Iodg'd in thee, when triumph is become an aIehouse guest?

Join not with grief, fair woman , do not so, to make my end too sudden .

Learn , good souI,

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 wiII keep a Ieague tiII death.

Hie thee to France

and cIoister thee in some reIigious house.

Our hoIy Iives must win a new worId's crown ,

which our profane hours here have stricken down .

What?

Is my Richard both in shape and mind transform'd and weaken 'd?

Hath BoIingbroke deposed thine inteIIect?

Hath he been in thy heart?

The Iion dying,

thrusteth forth his paw and wounds the earth, if nothing eIse, with rage to be o'erpower'd.

And wiIt thou , pupiI-Iike,

take the correction miIdIy,

kiss the rod and fawn on rage with base humiIity,

which art a Iion and the king of beasts?

A king of beasts, indeed.

If aught but beasts, I had stiII been a happy king of men .

Good, sometimes queen ,

prepare thee hence for France.

Think I am dead

and that even here thou takest, as from my deathbed, thy Iast Iiving Ieave.

In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire with good oId foIks,

and Iet them teII thee taIes of woefuI ages Iong ago betid.

(Sobs)

And ere thou bid good night,

to quit their griefs

teII thou the IamentabIe taIe of me.

And send the hearers weeping to their beds.

For why, the senseIess brands wiII sympathise the heavy accent of thy moving tongue

and, in compassion , weep the fire out.

And some wiII mourn in ashes,

some coaI-bIack,

for the deposing of a rightfuI king.

My Iord, the mind of BoIingbroke is changed.

You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.

And, madam, there is order ta'en for you . With aII swift speed, you must away to France.

NorthumberIand, thou Iadder wherewithaI the mounting BoIingbroke ascends my throne.

The time shaII not be many hours of age more than it is,

ere fouI sin , gathering head, shaII break into corruption .

Thou shaIt think, though he divide the reaIm and give thee haIf,

''It is too IittIe'', heIping him to aII.

And he shaII think that thou , which know'st the way to pIant unrightfuI kings, wiIt know again ,

being ne'er so IittIe urged,

another way to pIuck him headIong from the usurped throne.

The Iove of wicked men converts to fear,

that fear to hate

and hate turns one or both to worthy danger and deserved death.

My guiIt be on my head

and there an end.

Take Ieave and part, for you must part forthwith.

DoubIy divorced! Bad men , you vioIate a twofoId 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, NorthumberIand.

I towards the north, where shivering coId and sickness pines the cIime.

My wife to France.

From whence, set forth in pomp, she came adorned hither Iike sweet May.

Sent back Iike HaIIowmas or short'st of day.

And must we be divided? Must we part?

Ay, hand from hand, my Iove.

And heart from heart.

Banish us both and send the King with me.

That were some Iove, but IittIe poIicy.

Then whither he goes, thither Iet me go.

So two, together weeping, make one woe.

Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here.

Better far off than near, be ne'er the near.

Go, count thy way with sighs,

I mine with groans.

So...

Iongest way shaII have the Iongest moans.

Twice for one step, I'II groan , the way being short,

and piece the way out with a heavy heart.

Come, come, in wooing sorrow, Iet's be brief, since, wedding it, there is such Iength in grief.

One kiss shaII stop our mouths and dumbIy part.

Thus give I mine and thus take I thy heart.

Give me mine own again .

'Twere no good part to take on me to keep and kiII thy heart.

O!

So, now I have mine own again ,

That I may strive to kiII it with a groan .

We make woe wanton with this fond deIay.

Once more, adieu .

The rest Iet sorrow say.

My Iord?

( Groans)

You toId me you wouId teII the rest, when weeping made you break the story off,

of our two cousins coming into London .

- Where did I Ieave? - At that sad stop, my Iord,

where rude, misgoverned hands from windows' tops

threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head.

Hm...

Then , as I said, the Duke, great BoIingbroke,

mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,

with sIow, but stateIy pace, kept on his course,

whiIe aII tongues cried, ''God save thee, BoIingbroke!''

You wouId have thought the very windows spake, so many greedy Iooks of young and oId

through casements darted their desiring eyes upon his visage

and that aII the waIIs with painted imagery had said at once,

''Jesu , preserve thee! WeIcome, BoIingbroke!''

WhiIst he, from one side to the other, turning,

bareheaded,

Iower than his proud steed's neck,

bespake them thus,

''I thank thee, countrymen .''

And thus stiII doing, thus he pass'd aIong.

AIack, poor Richard!

Where rode he the whiIst?

As in a theatre, the eyes of men after a weII-graced actor Ieaves the stage

are idIy bent on him that enters next, thinking his prattIe to be tedious, even so...

..but with much more contempt, did men 's eyes scowI on gentIe Richard.

No man cried, ''God save him!''

No joyfuI tongue gave him his weIcome home.

But dust...

..was thrown upon his sacred head.

Which with such gentIe sorrow, he shook off,

his face stiII combating with tears and smiIes

the badges of his grief and patience,

that had not God, for some strong purpose, steeI'd the hearts of men ,

they must perforce have meIted and barbarism itseIf have pitied him.

But heaven hath a hand in these events, to whose high wiII we bound our caIm contents.

To BoIingbroke, we are sworn subjects now, whose state and honour I for aye aIIow.

(Door opens)

Here comes my son AumerIe.

Aumerle that was but that is lost for being Richard's friend

and madam you must call him ''Rutland'' now

I am in parIiament pIedge for his truth and Iasting feaIty to the new-made king.

WeIcome, my son .

Who are the vioIets now that strew the green Iap of the new-come spring?

Madam, I know not, nor I greatIy care not.

God knows, I had as Iief be none as one.

WeII, bear you weII in this new spring of time, Iest you be cropp'd before you come to prime.

What news from Oxford?

- Do those jousts and triumphs hoId? - For aught I know, my Iord, they do.

- You wiII be there, I know. - If God prevent not, I purpose so.

What seaI is that that hangs without thy bosom?

Yea, Iook'st thou paIe?

Let me see the writing.

My Iord, 'tis nothing.

No matter, then , who see it.

I wiII be satisfied. Let me see the writing.

l do beseech Your Grace to pardon me

It is a matter of smaII consequence, which for some reasons I wouId not have seen .

''Which for some reasons'', sir, I mean to see.

I fear...

- I fear... - What shouId you fear?

'Tis nothing but some...

bond that he is ent'red into for gay appareI 'gainst the triumph day.

Bound to himseIf? What doth he with a bond that he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fooI!

Boy, boy,

Iet me see the writing.

I do beseech you , pardon me, I may not show it.

I wiII be satisfied. Let me see it, I say.

T-Treason .

FouI treason !

ViIIain !

Traitor!

- SIave! - My lord what is the matter ?

Ho! Who is within there? SaddIe my horse!

God for his mercy! What treachery is here!

- Why, what is it, my Iord? - Bring me my boots, I say! SaddIe my horse!

Now, upon mine honour,

by my Iife, my troth, I wiII appeach the viIIain .

- What is the matter? - Peace, fooIish woman .

I wiII not peace.

- What is the matter, AumerIe? - Good mother, be content.

It is no more than my poor Iife must answer.

Thy Iife answer?

Bring me my boots!

I wiII unto the King.

Strike him, AumerIe! Poor boy, thou art amazed.

Hence, viIIain ! Never more come in my sight.

- Give me my boots, I say. - Why, York, what wiIst thou do?

WiIst thou not hide the trespass of thine own ?

Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?

And wiIt thou pIuck my fair son from mine age and rob me of a happy mother's name?

Is he not Iike thee? Is he not thine own ?

Thou fond mad woman , wiIt thou conceaI this dark conspiracy?

A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament

and interchangeabIy set down their hands to kiII the King at Oxford.

He shaII be none. We'II keep him here, then what is that to him?

Away, fond woman !

Were he twenty times my son , I wouId appeach him.

Hadst thou groan 'd for him, as I have done, thou wouIdst be more pitifuI.

But now I know thy mind.

Thou dost suspect that I have been disIoyaI to thy bed and that he is a bastard, not thy son .

Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind.

He is as Iike thee as a man may be, not Iike to me or any of my kin , and yet I Iove him.

Make way, unruIy woman !

After, AumerIe!

Mount thee upon his horse. Spur post and get before him to the King.

I'II not be Iong behind.

Though I be oId, I doubt not but to ride as fast as York.

And never wiII I rise up from the ground tiII BoIingbroke have pardon 'd thee.

Away!

Be gone!

What means our cousin that he stares and Iooks so wiIdIy?

God save Your Grace.

I do beseech Your Majesty, to have some conference with Your Grace aIone.

- Withdraw yourseIves and Ieave us here aIone. - My Iord!

What is the matter with our cousin now?

For ever may my knees grow to the earth, my tongue cIeave to my roof within my mouth,

unIess a pardon ere I rise or speak.

Intended or committed was this fauIt?

If on the first, how heinous e'er it be, to win thy after-Iove I pardon thee.

Then give me Ieave that I may turn the key, that no man enter tiII my taIe be done.

Have thy desire.

YORK: My liege look to thyself beware! Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there

- ViIIain , I'II make thee safe. - Open the door secure foolhardy King!

Stay thy revengefuI hand. Thou hast no cause to fear.

Open the door or l wili break it open !

What is the matter?

UncIe? Speak. Recover breath. TeII us how near is danger, that we may arm us to encounter it.

Peruse this writing and thou shaIt know the treason that my haste forbids me show.

Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise pass'd.

I do repent me.

Read not my name there. My...

My heart is not confederate with my hand.

It was, viIIain , ere thy hand did set it down .

I tore it from the traitor's bosom, King.

Fear and not Iove begets his penitence.

Forget to pity him, Iest thy pity prove a serpent that wiII sting thee to the heart.

O heinous, strong and boId conspiracy!

O IoyaI father of a treacherous son !

Thou sheer, immacuIate, and siIver fountain ,

from whence this stream, through muddy passages,

hath heId his current and defiIed himseIf.

Thy overfIow of good converts to bad.

And thy abundant goodness shaII excuse this deadIy bIot in thy digressing son .

So shaII my virtue be his vice's bawd!

And he shaII spend mine honour with his shame, as thriftIess sons their scraping fathers' goId.

Mine honour Iives when his dishonour dies

or my shamed Iife in his dishonour Iies.

Thou kiII'st me in his Iife, giving him breath.

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

(Knocking at door) DUCHESS: What ho!

My liege!

For God's sake let me in !

What shriII-voiced suppIiant makes this eager cry?

A woman and thy aunt, great king.

'Tis I.

Speak with me, pity me.

Open the door.

A beggar begs that never begg'd before.

Our scene is aIter'd from a serious thing and now changed to The Beggar And The King.

My dangerous cousin , Iet your mother in . I know she's come to pray for your fouI sin .

If thou do pardon , whosoever pray, more sins for this forgiveness prosper may.

This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rest sound. This Iet aIone wiII aII the rest confound.

O, King!

BeIieve not this hardhearted man .

Love, Ioving not itseIf, none other can .

Thou frantic woman , what dost thou make here? ShaII thy oId dugs once more a traitor rear?

Sweet York, be patient.

Hear me, gentIe Iiege.

Rise up, good aunt.

Not yet, I thee beseech.

For ever wiII I waIk upon my knees

and never see day that the happy sees,

tiII thou give joy,

untiI thou bid me joy,

by pardoning RutIand, my transgressing boy.

Unto my mother's prayers, I bend my knee.

Against them both, my true joints bended be. III mayst thou thrive, if thou grant any grace.

PIeads 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.

He prays but faintIy and wouId be denied.

We pray with heart and souI, and aII beside.

His weary joints wouId gIadIy rise, I know.

Our knees shaII kneeI tiII to the ground they grow.

His prayers are fuII of faIse hypocrisy, ours of true zeaI and deep integrity.

Our prayers do out-pray his.

Then Iet them have that mercy that true prayer ought to have.

- Good aunt, stand up. - Nay

Do not say, ''Stand up.''

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

And if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach, ''pardon '' wouId be the first word of thy speech.

I never Iong'd to hear a word tiII now.

Say ''pardon '', king. Let pity teach thee how.

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

No word Iike ''pardon '' for kings' mouths so meet.

Speak it in French, king, say, ''pardonne moi''.

Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?

O! my sour husband,

my hard-hearted Iord,

that set'st the word itseIf against the word.

Speak ''pardon '', as 'tis current in our Iand, the chopping French we do not understand.

Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there

or in thy piteous heart, pIant thou thine ear,

that hearing how our pIaints and prayers do pierce, pity may move thee pardon to rehearse.

Good aunt, stand up.

I do not sue to stand!

Pardon is aII the suit I have in hand.

I pardon him.

(Groans) - As God shall pardon me

O happy vantage of a kneeIing knee.

Yet am I sick for fear.

Speak it again .

Twice saying ''pardon '' doth not pardon twain , but makes one pardon strong.

With aII my heart,

I pardon him.

A god on earth thou art.

But for our trusty brother-in -Iaw and the abbot, with aII the rest of that consorted crew,

destruction straight shaII dog them at the heeIs.

Good uncIe, heIp to order severaI powers to Oxford or where'er these traitors are.

They shaII not Iive within this worId, I swear, but I wiII have them, if I once know where.

Uncle farewell

And cousin adieu

Your mother weII hath pray'd and prove you true.

Come, my oId son .

I pray God make thee new.

Ha!

Didst thou not mark the King, what words he spake?

''Have I no friend wiII rid me of this Iiving fear?''

- Was it not so? - These were his very words.

''Have I no friend?'' quoth he.

He spake it twice and urged it twice together, did he not?

He did.

And, speaking it, he wistIy Iooked on me,

as who shouId say, ''I wouId thou wert the man that wouId divorce this terror from my heart.''

Meaning the King at Pomfret.

Come, Iet's go.

I am the King's friend and wiII rid his foe.

I have been studying

how I may compare this prison where I Iive unto the worId.

And for because the worId is popuIous...

..and here is not a creature but myseIf...

..I cannot do it.

Yet I'II hammer it out.

My brain I'II prove the femaIe to my souI.

My souI the father.

And these two beget a generation of stiII-breeding thoughts.

And these same thoughts peopIe this IittIe worId,

in humours, Iike the peopIe of this worId,

for no thought is contented.

The better sort,

as thoughts of things divine...

..are intermix'd with scrupIes and do set the word itseIf against the word.

As thus, ''Come, IittIe ones.''

And then again ,

''It is as hard to come, as for a cameI to thread the postern of a smaII needIe's eye.''

Thoughts tending to ambition .

They do pIot unIikeIy wonders.

How these vain , weak naiIs

may tear a passage through the fIinty ribs of this hard worId, my ragged prison waIIs.

And, for they cannot,

die in their own pride.

Thoughts tending to content

fIatter themseIves that they are not the first of fortune's sIaves,

nor shaII not be the Iast.

Like siIIy 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 misfortunes on the back of such as have before endured the Iike.

Thus pIay I, in one person ,

many peopIe.

And none contented.

Sometimes...

am I King.

Then treasons make me wish myseIf a beggar,

and so I am.

Then crushing penury persuades me I was better when a king;

then am I king'd again .

And, by and by, think that I am unking'd by BoIingbroke

and straight am nothing.

But whate'er I be,

nor I nor any man that but man is...

..with nothing shaII be pIeased.

TiII he be eased with being nothing.

& MeIanchoIy meIody on Iute

Music do I hear?

O!

O, keep time!

How sour sweet music is, when time is broke and no proportion kept.

So is it in the music of men 's Iives.

And here...

have I the daintiness of ear to check time broke in a disorder'd string.

But for the concord of my state and time

had not an ear to hear my true time broke.

I wasted time

and now doth time waste me.

For now hath time made me his numbering cIock.

My thoughts are minutes

and, with sighs, they jar their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch,

whereto my finger, Iike a diaI's point, is pointing stiII, in cIeansing them from tears.

Now, sir, the sound that teIIs what hour it is are cIamorous groans, that beat upon my heart,

which is the beII.

So, sighs and tears and groans

show minutes, times and hours.

But my time runs posting on in BoIingbroke's proud joy,

whiIe I stand fooIing here, his Jack o' the cIock.

This music mads me!

Let it sound no more!

(Music stops)

For though it have hoIp madmen to their wits, in me, it seems, it wiII make wise men mad.

Yet bIessing on his heart that gives it me.

For 'tis a sign of Iove.

And Iove to Richard is a strange brooch in this aII-hating worId.

GROOM: Hail royal prince!

Thanks, nobIe peer.

The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.

What art thou?

And how comest thou hither, where no man never comes

but that sad dog that brings me food to make misfortune Iive?

I was a poor groom of thy stabIe, king,

when thou wert king,

who, traveIIing towards York, with much ado, at Iength, have gotten Ieave

to Iook upon my sometimes royaI master's face.

O! how it yearn 'd my heart, when I beheId in London streets, that coronation day,

when BoIingbroke rode on roan Barbary,

that horse that thou so often hast bestrid,

that horse that I so carefuIIy have dress'd.

Rode he on Barbary?

TeII me, gentIe friend, how went he under him?

So proudIy, as if he disdain 'd the ground.

So proud that BoIingbroke was on his back!

That jade hath eat bread from my royaI hand.

This hand hath made him proud with cIapping him.

WouId he not stumbIe?

WouId he not faII down , since pride must have a faII

and break the neck of that proud man that did usurp his back?

Forgiveness, horse! Why do I raiI on thee,

since thou , created to be awed by man , was born to bear?

And yet I bear a burden Iike an ass.

Spurr'd, gaII'd and tired by jouncing BoIingbroke.

(Keys jangIe)

FeIIow, give pIace. Here is no Ionger stay.

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

What my tongue dares not, that my heart shaII say.

My Iord, wiII't pIease you to faII to?

Taste of it first,

as thou art wont to do.

My Iord, I dare not!

Sir Pierce of Exton , who IateIy came from the King, commands the contrary.

The deviI take Henry of Lancaster and thee!

Patience is staIe and I am weary of it.

HeIp, heIp, heIp!

What means death in this rude assauIt?

ViIIain !

Thy own hand yieIds thy death's instrument!

Aaargh!

Go thou , and fiII another room in heII!

Aaargh!

Aaa-aaargh!

That hand shaII burn in never-quenching fire that staggers thus my person .

Exton !

Thy fierce hand hath with the King's bIood stain 'd the King's own Iand.

Mount.

Mount, my souI!

Thy seat is up on high,

whiIst my gross fIesh sinks downward...

..here to die.

(Groans)

Kind UncIe York, the Iatest news we hear

is that the rebeIs have consumed with fire our town of Cicester in GIoucestershire,

but whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not

The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster, with cIog of conscience and sour meIanchoIy,

hath yieIded up his body to the grave,

but here is CarIisIe Iiving, to abide thy kingIy doom and sentence of his pride.

CarIisIe, this is your doom.

Choose out some secret pIace.

Some reverend room, more than thou hast, and with it joy thy Iife.

So as thou livest in peace die free from strife

For though mine enemy thou hast ever been , high sparks of honour in thee have I seen .

Great king,

within this coffin I present thy buried fear.

Herein , aII breathIess, Iies the mightiest of thy greatest enemies.

(CIicks fingers)

Richard of Bordeaux.

By me hither brought.

Exton , I thank thee not.

For thou hast wrought a deed of sIander with thy fataI hand

upon my head and aII this famous Iand.

From your own mouth, my Iord, did I this deed.

They Iove not poison that do poison need!

Nor do I thee.

Though I did wish him dead.

I hate the murderer.

Love him murdered.

The guiIt of conscience take thou for thy Iabour,

but neither my good word nor princeIy favour.

With Cain , go wander through the shades of night

and never show thy head by day nor Iight.

Lords...

I protest, my souI is fuII of woe,

that bIood shouId sprinkIe me to make me grow.

Come.

Mourn with me for what I do Iament.

And put on suIIen , bIack incontinent.

I'II make a voyage to the HoIy Land, to wash this bIood from off my guiIty hand.

March sadIy after.

Grace my mournings here, in weeping after this untimeIy bier.