Enter Northumberland.

North. My lord, the mind of Bullingbrooke is changd, You must to Pomfret, not vnto the tower.

And madam, there is order tane for you,

With all swift speed you muft away to France.
King. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithall
The mounting Bullingbrooke afcends my throne.
The time fhall not be many houres of age
More then it is, ere foule finne gathering head,
Shall breake into corruption, thou shalt thinke,
Though he deuide the realme, and giue thee halfe,
It is too little, helping him to all:

He shall thinke, that thou which knowft the way
To plant vnrightfull kings, will know againe,
Beeing nere fo little vrgd another way,

To plucke him headlong from the vsurped throne,
The loue of wicked men * conuerts to feare,
That feare, to hate; and hate turnes one or both
To worthy danger and deferued death.

North. My guilt be on my head, and there an end:
Take leaue and part, for you must part foorthwith.

King. Doubly diuorc't (bad men) you violate
A twofold mariage, betwixt † my crowne and me,
And then betwixt me, and my married wife.
Let me vnkisse the oath betwixt thee and me:
And yet not fo, for with a kiffe t'was made,
Part vs Northumberland, I towards the north,
Where shiuering cold and fickenesse pines the clime:
My wife to France, from whence fet foorth in pompe,
She came adorned hither, like fweete May,

Sent backe like Hollowmas, or fhortst of day.

Que. And muft we be deuided? must we part?

King. I, hand from hand (my loue) and heart from heart *friends. † twixt.

Queen.

Queen. Banish vs both, and fend the king with me.
King. That were fome loue, but little policie.
Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me goe.

King. So two togither weeping, make one woe;
Weepe for me in France, I for thee here,

*

Better farre off then neere be neare † the neere:
Goe count thy way with fighes, I mine with groanes.
Queen. So longeft way shall haue the longest moanes.
King. Twife for one step Ile grone, the way being short,
And peece the way out with a heauie heart.

Come, come, in wooing forrow lets be briefe,

Since wedding it, there is fuch length in griefe:
One kiffe shall stoppe our mouthes, and doubly part,
Thus giue I mine, and thus take I thy heart.

Queen. Giue me my owne againe, twere no good part,
To take on me to keepe, and kill thy heart.

So now I haue mine owne againe, be gone,
That I may ftriue to kill it with a groane.

King. We make woe wanton with this fond delay,
Once more adew, the reft let forrow say.

Enter duke of Yorke and the dutcheffe.

Exeunt.t

Dut. My lord, you told me you would tell the reft,
When weeping made you breake the story |
Of our two coofins comming into London.

Yorke. Where did I leaue ?

Dutc. At that fad stop my lord,

Where rude mifgouernd hands from windowes tops,
Threw duft and rubbish on king Richards head.
Yorke. Then (as I faid) the duke great Bullingbrooke,

Mounted vpon a hote and fierie steede,

Which his afpiring rider feemd to know
With flow, but stately pace kept on his course,
• thou for. + nere. ‡ Scena Secunda.

While all tongues cride, God faue the * Bullingbrooke,
You would haue thought the very windowes fpake:
So many greedy lookes of young and old,
Through cafements darted their defiring eyes
Vpon his vifage, and that all the walles,
With painted imagery had fayd at once,
lefu preferue the* welcome Bullingbrooke,
Whilft he from the one fide to the other turning
Bare-headed, lower then his proud steeds necke
Befpake them thus, I thanke you countrymen :
And thus ftill doing, thus he past along.

Du. Alacke poore Richard, where rides he the whilst ?
Yorke. As ina theater the eyes of men,
After a well graced actor leaues the stage,
Are idlely bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Euen fo, or with much more contempt mens eyes

Did fcoule on gentle † Richard, no man cried God faue him:
No ioyfull tongue gaue him his welcome home,
But duft was throwne vpon his facred head;
Which with fuch gentle forrow he shooke off,
His face still combating with teares and smiles,
The badges of his griefe and patience;

That had not God for fome ftrong purpose steeld
The hearts of men, they muft perforce haue melted,
And barbarifme it felfe haue pittied him:

But heauen hath a hand in thefe euents,

To whofe high will we bound our calme contents,
To Bullingbrooke are we fworne fubie&t now,
Whofe ftate and honour I for aye all vw.

Dut. Heere comes my fonne Arerle.

Enter Aum.

Yorke. Aumerle that was,

But that is loft, for being Richards friend:
And madam, you must call him Rutland now:
I am in parliament pledge for his trueth

And lafting fealtie to the new made king.

Dut Welcome my fonne, who art

the violets now, That ftrew the greene lappe of the new-come fpring.

Aum. Madam I know not nor I greatly care not, God knowes I had as liefe be none as one.

Yorke. Well, beare you well in this new fpring of time,

Leaft you be cropt before you come to prime.

What newes from Oxford? do thefe iufts and triumphs hold†?

Aum. For aught I know (my lord) they do.

Yorke. You will be there I know.

Aum. If God preuent not I purpose fo.

Yorke. What feale is that that hangs without thy bosome

Yea, lookft thou pale? let mee fee the writting.

Auw. My lord tis nothing.

Yorke. No matter then who fee it,

I will be fatisfied, let me fee the writting.

Aum. I do befeech your grace to pardon me,

It is a matter of fmall confequence,

Which for fome reafons I would not haue feene.

Yorke. Which for fome reafons (fir) I meane to fee. I feare, I feare.

Dut. What should you

feare?

Tis nothing but fome band that he is entred into

For gay apparrel against the triumph.

Yorke. Bound to himfelfe, what doth he with a bond

That he is bound to? wife, thou art || a foole;

Boy, let me fee the writting.

* arc.

tb.id thefe iufts and triumphs. fees.

you are.

Aum.

Aum. I do befeech you pardon me, I may not fhew it.
Yorke. I will be satisfied; let me fee it, I fay:

He pluckes it out of his bofome, and reads it.
Treafon, foule treafon : villaine, traytor, flaue.
Dut. What is the matter, my lord?

Yorke. Ho, who is within there? faddle my horse:
God for his mercy! what trechery is heere?
Du. Why, what is it my lord?

Yorke. Giue me my bootes I fay, fadle my horfe,
Now by mine honour, my life, my troth,

I will appeach the villaine.

Du. What is the matter?

Yorke. Peace folish woman.

Dutc. I will not peace, what is the matter Aumerle +?

Aum. Good mother be content, it is no more

Then my poore life muft anfwere.

Dutch. Thy life answere?

Yorke. Bring me my bootes, I will vnto the king.

His man enters with his bootes t.

Du. Strike him Aumerle, poore boy thou art amazd,
Hence villaine neuer more come in my fight.
Yorke. Giue me my bootes I say.

Du. Why Yorke, what wilt thou do?

Wilt not thou hide the trefpaffe of thine owne?
Haue we more fonnes? or are we like to haue?.
Is not my teeming date drunke vp with time?
And wilt thou plucke my faire fonne from mine age,
And robbe me of a happie mothers name?

Is he not like thee? is he not thine owne?

Yorke. Thou fond mad woman,

Wilt thou conceale this darke confpiracie?