The coast of Wales. A castle in view.

Flourish: drums and trumpets. Enter King RICHARD, Bishop of Carlisle, AUMERLE, and Soldiers.

K. Rich. Barkloughly castle call you this at hand?

Aum. Yea, my lord: How brooks your grace the air

After your late tossing on the breaking seas? K. Rich. Needs must I like it well; I weep for joy,

To stand upon my kingdom once again.
Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,
Though rebels wound thee with their horses*
hoofs:

As a long-parted mother with her child

Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meet

ing;

So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth,
And do thee favour with my royal hands.
Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth,
Nor with thy sweets comfort his rav'nous sense:
But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom,
And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way;
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet,
Which with usurping steps do trample thee.
Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies:

And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,
Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder;
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies.
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords;
This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king
Shall falter under foul rebellious arms.

Car. Fear not, my lord; that Power, that
made you king,

Hath power to keep you king, in spight of all.
The means that heaven yields must be embrac'd,
And not neglected; else, if heaven would,
And we will not, heaven's offer we refuse;
The proffer'd means of succour and redress.
Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too
remifs ;

Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security, Grows strong and great, in substance, and in friends.

K. Rich. Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou

not,

That, when the searching eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders, and in outrage, bloody here;
But when, from under this terrestrial ball,
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their
backs,

Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?
So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilst we were wand'ring with the antipodes,
Shall see us rising in our throne the east,
His treasons will sit blushing in his face,
Not able to endure the sight of day,
But, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm from an annointed king:
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord:

For every man that Bolingbroke hath prefs'd,
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,

1

God for his Richard hath in, heavenly 'pay
A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards the
right.

Enter SALISBURY.

Welcome, my lord; How far off lies your

power?

Sal. Nor near, nor further off, my gracions

lord,

Than this weak arm:

tongue,

Discomfort guides my

And bids me speak of nothing but despair.
One day too late, I fear, my noble lord,
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth:
O, call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting

men!

To-day, to-day, unhappy day, too late,
O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy

state;

For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers'd, and fled.
Aum. Comfort, my liege: Why looks your
grace so pale?

K. Rich. But now the blood of twenty thou
sand men

Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; And, till so much blood thither come again,

Have I not reason to look pale and dead? All souls that will be safe, fly from my side; For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

Aum. Comfort, my liege; remember who you

are.

4

K. Rich. I had forgot myself: Am I not king?
Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleep'st.
Is not the king's name forty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes

At thy great glory, Look not to the ground, Ye favourites of a king; Are we not high?

High be our thoughts: I know, my uncle York Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who Comes here?

Enter ScRoor.

Scroop. More health and happiness betide my

K. Rich.

liege,

Than can my care- tun'd tongue deliver him! Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar'd;

The worst is worldly lofs, thou canst unfold.
Say, is my kingdom lost? why, 'twas my care;
And what lofs is it, to be rid of care?

Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?
Greater he shall not be; if he serve God,
We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so:
Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend;
They break their faith to God, as well as usa
Cry, woe, destruction, ruin, lofs, decay;
The worst is death, and death will have his

--

day.

Scroop. Glad am I, that your highness is so

arm'd

To bear the tidings of calamity.

Like an unseasonable stormy day,

Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,

As if the world were all dissolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits swells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land
With hard bright steel, and hearts harder than

steel.

White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless

scalps

Against thy majesty; boys, with woman's voices, Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints

In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown:
Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal yew against thy state;
Yea, distaff women manage rusty bills

Against thy seat: both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have power to tell.

K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'st a tale

so ill.

Where is the earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
What is become of Bushy? where is Green?
That they have let the dangerous enemy

Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?
If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.
I warrant they have made peace with Boling-

broke.

Scroop. Peace have they made with him, indeed, my lord.

K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption !

man!

Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart!

Three Judasses, each one thrice worse than Judas!

Would they make peace? terrible hell make

war

Upon their spotted souls for this offence!

Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his pro

perty,

Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate : Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made; With heads, and not with hands: those whom

you curse,

Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound, And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground. Aum. Is Bushy, Green, and the earl of Wiltshire, dead?