York. To do that office of thine own good will,
Which tired Majefty did make thee offer:
The Refignation of thy State and Crown.
K. Rich. Give me the Crown.-Here, coufin, feize
the Crown,
Here, on this fide, my hand; on that fide, thine.
Now is this golden Crown like a deep well,
That owes two buckets, filling one another;
The emptier ever dancing in the air,
The other down, unfeen and full of water;
That bucket down, and full of tears, am I;
Drinking my griefs, whilft you mount up on high.
Boling. I thought you had been willing to refign.
K. Rich. My Crown, I am; but ftill my griefs are
mine:
You may my Glories, and my State depofe,
But not my griefs; ftill am I King of those.
Boling. Part of your cares you give me with your
Crown.
K. Rich. Your cares, fet up, do not pluck my cares down.
My care, is lofs of care, by old care done;
Your care, is gain of care, by new care won.
The cares I give, I have, though given away;
They tend the Crown, yet ftill with me they stay.
Boling. Are you contented to refign the Crown?
K. Rich. Ay, no;-no, ay;-for I muft Nothing be:
Therefore no No; for I refign to thee.
Now, mark me how I will undo my self;"
I give this heavy weight from off my head;
And this unweildy Scepter from my hand;
The pride of kingly fway from out my heart;
With mine own tears I wash away my
Balm;
With mine own hands I give away my Crown;
With mine own tongue deny my facred State;
With mine own breath release all dutious oaths.
All pomp and majesty I do forfwear :
My manors, rents, revenues, I forego:
My acts, decrees, and ftatutes I deny :
God pardon all oaths, that are broke to me!
God keep all vows unbroke, are made to thee!
Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd,
And thou with all pleas'd, that haft all atchiev'd!
Long may'ft thou live in Richard's Seat to fit,
And foon lye Richard in an earthly pit!
God fave King Henry, unking'd Richard fays,
And send him many years of fun-shine days!
What more remains?
North. No more; but that you read
Thefe accufations, and thefe grievous crimes
Committed by your perfon, and your followers,
Against the State and Profit of this Land:
That, by confeffing them, the fouls of men
May deem that you are worthily depos'd.
K. Rich. Muft I do fo? and muft I ravel out
My weav'd-up follies? Gentle Northumberland,
If thy offences were upon record,
Would it not fhame thee, in so fair a troop,
To read a lecture of them if thou would'ft,
There fhould'ft thou find one heinous article,
Containing the depofing of a King;
And cracking the ftrong warrant of an oath,
Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heav'n.
Nay, all of you, that ftand and look upon me,
Whilft that my wretchednefs doth bait my felf,
Though fome of you with Pilate wash your hands,
Shewing an outward pity; yet you Pilates
Have here deliver'd me to my fow'r Crofs,
And water cannot wash away your fin.
North. My lord, dispatch; read o'er thefe articles. K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears: I cannot fee: And yet falt-water blinds them not fo much, But they can fee a Sort of traitors here. Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon my self, I find my self a traitor with the reft: For I have given here my foul's confent, T'undeck the pompous body of a King; Made Glory bafe; a Sovereign a flave; Proud Majefty, a fubject: State, a peasant. North. My lord
K. Rich. No lord of thine, thou haught-insulting
Nor no man's lord: I have no Name, no Title;
No, not that Name was giv'n me at the Font,
But 'tis ufurp'd. Alack, the heavy day,
That I have worn fo many winters out,
And know not now, what name to call my self!
Oh, that I were a mockery-King of fnow,
Standing before the Sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt my felf away in water-drops!
Good King,-great King,- (and yet not greatly good,)
An if my word be fterling yet in England,
Let it command à mirror hither ftraight,
That it may fhew me what a face I have,
Since it is, bankrupt of his Majefty.
Boling. Go fome of you, and fetch a looking-glass.
North. Read o'er this paper, while the glass doth
K. Rich. Fiend, thou torment'st me, ere I come to
Boling. Urge it no more, my lord Northumberland.
North. The Commons will not then be fatisfy'd.
K. Rich. They fhall be fatisfy'd: I'll read enough,
When I do fee the very Book, indeed,
Where all my fins are writ, and that's my self.
Enter One, with a Glass.
Give me that Glass, and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? hath Sorrow ftruck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds? oh, flatt'ring Glass
Like to my Followers in profperity,
Thou doft beguile me. Was this face, the face
That every day under his houfhold roof
Did keep ten thousand men? was this the face,
That, like the Sun, did make beholders wink?
Is this the face, which fac'd so many follies,
That was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A brittle Glory fhineth in this face;
[Dafbes the Glafs against the Ground.
As brittle, as the glory, is the face;
For there it is, crackt in an hundred fhivers.
Mark, filent King, the Moral of this fport;
How foon my forrow hath destroy'd my face.
Boling. The fhadow of your forrow hath deftroy'd
The fhadow of your face.
K. Rich. Say That again:
The shadow of my forrow! ha, let's fee;
'Tis very true, my grief lies all within;
And these external manners of laments
Are merely fhadows to the unfeen grief,
That fwells with filence in the tortur'd foul.
There lies the substance: and I thank thee, King,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st
Me caufe to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the caufe. I'll beg one boon;
And then be gone, and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?
Boling. Name it, fair Coufin.
K. Rich. Fair Coufin! I am greater than a King: For when I was a King, my flatterers
Were then but Subjects; being now a Subject,
I have a King here to my flatterer:
Being fo great, I have no need to beg.
Boling. Yet ask.
K. Rich. And fhall I have?
Boling. You fhall.
K. Rich. Then give me leave to go,
K. Rich. Whither you will, fo I were from your fight. Boling. Go Some of you, convey him to the Tower. K. Rich. Oh, good! convey:
That rife thus nimbly by a true King's Fall.
Boling. On Wednesday next we folemnly fet down Our Coronation: lords, prepare your felves.
[Ex. all but Abbot, Bishop of Carlisle and Aumerle. Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here beheld. Bishop. The woe's to come; the children yet unborn Shall feel this day as fharp to them as thorn.
Aum. You holy Clergy-men, is there no Plot
To rid the Realm of this pernicious blot?
Abbot. Before I freely speak my mind herein,
You shall not only take the Sacrament,
To bury mine intents, but to effect
Whatever I shall happen to devife.
I fee, your brows are full of discontent,
Your hearts of forrow, and your eyes of tears.
Come home with me to fupper, and I'll lay
A Plot, fhall fhew us all a merry day.
Enter Queen, and Ladies.
Qu E E N.
HIS way the King will come: this is the way
To Julius Cæfar's ill-erected Tow'r;
To whose flint bofom my condemned lord
Is doom'd a prifoner, by proud Bolingbroke.
Here let us reft, if this rebellious earth
Have any Refting for her true King's Queen.
Enter King Richard, and Guards.
But foft, but fee, or rather do not see,
My fair rose wither; yet look up; behold,
That you in pity may diffolve to dew,
And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.
O thou, the model where old Troy did ftand,
[To K. Rich.
Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb,
And not King Richard; thou most beauteous Inn,
Why fhould hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee,
When Triumph is become an ale-house Gueft?
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