The same.

SCENE II.

A Room in the Duke of York's Palace.

Enter YORK, and his Duchess.

Duch. My lord, you told me, you would tell the rest,

When weeping made you break the story off
Of our two cousins coming into London.
York. Where did I leave?
Duch.

At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgovern'd hands, from windows tops, 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 seem'd to know,-
With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course,
While all tongues cried-God save thee, Boling-
broke!

You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls,
With painted imag'ry, had said at once,9-
Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus,-I thank you, countrymen :
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

With painted imag'ry, had said at once,] Our author probably was thinking of the painted clothes that were hung in the streets, in the pageants that were exhibited in his own time; in which the figures sometimes had labels issuing from their mouths, containing sentences of gratulation.

Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rides he the

while?

York. As in a theatre,' the eyes of men, After a well-grac'd 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:
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,―

That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.

But heaven hath a hand in these events;
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow.

Enter AUMERLE.

Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle.

Aumerle that was;

York.
But that is lost, for being Richard's friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now :
I am in parliament pledge for his truth,
And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

1 As in a theatre, &c.] "The painting of this description (says Dryden, in his preface to Troilus and Cressida, is so lively, and the words so moving, that I have scarce read any thing comparable to it, in any other language.

2

Aumerle that was ;] The Dukes of Aumerle, Surrey, and Exeter, were, by an act of Henry's first parliament, deprived of their dukedoms, but were allowed to retain their earldoms of Rutland, Kent, and Huntingdon.

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 noné, as one.

York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,

Lest

you be cropp'd before you come to prime. What news from Oxford? hold those justs 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, 'tis nothing."

York.

No matter then who sees it:

I will be satisfied, let me see the writing.

Aum. I do beseech your grace to pardon me; It is a matter of small consequence,

Which for some reasons I would not have seen. York. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see. I fear, I fear,

What should you fear?

Duch. "Tis nothing but some bond that he is enter'd 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

show 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 :

Now by mine honour, by my life, my troth,

I will appeach the villain.

Duch.

Erit Servant.

What's the matter?

York. Peace, foolish woman.

Duch. I will not peace :-What is the matter,

son?

Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more Than my poor life must answer.

Duch.

Thy life answer?

Re-enter Servant, with Boots.

York. Bring me my boots, I will unto the king. Duch. Strike him, Aumerle.-Poor boy, thou art

amaz'd:

Hence, villain: never more come in my sight.—

[To the Servant. York. Give me my boots, I say. Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own? Have we more sons? or are we like to have? Is not my teeming date drunk up with time? And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age, And rob me of a happy mother's name? Is he not like thee? is he not thine own? York. Thou fond mad woman,

Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?

A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.

Duck.

He shall be none;

We'll keep him here: Then what is that to him?
York. Away,

Fond woman! were he twenty times my son
I would appeach him.

Duch.

Hadst thou groan'd for him, As I have done, thou'dst be more pitiful.

But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect,
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,

And that he is a bastard, not thy son:

Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,

Not like to me, or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.

York.

Make way, unruly woman..

[Exit.

Duch. After, Aumerle; mount thee upon his

horse;

Spur, post; and get before him to the king,
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
I'll not be long behind; though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:
And never will I rise up from the ground,
Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee: Away;
Begone,

SCENE III.

Windsor. A Room in the Castle.

[Exeunt.

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, 'tis he.

I would to God, my lords, he might be found :
Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there,.