SCENE I.-London. A Street leading to the Tower. Enter QUEEN and Ladies. Queen. This way the King will come: this is the way To Julius Cæsar's ill-erected tower, To whose flint bosom my condemned lord Enter KING RICHARD and Guards. But soft, but see, or rather do not see, And wash him fresh again with true-love tears!- K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul, Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France, Transformed and weakened? Hath Bolingbroke Deposed thine intellect? Hath he been in thy heart? The lion, dying, thrusteth forth his paw, And fawn on rage with base humility, I had been still a happy king of men. And ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief, Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, attended. North. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is changed: You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower. withal The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne, Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head. York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed Which his aspiring rider seemed to know, You would have thought the very windows spake, Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rides he the while? York. As, in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious, Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did scowl on Richard. No man cried, God save him : No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home : That had not God, for some strong purpose, steeled The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him. Enter AUMERle. Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle. York. Aumerle that was: But that is lost, for being Richard's friend; And, madam, you must call him Rutland now. I am, in parliament, pledged for his truth And lasting fealty to the new-made king. Duch. Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now That strew the green lap of the new-come spring? Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not: God knows I had as lief be none as one. York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time, Lest you be cropped before you come to prime. What news from Oxford? hold those jousts and triumphs? Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do. York. You will be there, I know. Aum. If God prevent it not: I purpose so. York. What seal is that that hangs without thy bosom? Yea, look'st thou pale? let me see the writing. Aum. My lord, 't is nothing. Duch. What should you fear? 'Tis nothing but some bond that he has entered into For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day. York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.Boy, let me see the writing. Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me : I may not shew it. York. I will be satisfied: let me see it, I say. [Snatches it, and reads. Treason; foul treason!-villain, traitor, slave! Duch. What is the matter, my lord? York. Ho! who is within there? [Enter a Servant.]-Saddle my horse. God for his mercy, what treachery is here! Duch. Why, what is it, my lord? York. Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse.[Exit Servant. Now by mine honour, by my life, my troth, I will appeach the villain. York. Give me my boots, I say. And rob me of a happy mother's name? A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament, Duch. He shall be none: Enter BOLINGBROKE as King; PERCY, and other Lords. Boling. Can no man tell of my unthrifty son? 'Tis full three months since I did see him last: If any plague hang over us, 't is he. I would to God, my lords, he might be found: O loyal father of a treacherous son; Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies, Or my shamed life in his dishonour lies. Thou kill'st me in his life: giving him breath, The traitor lives, the true man's put to death. Duch. [within]. What ho, my liege! for God's sake, let me in. Boling. What shrill-voiced suppliant makes this eager cry? Duch. A woman and thine aunt, great King: 't is I. Speak with me, pity me, open the door: A beggar begs that never begged before. Boling. Our scene is altered, from a serious thing, From whence this stream, through muddy passages, And now changed to "The Beggar and the Hath held his current and defiled himself! Thy overflow of good converts to bad; York. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd; And he shall spend mine honour with his shame, As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold. King." My dangerous cousin, let your mother in : |