Old John of Gaunt , time-honour'd Lancaster ,
Hast thou , according to thy oath and band ,
Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son ,
Here to make good the boisterous late appeal ,
Which then our leisure would not let us hear ,
Against the Duke of Norfolk , Thomas Mowbray ?

I have , my liege .

Tell me , moreover , hast thou sounded him ,
If he appeal the duke on ancient malice ,
Or worthily , as a good subject should ,
On some known ground of treachery in him ?

As near as I could sift him on that argument ,
On some apparent danger seen in him 
Aim'd at your highness , no inveterate malice .

Then call them to our presence : face to face ,
And frowning brow to brow , ourselves will hear 
The accuser and the accused freely speak :

High-stomach'd are they both , and full of ire ,
In rage deaf as the sea , hasty as fire .


Many years of happy days befall 
My gracious sovereign , my most loving liege !

Each day still better other's happiness ;
Until the heavens , envying earth's good hap ,
Add an immortal title to your crown !

We thank you both : yet one but flatters us ,
As well appeareth by the cause you come ;
Namely , to appeal each other of high treason .
Cousin of Hereford , what dost thou object 
Against the Duke of Norfolk , Thomas Mowbray ?

First ,heaven be the record to my speech !
In the devotion of a subject's love ,
Tendering the precious safety of my prince ,
And free from other misbegotten hate ,
Come I appellant to this princely presence .
Now , Thomas Mowbray , do I turn to thee ,
And mark my greeting well ; for what I speak 
My body shall make good upon this earth ,
Or my divine soul answer it in heaven .
Thou art a traitor and a miscreant ;
Too good to be so and too bad to live ,
Since the more fair and crystal is the sky ,
The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly .
Once more , the more to aggravate the note ,
With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat ;
And wish , so please my sovereign , ere I move ,
What my tongue speaks , my right drawn sword may prove .

Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal :
'Tis not the trial of a woman's war ,
The bitter clamour of two eager tongues ,
Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain ;
The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this :
Yet can I not of such tame patience boast 
As to be hush'd and nought at all to say .
First , the fair reverence of your highness curbs me 
From giving reins and spurs to my free speech ;
Which else would post until it had return'd 
These terms of treason doubled down his throat .
Setting aside his high blood's royalty ,
And let him be no kinsman to my liege ,
I do defy him , and I spit at him ;
Call him a slanderous coward and a villain :
Which to maintain I would allow him odds ,
And meet him , were I tied to run afoot 
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps ,
Or any other ground inhabitable ,
Wherever Englishman durst set his foot .
Meantime let this defend my loyalty :
By all my hopes , most falsely doth he lie .

Pale trembling coward , there I throw my gage ,
Disclaiming here the kindred of the king ;
And lay aside my high blood's royalty ,
Which fear , not reverence , makes thee to except :
If guilty dread have left thee so much strength 
As to take up mine honour's pawn , then stoop :
By that , and all the rites of knighthood else ,
Will I make good against thee , arm to arm ,
What I have spoke , or thou canst worse devise .

I take it up ; and by that sword I swear ,
Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder ,
I'll answer thee in any fair degree ,
Or chivalrous design of knightly trial :
And when I mount , alive may I not light ,
If I be traitor or unjustly fight !

What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge ?
It must be great that can inherit us 
So much as of a thought of ill in him .

Look , what I speak , my life shall prove it true ;
That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles 
In name of lendings for your highness' soldiers ,
The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments ,
Like a false traitor and injurious villain .
Besides I say and will in battle prove ,
Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge 
That ever was survey'd by English eye ,
That all the treasons for these eighteen years 
Complotted and contrived in this land ,
Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring .
Further I say and further will maintain 
Upon his bad life to make all this good ,
That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death ,
Suggest his soon believing adversaries ,
And consequently , like a traitor coward ,
Sluic'd out his innocent soul through streams of blood :
Which blood , like sacrificing Abel's , cries ,
Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth ,
To me for justice and rough chastisement ;
And , by the glorious worth of my descent ,
This arm shall do it , or this life be spent .

How high a pitch his resolution soars !
Thomas of Norfolk , what sayst thou to this ?

O ! let my sovereign turn away his face 
And bid his ears a little while be deaf ,
Till I have told this slander of his blood 
How God and good men hate so foul a liar .

Mowbray , impartial are our eyes and ears :
Were he my brother , nay , my kingdom's heir ,
As he is but my father's brother's son ,
Now , by my sceptre's awe I make a vow ,
Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood 
Should nothing privilege him , nor partialize 
The unstooping firmness of my upright soul .
He is our subject , Mowbray ; so art thou :
Free speech and fearless I to thee allow .

Then , Bolingbroke , as low as to thy heart ,
Through the false passage of thy throat , thou liest .
Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais 
Disburs'd I duly to his highness' soldiers ;
The other part reserv'd I by consent ,
For that my sovereign liege was in my debt 
Upon remainder of a dear account ,
Since last I went to France to fetch his queen .
Now swallow down that lie . For Gloucester's death ,
I slew him not ; but to mine own disgrace 
Neglected my sworn duty in that case .
For you , my noble Lord of Lancaster ,
The honourable father to my foe ,
Once did I lay an ambush for your life ,
A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul ;
But ere I last receiv'd the sacrament 
I did confess it , and exactly begg'd 
Your Grace's pardon , and I hope I had it .
This is my fault : as for the rest appeal'd ,
It issues from the rancour of a villain ,
A recreant and most degenerate traitor ;
Which in myself I boldly will defend ,
And interchangeably hurl down my gage 
Upon this overweening traitor's foot ,
To prove myself a loyal gentleman 
Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom .
In haste whereof , most heartily I pray 
Your highness to assign our trial day .

Wrath-kindled gentlemen , be rul'd by me ;
Let's purge this choler without letting blood :
This we prescribe , though no physician ;
Deep malice makes too deep incision :
Forget , forgive ; conclude and be agreed ,
Our doctors say this is no month to bleed .
Good uncle , let this end where it begun ;
We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk , you your son .

To be a make-peace shall become my age :
Throw down , my son , the Duke of Norfolk's gage .

And , Norfolk , throw down his .

When , Harry , when ?
Obedience bids I should not bid again .

Norfolk , throw down , we bid ; there is no boot .

Myself I throw , dread sovereign , at thy foot .
My life thou shalt command , but not my shame :
The one my duty owes ; but my fair name ,
Despite of death that lives upon my grave ,
To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have .
I am disgrac'd , impeach'd , and baffled here ,
Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear ,
The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood 
Which breath'd this poison .

Rage must be withstood :
Give me his gage : lions make leopards tame .

Yea , but not change his spots : take but my shame ,
And I resign my gage . My dear dear lord ,
The purest treasure mortal times afford 
Is spotless reputation ; that away ,
Men are but gilded loam or painted clay .
A jewel in a ten-times-barr'd-up chest 
Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast .
Mine honour is my life ; both grow in one ;
Take honour from me , and my life is done :
Then , dear my liege , mine honour let me try ;
In that I live and for that will I die .

Cousin , throw down your gage : do you begin .

O ! God defend my soul from such deep sin .
Shall I seem crest fall'n in my father's sight ,
Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height 
Before this out-dar'd dastard ? Ere my tongue 
Shall wound mine honour with such feeble wrong ,
Or sound so base a parle , my teeth shall tear 
The slavish motive of recanting fear ,
And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace ,
Where shame doth harbour , even in Mowbray's face .


We were not born to sue , but to command :
Which since we cannot do to make you friends ,
Be ready , as your lives shall answer it ,
At Coventry , upon Saint Lambert's day :
There shall your swords and lances arbitrate 
The swelling difference of your settled hate :
Since we cannot atone you , we shall see 
Justice design the victor's chivalry .
Marshal , command our officers-at-arms 
Be ready to direct these home alarms .


Alas ! the part I had in Woodstock's blood 
Doth more solicit me than your exclaims ,
To stir against the butchers of his life .
But since correction lieth in those hands 
Which made the fault that we cannot correct ,
Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven ;
Who , when they see the hours ripe on earth ,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads .

Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur ?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire ?
Edward's seven sons , whereof thyself art one ,
Were as seven vials of his sacred blood ,
Or seven fair branches springing from one root :
Some of those seven are dried by nature's course ,
Some of those branches by the Destinies cut ;
But Thomas , my dear lord , my life , my Gloucester ,
One vial full of Edward's sacred blood ,
One flourishing branch of his most royal root ,
Is crack'd , and all the precious liquor spilt ;
Is hack'd down , and his summer leaves all vaded ,
By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe .
Ah , Gaunt ! his blood was thine : that bed , that womb ,
That metal , that self-mould , that fashion'd thee 
Made him a man ; and though thou liv'st and breath'st ,
Yet art thou slain in him : thou dost consent 
In some large measure to thy father's death 
In that thou seest thy wretched brother die ,
Who was the model of thy father's life .
Call it not patience , Gaunt ; it is despair :
In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter'd 
Thou show'st the naked pathway to thy life ,
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee :
That which in mean men we entitle patience 
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts .
What shall I say ? to safeguard thine own life ,
The best way is to venge my Gloucester's death .

God's is the quarrel ; for God's substitute ,
His deputy anointed in his sight ,
Hath caus'd his death ; the which if wrongfully ,
Let heaven revenge , for I may never lift 
An angry arm against his minister .

Where then , alas ! may I complain myself ?

To God , the widow's champion and defence .

Why then , I will . Farewell , old Gaunt .
Thou go'st to Coventry , there to behold 
Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight :
O ! sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear ,
That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast .
Or if misfortune miss the first career ,
Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom 
That they may break his foaming courser's back ,
And throw the rider headlong in the lists ,
A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford !
Farewell , old Gaunt : thy sometimes brother's wife 
With her companion grief must end her life .

Sister , farewell ; I must to Coventry .
As much good stay with thee as go with me !

Yet one word more . Grief boundeth where it falls ,
Not with the empty hollowness , but weight :
I take my leave before I have begun ,
For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done .
Commend me to my brother , Edmund York .
Lo ! this is all : nay , yet depart not so ;
Though this be all , do not so quickly go ;
I shall remember more . Bid him ah , what ?
With all good speed at Plashy visit me .
Alack ! and what shall good old York there see 
But empty lodgings and unfurnish'd walls ,
Unpeopled offices , untrodden stones ?
And what hear there for welcome but my groans ?
Therefore commend me ; let him not come there ,
To seek out sorrow that dwells every where .
Desolate , desolate will I hence , and die :
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye .


My Lord Aumerle , is Harry Hereford arm'd ?

Yea , at all points , and longs to enter in .

The Duke of Norfolk , sprightfully and bold ,
Stays but the summons of the appellant's trumpet .

Why then , the champions are prepar'd , and stay 
For nothing but his majesty's approach .


Marshal , demand of yonder champion 
The cause of his arrival here in arms :
Ask him his name , and orderly proceed 
To swear him in the justice of his cause .

In God's name , and the king's , say who thou art ,
And why thou com'st thus knightly clad in arms ,
Against what man thou com'st , and what thy quarrel .
Speak truly , on thy knighthood and thine oath :
As so defend thee heaven and thy valour !

My name is Thomas Mowbray , Duke of Norfolk ,
Who hither come engaged by my oath ,
Which God defend a knight should violate !
Both to defend my loyalty and truth 
To God , my king , and his succeeding issue ,
Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me ;
And , by the grace of God and this mine arm ,
To prove him , in defending of myself ,
A traitor to my God , my king , and me :
And as I truly fight , defend me heaven !

Marshal , ask yonder knight in arms ,
Both who he is and why he cometh hither 
Thus plated in habiliments of war ;
And formally , according to our law ,
Depose him in the justice of his cause .

What is thy name ? and wherefore com'st thou hither ,
Before King Richard in his royal lists ?
Against whom comest thou ? and what's thy quarrel ?
Speak like a true knight , so defend thee heaven !

Harry of Hereford , Lancaster , and Derby ,
Am I ; who ready here do stand in arms ,
To prove by God's grace and my body's valour ,
In lists , on Thomas Mowbray , Duke of Norfolk ,
That he's a traitor foul and dangerous ,
To God of heaven , King Richard , and to me :
And as I truly fight , defend me heaven !

On pain of death , no person be so bold 
Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists ,
Except the marshal and such officers 
Appointed to direct these fair designs .

Lord marshal , let me kiss my sovereign's hand ,
And bow my knee before his majesty :
For Mowbray and myself are like two men 
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage ;
Then let us take a ceremonious leave 
And loving farewell of our several friends .

The appellant in all duty greets your highness ,
And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave .

We will descend and fold him in our arms .
Cousin of Hereford , as thy cause is right ,
So be thy fortune in this royal fight !
Farewell , my blood ; which if to-day thou shed ,
Lament we may , but not revenge thee dead .

O ! let no noble eye profane a tear 
For me , if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear .
As confident as is the falcon's flight 
Against a bird , do I with Mowbray fight .
My loving lord , I take my leave of you ;
Of you , my noble cousin , Lord Aumerle ;
Not sick , although I have to do with death ,
But lusty , young , and cheerly drawing breath .
Lo ! as at English feasts , so I regreet 
The daintiest last , to make the end most sweet :
O thou , the earthly author of my blood ,
Whose youthful spirit , in me regenerate ,
Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up 
To reach at victory above my head ,
Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers ,
And with thy blessings steel my lance's point ,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat ,
And furbish new the name of John a Gaunt ,
Even in the lusty haviour of his son .

God in thy good cause make thee prosperous !
Be swift like lightning in the execution ;
And let thy blows , doubly redoubled ,
Fall like amazing thunder on the casque 
Of thy adverse pernicious enemy :
Rouse up thy youthful blood , be valiant and live .

Mine innocency and Saint George to thrive !


However God or fortune cast my lot ,
There lives or dies , true to King Richard's throne ,
A loyal , just , and upright gentleman .
Never did captive with a freer heart 
Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace 
His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement ,
More than my dancing soul doth celebrate 
This feast of battle with mine adversary .
Most mighty liege , and my companion peers ,
Take from my mouth the wish of happy years .
As gentle and as jocund as to jest ,
Go I to fight : truth has a quiet breast .

Farewell , my lord : securely I espy 
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye .
Order the trial , marshal , and begin .


Harry of Hereford , Lancaster , and Derby ,
Receive thy lance ; and God defend the right !

Strong as a tower in hope , I cry 'amen .' 

Go bear this lance to Thomas , Duke of Norfolk .

Harry of Hereford , Lancaster , and Derby ,
Stands here for God , his sovereign , and himself ,
On pain to be found false and recreant ,
To prove the Duke of Norfolk , Thomas Mowbray ,
A traitor to his God , his king , and him ;
And dares him to set forward to the fight .

Here standeth Thomas Mowbray , Duke of Norfolk ,
On pain to be found false and recreant ,
Both to defend himself and to approve 
Henry of Hereford , Lancaster , and Derby ,
To God , his sovereign , and to him , disloyal ;
Courageously and with a free desire ,
Attending but the signal to begin .

Sound , trumpets ; and set forward , combatants .

Stay , stay , the king hath thrown his warderdown .

Let them lay by their helmets and their spears ,
And both return back to their chairs again :
Withdraw with us ; and let the trumpets sound 
While we return these dukes what we decree .

Draw near ,
And list what with our council we have done .
For that our kingdom's earth should not be soil'd 
With that dear blood which it hath fostered ;
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect 
Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours' swords ;
And for we think the eagle-winged pride 
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts ,
With rival-hating envy , set on you 
To wake our peace , which in our country's cradle 
Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep ;
Which so rous'd up with boist'rous untun'd drums ,
With harsh-resounding trumpets' dreadful bray ,
And grating shock of wrathful iron arms ,
Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace 
And make us wade even in our kindred's blood :
Therefore , we banish you our territories :
You , cousin Hereford , upon pain of life ,
Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields ,
Shall not regreet our fair dominions ,
But tread the stranger paths of banishment .

Your will be done : this must my comfort be ,
That sun that warms you here shall shine on me ;
And those his golden beams to you here lent 
Shall point on me and gild my banishment .

Norfolk , for thee remains a heavier doom ,
Which I with some unwillingness pronounce :
The sly slow hours shall not determinate 
The dateless limit of thy dear exile ;
The hopeless word of 'never to return' 
Breathe I against thee , upon pain of life .

A heavy sentence , my most sovereign liege ,
And all unlook'd for from your highness' mouth :
A dearer merit , not so deep a maim 
As to be cast forth in the common air ,
Have I deserved at your highness' hands .
The language I have learn'd these forty years ,
My native English , now I must forego ;
And now my tongue's use is to me no more 
Than an unstringed viol or a harp ,
Or like a cunning instrument cas'd up ,
Or , being open , put into his hands 
That knows no touch to tune the harmony :
Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue ,
Doubly portcullis'd with my teeth and lips ;
And dull , unfeeling , barren ignorance 
Is made my gaoler to attend on me .
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse ,
Too far in years to be a pupil now :
What is thy sentence then but speechless death ,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath ?

It boots thee not to be compassionate :
After our sentence plaining comes too late .

Then , thus I turn me from my country's light ,
To dwell in solemn shades of endless night .


Return again , and take an oath with thee .
Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands ;
Swear by the duty that you owe to God 
Our part therein we banish with yourselves 
To keep the oath that we administer .
You never shall ,so help you truth and God !
Embrace each other's love in banishment ;
Nor never look upon each other's face ;
Nor never write , regreet , nor reconcile 
This low'ring tempest of your home-bred hate ;
Nor never by advised purpose meet 
To plot , contrive , or complot any ill 
'Gainst us , our state , our subjects , or our land .

I swear .

And I , to keep all this .

Norfolk , so far , as to mine enemy :
By this time , had the king permitted us ,
One of our souls had wander'd in the air ,
Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our flesh ,
As now our flesh is banish'd from this land :
Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm ;
Since thou hast far to go , bear not along 
The clogging burden of a guilty soul .

No , Bolingbroke : if ever I were traitor ,
My name be blotted from the book of life ,
And I from heaven banish'd as from hence !
But what thou art , God , thou , and I do know ;
And all too soon , I fear , the king shall rue .
Farewell , my liege . Now no way can I stray ;
Save back to England , all the world's my way .


Uncle , even in the glasses of thine eyes 
I see thy grieved heart : thy sad aspect 
Hath from the number of his banish'd years 
Pluck'd four away .

Six frozen winters spent ,
Return with welcome home from banishment .

How long a time lies in one little word !
Four lagging winters and four wanton springs 
End in a word : such is the breath of kings .

I thank my liege , that in regard of me 
He shortens four years of my son's exile ;
But little vantage shall I reap thereby :
For , ere the six years that he hath to spend 
Can change their moons and bring their times about ,
My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light 
Shall be extinct with age and endless night ;
My inch of taper will be burnt and done ,
And blindfold death not let me see my son .

Why , uncle , thou hast many years to live .

But not a minute , king , that thou canst give :
Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow ,
And pluck nights from me , but not lend a morrow ;
Thou canst help time to furrow me with age .
But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage ;
Thy word is current with him for my death ,
But dead , thy kingdom cannot buy my breath .

Thy son is banish'd upon good advice ,
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave :
Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lower ?

Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour .
You urg'd me as a judge ; but I had rather 
You would have bid me argue like a father .
O ! had it been a stranger , not my child ,
To smooth his fault I should have been more mild :
A partial slander sought I to avoid ,
And in the sentence my own life destroy'd .
Alas ! I look'd when some of you should say ,
I was too strict to make mine own away ;
But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue 
Against my will to do myself this wrong .

Cousin , farewell ; and , uncle , bid him so :
Six years we banish him , and he shall go .


Cousin , farewell : what presence must not know ,
From where you do remain let paper show .

My lord , no leave take I ; for I will ride ,
As far as land will let me , by your side .

O ! to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words ,
That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends ?

I have too few to take my leave of you ,
When the tongue's office should be prodigal 
To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart .

Thy grief is but thy absence for a time .

Joy absent , grief is present for that time .

What is six winters ? they are quickly gone .

To men in joy ; but grief makes one hour ten .

Call it a travel that thou tak'st for pleasure .

My heart will sigh when I miscall it so ,
Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage .

The sullen passage of thy weary steps 
Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set 
The precious jewel of thy home return .

Nay , rather , every tedious stride I make 
Will but remember me what a deal of world 
I wander from the jewels that I love .
Must I not serve a long apprenticehood 
To foreign passages , and in the end ,
Having my freedom , boast of nothing else 
But that I was a journeyman to grief ?

All places that the eye of heaven visits 
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens .
Teach thy necessity to reason thus ;
There is no virtue like necessity .
Think not the king did banish thee ,
But thou the king . Woe doth the heavier sit ,
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne .
Go , say I sent thee forth to purchase honour ,
And not the king exil'd thee ; or suppose 
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air ,
And thou art flying to a fresher clime .
Look , what thy soul holds dear , imagine it 
To lie that way thou go'st , not whence thou com'st .
Suppose the singing birds musicians ,
The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew'd ,
The flowers fair ladies , and thy steps no more 
Than a delightful measure or a dance ;
For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite 
The man that mocks at it and sets it light .

O ! who can hold a fire in his hand 
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite 
By bare imagination of a feast ?
Or wallow naked in December snow 
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat ?
O , no ! the apprehension of the good 
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse :
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more 
Than when it bites , but lanceth not the sore .

Come , come , my son , I'll bring thee on thy way .
Had I thy youth and cause , I would not stay .

Then , England's ground , farewell ; sweet soil , adieu :
My mother , and my nurse , that bears me yet !
Where'er I wander , boast of this I can ,
Though banish'd , yet a true-born Englishman .


We did observe . Cousin Aumerle ,
How far brought you high Hereford on his way ?

I brought high Hereford , if you call him so ,
But to the next highway , and there I left him .

And say , what store of parting tears were shed ?

Faith , none for me ; except the northeast wind ,
Which then blew bitterly against our faces ,
Awak'd the sleeping rheum , and so by chance 
Did grace our hollow parting with a tear .

What said our cousin when you parted with him ?

'Farewell :' 
And , for my heart disdained that my tongue 
Should so profane the word , that taught me craft 
To counterfeit oppression of such grief 
That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave .
Marry , would the word 'farewell' have lengthen'd hours 
And added years to his short banishment ,
He should have had a volume of farewells ;
But , since it would not , he had none of me .

He is our cousin , cousin ; but 'tis doubt ,
When time shall call him home from banishment ,
Whether our kinsman come to see his friends .
Ourself and Bushy , Bagot here and Green 
Observ'd his courtship to the common people ,
How he did seem to dive into their hearts 
With humble and familiar courtesy ,
What reverence he did throw away on slaves ,
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles 
And patient underbearing of his fortune ,
As 'twere to banish their affects with him .
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench ;
A brace of draymen bid God speed him well ,
And had the tribute of his supple knee ,
With 'Thanks , my countrymen , my loving friends ;' 
As were our England in reversion his ,
And he our subjects' next degree in hope .

Well , he is gone ; and with him go these thoughts .
Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland ;
Expedient manage must be made , my liege ,
Ere further leisure yield them further means 
For their advantage and your highness' loss .

We will ourself in person to this war .
And , for our coffers with too great a court 
And liberal largess are grown somewhat light ,
We are enforc'd to farm our royal realm ;
The revenue whereof shall furnish us 
For our affairs in hand . If that come short ,
Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters ;
Whereto , when they shall know what men are rich ,
They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold ,
And send them after to supply our wants ;
For we will make for Ireland presently .

Bushy , what news ?

Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick , my lord ,
Suddenly taken , and hath sent post-haste 
To entreat your majesty to visit him .

Where lies he ?

At Ely House .

Now , put it , God . in his physician's mind 
To help him to his grave immediately !
The lining of his coffers shall make coats 
To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars .
Come , gentlemen , let's all go visit him :
Pray God we may make haste , and come too late .

Amen .

Will the king come , that I may breathe my last 
In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth ?

Vex not yourself , nor strive not with your breath ;
For all in vain comes counsel to his ear .

O ! but they say the tongues of dying men 
Enforce attention like deep harmony :
Where words are scarce , they are seldom spent in vain ,
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain .
He that no more must say is listen'd more 
Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose ;
More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before :
The setting sun , and music at the close ,
As the last taste of sweets , is sweetest last ,
Writ in remembrance more than things long past :
Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear ,
My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear .

No ; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds ,
As praises of his state : then there are fond 
Lascivious metres , to whose venom sound 
The open ear of youth doth always listen :
Report of fashions in proud Italy ,
Whose manners still our tardy apish nation 
Limps after in base imitation .
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity ,
So it be new there's no respect how vile ,
That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears ?
Then all too late comes counsel to be heard ,
Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard .
Direct not him whose way himself will choose :
'Tis breath thou lack'st , and that breath wilt thou lose .

Methinks I am a prophet new inspir'd ,
And thus expiring do foretell of him :
His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last ,
For violent fires soon burn out themselves ;
Small showers last long , but sudden storms are short ;
He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes ;
With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder :
Light vanity , insatiate cormorant ,
Consuming means , soon preys upon itself .
This royal throne of kings , this scepter'd isle ,
This earth of majesty , this seat of Mars ,
This other Eden , demi-paradise ,
This fortress built by Nature for herself 
Against infection and the hand of war ,
This happy breed of men , this little world ,
This precious stone set in the silver sea ,
Which serves it in the office of a wall ,
Or as a moat defensive to a house ,
Against the envy of less happier lands ,
This blessed plot , this earth , this realm , this England ,
This nurse , this teeming womb of royal kings ,
Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth ,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home ,
For Christian service and true chivalry ,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry 
Of the world's ransom , blessed Mary's Son :
This land of such dear souls , this dear , dear land ,
Dear for her reputation through the world ,
Is now leas'd out ,I die pronouncing it ,
Like to a tenement , or pelting farm :
England , bound in with the triumphant sea ,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege 
Of watery Neptune , is now bound in with shame ,
With inky blots , and rotten parchment bonds :
That England , that was wont to conquer others ,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself .
Ah ! would the scandal vanish with my life ,
How happy then were my ensuing death .


The king is come : deal mildly with his youth ;
For young hot colts , being rag'd , do rage the more .

How fares our noble uncle , Lancaster ?

What comfort , man ? How is't with aged Gaunt ?

O ! how that name befits my composition ;
Old Gaunt indeed , and gaunt in being old :
Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast ;
And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt ?
For sleeping England long time have I watch'd ;
Watching breeds leanness , leanness is all gaunt .
The pleasure that some fathers feed upon 
Is my strict fast , I mean my children's looks ;
And therein fasting hast thou made me gaunt .
Gaunt am I for the grave , gaunt as a grave ,
Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones .

Can sick men play so nicely with their names ?

No ; misery makes sport to mock itself :
Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me ,
I mock my name , great king , to flatter thee .

Should dying men flatter with those that live ?

No , no ; men living flatter those that die .

Thou , now a-dying , sayst thou flatter'st me .

O , no ! thou diest , though I the sicker be .

I am in health , I breathe , and see thee ill .

Now , he that made me knows I see thee ill ;
Ill in myself to see , and in thee seeing ill .
Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land 
Wherein thou liest in reputation sick :
And thou , too careless patient as thou art ,
Committ'st thy anointed body to the cure 
Of those physicians that first wounded thee :
A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown ,
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head ;
And yet , incaged in so small a verge ,
The waste is no whit lesser than thy land .
O ! had thy grandsire , with a prophet's eye ,
Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons ,
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame ,
Deposing thee before thou wert possess'd ,
Which art possess'd now to depose thyself .
Why , cousin , wert thou regent of the world ,
It were a shame to let this land by lease ;
But for thy world enjoying but this land ,
Is it not more than shame to shame it so ?
Landlord of England art thou now , not king :
Thy state of law is bond-slave to the law ,
And 

And thou a lunatic lean-witted fool ,
Presuming on an ague's privilege ,
Dar'st with thy frozen admonition 
Make pale our cheek , chasing the royal blood 
With fury from his native residence .
Now , by my seat's right royal majesty ,
Wert thou not brother to great Edward's son ,
This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head 
Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders .

O ! spare me not , my brother Edward's son ,
For that I was his father Edward's son .
That blood already , like the pelican ,
Hast thou tapp'd out and drunkenly carous'd :
My brother Gloucester , plain well-meaning soul ,
Whom fair befall in heaven 'mongst happy souls !
May be a precedent and witness good 
That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood :
Join with the present sickness that I have ;
And thy unkindness be like crooked age ,
To crop at once a too-long wither'd flower .
Live in thy shame , but die not shame with thee !
These words hereafter thy tormentors be !
Convey me to my bed , then to my grave :
Love they to live that love and honour have .


And let them die that age and sullens have ;
For both hast thou , and both become the grave .

I do beseech your majesty , impute his words 
To wayward sickliness and age in him :
He loves you , on my life , and holds you dear 
As Harry , Duke of Hereford , were he here .

Right , you say true : as Hereford's love , so his ;
As theirs , so mine ; and all be as it is .


My liege , old Gaunt commends him to your majesty .

What says he ?

Nay , nothing ; all is said :
His tongue is now a stringless instrument ;
Words , life , and all , old Lancaster hath spent .

Be York the next that must be bankrupt so !
Though death be poor , it ends a mortal woe .

The ripest fruit first falls , and so doth he :
His time is spent ; our pilgrimage must be .
So much for that . Now for our Irish wars .
We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns ,
Which live like venom where no venom else 
But only they have privilege to live .
And for these great affairs do ask some charge ,
Towards our assistance we do seize to us 
The plate , coin , revenues , and moveables ,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess'd .

How long shall I be patient ? Ah ! how long 
Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong ?
Not Gloucester's death , nor Hereford's banishment ,
Not Gaunt's rebukes , nor England's private wrongs ,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke 
About his marriage , nor my own disgrace ,
Have ever made me sour my patient cheek ,
Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face .
I am the last of noble Edward's sons ,
Of whom thy father , Prince of Wales , was first ;
In war was never lion rag'd more fierce ,
In peace was never gentle lamb more mild ,
Than was that young and princely gentleman .
His face thou hast , for even so look'd he ,
Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours ;
But when he frown'd , it was against the French ,
And not against his friends ; his noble hand 
Did win what he did spend , and spent not that 
Which his triumphant father's hand had won :
His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood ,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin .
O , Richard ! York is too far gone with grief ,
Or else he never would compare between .

Why , uncle , what's the matter ?

O ! my liege .
Pardon me , if you please ; if not , I , pleas'd 
Not to be pardon'd , am content withal .
Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands 
The royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford ?
Is not Gaunt dead , and doth not Hereford live ?
Was not Gaunt just , and is not Harry true ?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir ?
Is not his heir a well-deserving son ?
Take Hereford's rights away , and take from Time 
His charters and his customary rights ;
Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day ;
Be not thyself ; for how art thou a king 
But by fair sequence and succession ?
Now , afore God ,God forbid I say true !
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's rights ,
Call in the letters-patent that he hath 
By his attorneys-general to sue 
His livery , and deny his offer'd homage ,
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head ,
You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts ,
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts 
Which honour and allegiance cannot think .

Think what you will : we seize into our hands 
His plate , his goods , his money , and his lands .

I'll not be by the while : my liege , farewell :
What will ensue hereof , there's none can tell ;
But by bad courses may be understood 
That their events can never fall out good .


Go , Bushy , to the Earl of Wiltshire straight :
Bid him repair to us to Ely House 
To see this business . To-morrow next 
We will for Ireland ; and 'tis time , I trow :
And we create , in absence of ourself ,
Our uncle York lord governor of England ;
For he is just , and always lov'd us well .
Come on , our queen : to-morrow must we part ;
Be merry , for our time of stay is short .

Well , lords , the Duke of Lancaster is dead .

And living too ; for now his son is duke .

Barely in title , not in revenue .

Richly in both , if justice had her right .

My heart is great ; but it must break with silence ,
Ere't be disburden'd with a liberal tongue .

Nay , speak thy mind ; and let him ne'er speak more 
That speaks thy words again to do thee harm !

Tends that thou'dst speak to the Duke of Hereford ?
If it be so , out with it boldly , man ;
Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him .

No good at all that I can do for him ,
Unless you call it good to pity him ,
Bereft and gelded of his patrimony .

Now , afore God , 'tis shame such wrongs are borne 
In him , a royal prince , and many more 
Of noble blood in this declining land .
The king is not himself , but basely led 
By flatterers ; and what they will inform ,
Merely in hate , 'gainst any of us all ,
That will the king severely prosecute 
'Gainst us , our lives , our children , and our heirs .

The commons hath he pill'd with grievous taxes ,
And quite lost their hearts : the nobles hath he fin'd 
For ancient quarrels , and quite lost their hearts .

And daily new exactions are devis'd ;
As blanks , benevolences , and I wot not what :
But what , o' God's name , doth become of this ?

Wars have not wasted it , for warr'd he hath not ,
But basely yielded upon compromise 
That which his ancestors achiev'd with blows .
More hath he spent in peace than they in wars .

The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm .

The king's grown bankrupt , like a broken man .

Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him .

He hath not money for these Irish wars ,
His burdenous taxations notwithstanding ,
But by the robbing of the banish'd duke .

His noble kinsman : most degenerate king !
But , lords , we hear this fearful tempest sing ,
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm ;
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails ,
And yet we strike not , but securely perish .

We see the very wrack that we must suffer ;
And unavoided is the danger now ,
For suffering so the causes of our wrack .

Not so : even through the hollow eyes of death 
Ispy life peering ; but I dare not say 
How near the tidings of our comfort is .

Nay , let us share thy thoughts , as thou dost ours .

Be confident to speak , Northumberland :
We three are but thyself : and , speaking so ,
Thy words are but as thoughts ; therefore , be bold .

Then thus : I have from Port le Blanc , a bay 
In Brittany , receiv'd intelligence 
That Harry Duke of Hereford , Rainold Lord Cobham ,
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter ,
His brother , Archbishop late of Canterbury ,
Sir Thomas Erpingham , Sir John Ramston ,
Sir John Norbery , Sir Robert Waterton , and Francis Quoint ,
All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Britaine ,
With eight tall ships , three thousand men of war ,
Are making hither with all due expedience ,
And shortly mean to touch our northern shore .
Perhaps they had ere this , but that they stay 
The first departing of the king for Ireland .
If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke ,
Imp out our drooping country's broken wing ,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown ,
Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt ,
And make high majesty look like itself ,
Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh ;
But if you faint , as fearing to do so ,
Stay and be secret , and myself will go .

To horse , to horse ! urge doubts to them that fear .

Hold out my horse , and I will first be there .


Madam , your majesty is too much sad :
You promis'd , when you parted with the king ,
To lay aside life-harming heaviness ,
And entertain a cheerful disposition .

To please the king I did ; to please myself 
I cannot do it ; yet I know no cause 
Why I should welcome such a guest as grief ,
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest 
As my sweet Richard : yet , again , methinks ,
Some unborn sorrow , ripe in fortune's womb ,
Is coming towards me , and my inward soul 
With nothing trembles ; at some thing it grieves 
More than with parting from my lord the king .

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows ,
Which show like grief itself , but are not so .
For sorrow's eye , glazed with blinding tears ,
Divides one thing entire to many objects ;
Like perspectives , which rightly gaz'd upon 
Show nothing but confusion ; ey'd awry 
Distinguish form : so your sweet majesty ,
Looking awry upon your lord's departure ,
Finds shapes of grief more than himself to wail ;
Which , look'd on as it is , is nought but shadows 
Of what it is not . Then , thrice-gracious queen ,
More than your lord's departure weep not : more's not seen ;
Or if it be , 'tis with false sorrow's eye ,
Which for things true weeps things imaginary .

It may be so ; but yet my inward soul 
Persuades me it is otherwise : howe'er it be ,
I cannot but be sad , so heavy sad ,
As , though in thinking on no thought I think ,
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink .

'Tis nothing but conceit , my gracious lady .

'Tis nothing less : conceit is still deriv'd 
From some forefather grief ; mine is not so ,
For nothing hath begot my something grief ;
Or something hath the nothing that I grieve :
'Tis in reversion that I do possess ;
But what it is , that is not yet known ; what 
I cannot name ; 'tis nameless woe , I wot .


God save your majesty ! and well met , gentlemen :
I hope the king is not yet shipp'd for Ireland .

Why hop'st thou so ? 'tis better hope he is ,
For his designs crave haste , his haste good hope :
Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp'd ?

That he , our hope , might have retir'd his power ,
And driven into despair an enemy's hope ,
Who strongly hath set footing in this land :
The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself ,
And with uplifted arms is safe arriv'd 
At Ravenspurgh .

Now God in heaven forbid !

Ah ! madam , 'tis too true : and that is worse ,
The Lord Northumberland , his son young Henry Percy ,
The Lords of Ross , Beaumond , and Willoughby ,
With all their powerful friends , are fled to him .

Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland 
And all the rest of the revolted faction traitors ?

We have : whereupon the Earl of Worcester 
Hath broke his staff , resign'd his stewardship ,
And all the household servants fled with him 
To Bolingbroke .

So , Green , thou art the midwife to my woe ,
And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir :
Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy ,
And I , a gasping new-deliver'd mother ,
Have woe to woe , sorrow to sorrow join'd .

Despair not , madam .

Who shall hinder me ?
I will despair , and be at enmity 
With cozening hope : he is a flatterer ,
A parasite , a keeper-back of death ,
Who gently would dissolve the bands of life ,
Which false hope lingers in extremity .


Here comes the Duke of York .

With signs of war about his aged neck :
O ! full of careful business are his looks .
Uncle , for God's sake , speak comfortable words .

Should I do so , I should belie my thoughts :
Comfort's in heaven ; and we are on the earth ,
Where nothing lives but crosses , cares , and grief .
Your husband , he is gone to save far off ,
Whilst others come to make him lose at home :
Here am I left to underprop his land ,
Who , weak with age , cannot support myself .
Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made ;
Now shall he try his friends that flatter'd him .


My lord , your son was gone before I came .

He was ? Why , so ! go all which way it will !
The nobles they are fled , the commons they are cold ,
And will , I fear , revolt on Hereford's side .
Sirrah , get thee to Plashy , to my sister Gloucester ;
Bid her send me presently a thousand pound .
Hold , take my ring .

My lord , I had forgot to tell your lordship :
To-day , as I came by , I called there ;
But I shall grieve you to report the rest .

What is't , knave ?

An hour before I came the duchess died .

God for his mercy ! what a tide of woes 
Comes rushing on this woeful land at once !
I know not what to do : I would to God ,
So my untruth had not provok'd him to it ,
The king had cut off my head with my brother's .
What ! are there no posts dispatch'd for Ireland ?
How shall we do for money for these wars ?
Come , sister ,cousin , I would say ,pray , pardon me .
Go , fellow , get thee home ; provide some carts 
And bring away the armour that is there .

Gentlemen , will you go muster men ? If I know 
How or which way to order these affairs 
Thus thrust disorderly into my hands ,
Never believe me . Both are my kinsmen :
The one is my sovereign , whom both my oath 
And duty bids defend ; the other again 
Is my kinsman , whom the king hath wrong'd ,
Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right .
Well , somewhat we must do . Come , cousin ,
I'll dispose of you . Gentlemen , go muster up your men ,
And meet me presently at Berkeley Castle .
I should to Plashy too :
But time will not permit . All is uneven ,
And every thing is left at six and seven .


The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland ,
But none returns . For us to levy power 
Proportionable to the enemy 
Is all unpossible .

Besides , our nearness to the king in love 
Is near the hate of those love not the king .

And that's the wavering commons ; for their love 
Lies in their purses , and whoso empties them ,
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate .

Wherein the king stands generally condemn'd .

If judgment lie in them , then so do we ,
Because we ever have been near the king .

Well , I'll for refuge straight to Bristol Castle ;
The Earl of Wiltshire is already there .

Thither will I with you ; for little office 
Will the hateful commons perform for us ,
Except like curs to tear us all to pieces .
Will you go along with us ?

No ; I will to Ireland to his majesty .
Farewell : if heart's presages be not vain ,
We three here part that ne'er shall meet again .

That's as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke .

Alas , poor duke ! the task he undertakes 
Is numbering sands and drinking oceans dry :
Where one on his side fights , thousands will fly .
Farewell at once ; for once , for all , and ever .

Well , we may meet again .

I fear me , never .


How far is it , my lord , to Berkeley now ?

Believe me , noble lord ,
I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire :
These high wild hills and rough uneven ways 
Draw out our miles and make them wearisome ;
But yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar ,
Making the hard way sweet and delectable .
But I bethink me what a weary way 
From Ravenspurgh to Cotswold will be found 
In Ross and Willoughby , wanting your company ,
Which , I protest , hath very much beguil'd 
The tediousness and process of my travel :
But theirs is sweeten'd with the hope to have 
The present benefit which I possess ;
And hope to joy is little less in joy 
Than hope enjoy'd : by this the weary lords 
Shall make their way seem short , as mine hath done 
By sight of what I have , your noble company .

Of much less value is my company 
Than your good words . But who comes here ?


It is my son , young Harry Percy ,
Sent from my brother Worcester , whencesoever .
Harry , how fares your uncle ?

I had thought , my lord , to have learn'd his health of you .

Why , is he not with the queen ?

No , my good lord ; he hath forsook the court ,
Broken his staff of office , and dispers'd 
The household of the king .

What was his reason ?
He was not so resolv'd when last we spake together .

Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor .
But he , my lord , is gone to Ravenspurgh ,
To offer service to the Duke of Hereford ,
And sent me over by Berkeley to discover 
What power the Duke of York had levied there ;
Then with direction to repair to Ravenspurgh .

Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford , boy ?

No , my good lord ; for that is not forgot 
Which ne'er I did remember : to my knowledge 
I never in my life did look on him .

Then learn to know him now : this is the duke .

My gracious lord , I tender you my service ,
Such as it is , being tender , raw , and young ,
Which elder days shall ripen and confirm 
To more approved service and desert .

I thank thee , gentle Percy ; and be sure 
I count myself in nothing else so happy 
As in a soul remembering my good friends ;
And as my fortune ripens with thy love ,
It shall be still thy true love's recompense :
My heart this covenant makes , my hand thus seals it .

How far is it to Berkeley ? and what stir 
Keeps good old York there with his men of war ?

There stands the castle , by yon tuft of trees ,
Mann'd with three hundred men , as I have heard ;
And in it are the Lords of York , Berkeley , and Seymour ;
None else of name and noble estimate .


Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby ,
Bloody with spurring , fiery-red with haste .

Welcome , my lords . I wot your love pursues 
A banish'd traitor ; all my treasury 
Is yet but unfelt thanks , which , more enrich'd ,
Shall be your love and labour's recompense .

Your presence makes us rich , most noble lord .

And far surmounts our labour to attain it .

Evermore thanks , the exchequer of the poor ;
Which , till my infant fortune comes to years ,
Stands for my bounty . But who comes here ?


It is my Lord of Berkeley , as I guess .

My lord of Hereford , my message is to you .

My lord , my answer is to Lancaster ;
And I am come to seek that name in England ;
And I must find that title in your tongue 
Before I make reply to aught you say .

Mistake me not , my lord ; 'tis not my meaning 
To raze one title of your honour out :
To you , my lord , I come , what lord you will ,
From the most gracious regent of this land ,
The Duke of York , to know what pricks you on 
To take advantage of the absent time 
And fright our native peace with self-born arms .


I shall not need transport my words by you :
Here comes his Grace in person .
My noble uncle !


Show me thy humble heart , and not thy knee ,
Whose duty is deceivable and false .

My gracious uncle 

Tut , tut !
Grace me no grace , nor uncle me no uncle :
I am no traitor's uncle ; and that word 'grace' 
In an ungracious mouth is but profane .
Why have those banish'd and forbidden legs 
Dar'd once to touch a dust of England's ground ?
But then , more 'why ?' why have they dar'd to march 
So many miles upon her peaceful bosom ,
Frighting her pale-fac'd villages with war 
And ostentation of despised arms ?
Com'st thou because the anointed king is hence ?
Why , foolish boy , the king is left behind ,
And in my loyal bosom lies his power .
Were I but now the lord of such hot youth 
As when brave Gaunt thy father , and myself ,
Rescu'd the Black Prince , that young Mars of men ,
From forth the ranks of many thousand French ,
O ! then , how quickly should this arm of mine ,
Now prisoner to the palsy , chastise thee 
And minister correction to thy fault !

My gracious uncle , let me know my fault :
On what condition stands it and wherein ?

Even in condition of the worst degree ,
In gross rebellion and detested treason :
Thou art a banish'd man , and here art come 
Before the expiration of thy time ,
In braving arms against thy sovereign .

As I was banish'd , I was banish'd Hereford ;
But as I come , I come for Lancaster .
And , noble uncle , I beseech your Grace 
Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye :
You are my father , for methinks in you 
I see old Gaunt alive : O ! then , my father ,
Will you permit that I shall stand condemn'd 
A wandering vagabond ; my rights and royalties 
Pluck'd from my arms perforce and given away 
To upstart unthrifts ? Wherefore was I born ?
If that my cousin king be King of England ,
It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster .
You have a son , Aumerle , my noble kinsman ;
Had you first died , and he been thus trod down ,
He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father ,
To rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay .
I am denied to sue my livery here ,
And yet my letters-patent give me leave :
My father's goods are all distrain'd and sold ,
And these and all are all amiss employ'd .
What would you have me do ? I am a subject ,
And challenge law : attorneys are denied me ,
And therefore personally I lay my claim 
To my inheritance of free descent .

The noble duke hath been too much abus'd .

It stands your Grace upon to do him right .

Base men by his endowments are made great .

My lords of England , let me tell you this :
I have had feeling of my cousin's wrongs ,
And labour'd all I could to do him right ;
But in this kind to come , in braving arms ,
Be his own carver and cut out his way ,
To find out right with wrong , it may not be ;
And you that do abet him in this kind 
Cherish rebellion and are rebels all .

The noble duke hath sworn his coming is 
But for his own ; and for the right of that 
We all have strongly sworn to give him aid ;
And let him ne'er see joy that breaks that oath !

Well , well , I see the issue of these arms :
I cannot mend it , I must needs confess ,
Because my power is weak and all ill left ;
But if I could , by him that gave me life ,
I would attach you all and make you stoop 
Unto the sovereign mercy of the king ;
But since I cannot , be it known to you 
I do remain as neuter . So , fare you well ;
Unless you please to enter in the castle 
And there repose you for this night .

An offer , uncle , that we will accept :
But we must win your Grace to go with us 
To Bristol Castle ; which they say is held 
By Bushy , Bagot , and their complices ,
The caterpillars of the commonwealth ,
Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away .

It may be I will go with you ; but yet I'll pause ;
For I am loath to break our country's laws .
Nor friends nor foes , to me welcome you are :
Things past redress are now with me past care .


My Lord of Salisbury , we have stay'd ten days ,
And hardly kept our countrymen together ,
And yet we hear no tidings from the king ;
Therefore we will disperse ourselves : farewell .

Stay yet another day , thou trusty Welshman :
The king reposeth all his confidence in thee .

'Tis thought the king is dead : we will not stay .
The bay-trees in our country are all wither'd 
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven ,
The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth 
And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change ,
Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and leap ,
The one in fear to lose what they enjoy ,
The other to enjoy by rage and war :
These signs forerun the death or fall of kings .
Farewell : our countrymen are gone and fled ,
As well assur'd Richard their king is dead .


Ah , Richard ! with the eyes of heavy mind 
I see thy glory like a shooting star 
Fall to the base earth from the firmament .
Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west ,
Witnessing storms to come , woe , and unrest .
Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes ,
And crossly to thy good all fortune goes .


Bring forth these men .
Bushy and Green , I will not vex your souls 
Since presently your souls must part your bodies 
With too much urging your pernicious lives ,
For 'twere no charity ; yet , to wash your blood 
From off my hands , here in the view of men 
I will unfold some causes of your deaths .
You have misled a prince , a royal king ,
A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments ,
By you unhappied and disfigur'd clean :
You have in manner with your sinful hours 
Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him ,
Broke the possession of a royal bed ,
And stain'd the beauty of a fair queen's cheeks 
With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs .
Myself , a prince by fortune of my birth ,
Near to the king in blood , and near in love 
Till you did make him misinterpret me ,
Have stoop'd my neck under your injuries ,
And sigh'd my English breath in foreign clouds ,
Eating the bitter bread of banishment ;
Whilst you have fed upon my signories ,
Dispark'd my parks , and felled my forest woods ,
From mine own windows torn my household coat ,
Raz'd out my impress , leaving me no sign ,
Save men's opinions and my living blood ,
To show the world I am a gentleman .
This and much more , much more than twice all this ,
Condemns you to the death . See them deliver'd over 
To execution and the hand of death .

More welcome is the stroke of death to me 
Than Bolingbroke to England . Lords , farewell .

My comfort is , that heaven will take our souls 
And plague injustice with the pains of hell .

My Lord Northumberland , see them dispatch'd .

Uncle , you say the queen is at your house ;
For God's sake , fairly let her be entreated :
Tell her I send to her my kind commends ;
Take special care my greetings be deliver'd .

A gentleman of mine I have dispatch'd 
With letters of your love to her at large .

Thanks , gentle uncle . Come , lords , away ,
To fight with Glendower and his complices :
Awhile to work , and after holiday .


Barkloughly Castle call they this at hand ?

Yea , my lord . How brooks your Grace the air ,
After your late tossing on the breaking seas ?

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 meeting ,
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 revenous 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 rebellion's arms .

Fear not , my lord : that power that made you king 
Hath power to keep you king in spite 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 .

He means , my lord , that we are too remiss ;
Whilst Bolingbroke , through our security ,
Grows strong and great in substance and in friends .

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 wandering 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 anointed king ;
The breath of worldly men cannot depose 
The deputy elected by the Lord .
For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd 
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown ,
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 .

Welcome , my lord : how far off lies your power ?

Nor near nor further off , my gracious lord ,
Than this weak arm : discomfort guides my tongue 
And bids me speak of nothing but despair .
One day too late , I fear me , 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 .

Comfort , my liege ! why looks your Grace so pale ?

But now , the blood of twenty thousand 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 .

Comfort , my liege ! remember who you are .

I had forgot myself . Am I not king ?
Awake , thou sluggard majesty ! thou sleepest .
Is not the king's name twenty 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 ?


More health and happiness betide my liege 
Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him !

Mine ear is open and my heart prepar'd :
The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold .
Say , is my kingdom lost ? why , 'twas my care ;
And what loss 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 us :
Cry woe , destruction , ruin , loss , decay ;
The worst is death , and death will have his day .

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 ; and boys , with women'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 .

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 Bolingbroke .

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

O villains , vipers , damn'd without redemption !
Dogs , easily won to fawn on any man !
Snakes , in my heart-blood warm'd , that sting my heart !
Three Judases , each one thrice worse than Judas !
Would they make peace ? terrible hell make war 
Upon their spotted souls for this offence !

Sweet love , I see , changing his property ,
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 .

Is Bushy , Green , and the Earl of Wiltshire dead ?

Yea , all of them at Bristol lost their heads .

Where is the duke my father with his power ?

No matter where . Of comfort no man speak :
Let's talk of graves , of worms , and epitaphs ;
Make dust our paper , and with rainy eyes 
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth ;
Let's choose executors and talk of wills :
And yet not so for what can we bequeath 
Save our deposed bodies to the ground ?
Our lands , our lives , and all are Bolingbroke's ,
And nothing can we call our own but death ,
And that small model of the barren earth 
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones .
For God's sake , let us sit upon the ground 
And tell sad stories of the death of kings :
How some have been depos'd , some slain in war ,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd ,
Some poison'd by their wives , some sleeping kill'd ;
All murder'd : for within the hollow crown 
That rounds the mortal temples of a king 
Keeps Death his court , and there the antick sits ,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp ;
Allowing him a breath , a little scene ,
To monarchize , be fear'd , and kill with looks ,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit 
As if this flesh which walls about our life 
Were brass impregnable ; and humour'd thus 
Comes at the last , and with a little pin 
Bores through his castle wall , and farewell king !
Cover your heads , and mock not flesh and blood 
With solemn reverence : throw away respect ,
Tradition , form , and ceremonious duty ,
For you have but mistook me all this while :
I live with bread like you , feel want ,
Taste grief , need friends : subjected thus ,
How can you say to me I am a king ?

My lord , wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes ,
But presently prevent the ways to wail .
To fear the foe , since fear oppresseth strength ,
Gives in your weakness strength unto your foe ,
And so your follies fight against yourself .
Fear and be slain ; no worse can come to fight :
And fight and die is death destroying death ;
Where fearing dying pays death servile breath .

My father hath a power ; inquire of him 
And learn to make a body of a limb .

Thou chid'st me well . Proud Boling broke , I come 
To change blows with thee for our day of doom .
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown ;
An easy task it is , to win our own .
Say , Scroop , where lies our uncle with his power ?
Speak sweetly , man , although thy looks be sour .

Men judge by the complexion of the sky 
The state and inclination of the day ;
So may you by my dull and heavy eye ,
My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say .
I play the torturer , by small and small 
To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken .
Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke ,
And all your northern castles yielded up ,
And all your southern gentlemen in arms 
Upon his party .

Thou hast said enough .


Beshrew thee , cousin , which didst lead me forth 
Of that sweet way I was in to despair !
What say you now ? What comfort have we now ?
By heaven , I'll hate him everlastingly 
That bids me be of comfort any more .
Go to Flint Castle : there I'll pine away ;
A king , woe's slave , shall kingly woe obey .
That power I have , discharge ; and let them go 
To ear the land that hath some hope to grow ,
For I have none : let no man speak again 
To alter this , for counsel is but vain .

My liege , one word .

He does me double wrong ,
That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue .
Discharge my followers : let them hence away ,
From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day .


So that by this intelligence we learn 
The Welshmen are dispers'd and Salisbury 
Is gone to meet the king , who lately landed 
With some few private friends upon this coast .

The news is very fair and good , my lord :
Richard not far from hence hath hid his head .

It would beseem the Lord Northumberland 
To say , 'King Richard :' alack the heavy day 
When such a sacred king should hide his head !

Your Grace mistakes ; only to be brief 
Left I his title out .

The time hath been ,
Would you have been so brief with him , he would 
Have been so brief with you , to shorten you ,
For taking so the head , your whole head's length .

Mistake not , uncle , further than you should .

Take not , good cousin , further than you should ,
Lest you mistake the heavens are o'er our heads .

I know it , uncle ; and oppose not myself 
Against their will . But who comes here ?

Welcome , Harry : what , will not this castle yield ?

The castle royally is mann'd , my lord ,
Against thy entrance .

Royally !
Why , it contains no king ?

Yes , my good lord ,
It doth contain a king : King Richard lies 
Within the limits of yon lime and stone ;
And with him are the Lord Aumerle , Lord Salisbury ,
Sir Stephen Scroop ; besides a clergyman 
Of holy reverence ; who , I cannot learn .

O ! belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle .

Noble lord ,
Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle ,
Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley 
Into his ruin'd ears , and thus deliver :
Henry Bolingbroke 
On both his knees doth kiss King Richard's hand ,
And sends allegiance and true faith of heart 
To his most royal person ; hither come 
Even at his feet to lay my arms and power ,
Provided that my banishment repeal'd ,
And lands restor'd again be freely granted .
If not , I'll use the advantage of my power ,
And lay the summer's dust with showers of blood 
Rain'd from the wounds of slaughter'd Englishmen :
The which , how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke 
It is , such crimson tempest should bedrench 
The fresh green lap of fair King Richard's land ,
My stooping duty tenderly shall show .
Go , signify as much , while here we march 
Upon the grassy carpet of this plain .
Let's march without the noise of threat'ning drum ,
That from the castle's totter'd battlements 
Our fair appointments may be well perus'd .
Methinks King Richard and myself should meet 
With no less terror than the elements 
Of fire and water , when their thundering shock 
At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven .
Be he the fire , I'll be the yielding water :
The rage be his , while on the earth I rain 
My waters ; on the earth , and not on him .
March on , and mark King Richard how he looks .


See , see , King Richard doth himself appear ,
As doth the blushing discontented sun 
From out the fiery portal of the east ,
When he perceives the envious clouds are bent 
To dim his glory and to stain the track 
Of his bright passage to the occident .

Yet looks he like a king : behold , his eye ,
As bright as is the eagle's , lightens forth 
Controlling majesty : alack , alack , for woe ,
That any harm should stain so fair a show !

We are amaz'd ; and thus long have we stood 
To watch the fearful bending of thy knee ,
Because we thought ourself thy lawful king :
And if we be , how dare thy joints forget 
To pay their awful duty to our presence ?
If we be not , show us the hand of God 
That hath dismiss'd us from our stewardship ;
For well we know , no hand of blood and bone 
Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre ,
Unless he do profane , steal , or usurp .
And though you think that all , as you have done ,
Have torn their souls by turning them from us ,
And we are barren and bereft of friends ;
Yet know , my master , God omnipotent ,
Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf 
Armies of pestilence ; and they shall strike 
Your children yet unborn and unbegot ,
That lift your vassal hands against my head 
And threat the glory of my precious crown .
Tell Bolingbroke ,for yond methinks he is ,
That every stride he makes upon my land 
Is dangerous treason : he is come to open 
The purple testament of bleeding war ;
But ere the crown he looks for live in peace ,
Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers' sons 
Shall ill become the flower of England's face ,
Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace 
To scarlet indignation , and bedew 
Her pastures' grass with faithful English blood .

The king of heaven forbid our lord the king 
Should so with civil and uncivil arms 
Be rush'd upon ! Thy thrice-noble cousin ,
Harry Bolingbroke , doth humbly kiss thy hand ;
And by the honourable tomb he swears ,
That stands upon your royal grandsire's bones ,
And by the royalties of both your bloods ,
Currents that spring from one most gracious head ,
And by the buried hand of war-like Gaunt ,
And by the worth and honour of himself ,
Comprising all that may be sworn or said ,
His coming hither hath no further scope 
Than for his lineal royalties and to beg 
Enfranchisement immediate on his knees :
Which on thy royal party granted once ,
His glittering arms he will commend to rust ,
His barbed steeds to stables , and his heart 
To faithful service of your majesty .
This swears he , as he is a prince , is just ;
And , as I am a gentleman , I credit him .

Northumberland , say , thus the king returns :
His noble cousin is right welcome hither ;
And all the number of his fair demands 
Shall be accomplish'd without contradiction :
With all the gracious utterance thou hast 
Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends .

We do debase ourself , cousin , do we not ,
To look so poorly and to speak so fair ?
Shall we call back Northumberland and send 
Defiance to the traitor , and so die ?

No , good my lord ; let's fight with gentle words ,
Till time lend friends and friends their helpful swords .

O God ! O God ! that e'er this tongue of mine ,
That laid the sentence of dread banishment 
On yond proud man , should take it off again 
With words of sooth . O ! that I were as great 
As is my grief , or lesser than my name ,
Or that I could forget what I have been ,
Or not remember what I must be now .
Swell'st thou , proud heart ? I'll give thee scope to beat ,
Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me .

Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke .

What must the king do now ? Must he submit ?
The king shall do it : must he be depos'd ?
The king shall be contented : must he lose 
The name of king ? o' God's name , let it go :
I'll give my jewels for a set of beads ,
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage ,
My gay apparel for an almsman's gown ,
My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood ,
My sceptre for a palmer's walking-staff ,
My subjects for a pair of carved saints ,
And my large kingdom for a little grave ,
A little little grave , an obscure grave ;
Or I'll be buried in the king's highway ,
Some way of common trade , where subjects' feet 
May hourly trample on their sovereign's head ;
For on my heart they tread now whilst I live ;
And buried once , why not upon my head ?
Aumerle , thou weep'st , my tender-hearted cousin !
We'll make foul weather with despised tears ;
Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn ,
And make a dearth in this revolting land .
Or shall we play the wantons with our woes ,
And make some pretty match with shedding tears ?
As thus ; to drop them still upon one place ,
Till they have fretted us a pair of graves 
Within the earth ; and , there inlaid : 'There lies 
Two kinsmen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes .' 
Would not this ill do well ? Well , well , I see 
I talk but idly and you laugh at me .
Most mighty prince , my Lord Northumberland ,
What says King Bolingbroke ? will his majesty 
Give Richard leave to live till Richard die ?
You make a leg , and Bolingbroke says ay .

My lord , in the base court he doth attend 
To speak with you ; may't please you to come down ?

Down , down , I come ; like glistering Phaethon ,
Wanting the manage of unruly jades .
In the base court ? Base court , where kings grow base ,
To come at traitors' calls and do them grace .
In the base court ? Come down ? Down , court ! down , king !
For night-owls shriek where mounting larks should sing .


What says his majesty ?

Sorrow and grief of heart 
Makes him speak fondly , like a frantic man :
Yet he is come .


Stand all apart ,
And show fair duty to his majesty .

My gracious lord ,

Fair cousin , you debase your princely knee 
To make the base earth proud with kissing it :
Me rather had my heart might feel your love 
Than my unpleas'd eye see your courtesy .
Up , cousin , up ; your heart is up , I know ,
Thus high at least , although your knee be low .

My gracious lord , I come but for mine own .

Your own is yours , and I am yours , and all .

So far be mine , my most redoubted lord ,
As my true service shall deserve your love .

Well you deserve : they well deserve to have 
That know the strong'st and surest way to get .
Uncle , give me your hand : nay , dry your eyes ;
Tears show their love , but want their remedies .
Cousin , I am too young to be your father ,
Though you are old enough to be my heir .
What you will have I'll give , and willing too ;
For do we must what force will have us do .
Set on towards London . Cousin , is it so ?

Yea , my good lord .

Then I must not say no .


What sport shall we devise here in this garden ,
To drive away the heavy thought of care ?

Madam , we'll play at bowls .

'Twill make me think the world is full of rubs ;
And that my fortune runs against the bias .

Madam , we'll dance .

My legs can keep no measure in delight 
When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief :
Therefore , no dancing , girl ; some other sport .

Madam , we'll tell tales .

Of sorrow or of joy ?

Of either , madam .

Of neither , girl :
For if of joy , being altogether wanting ,
It doth remember me the more of sorrow ;
Or if of grief , being altogether had ,
It adds more sorrow to my want of joy :
For what I have I need not to repeat ,
And what I want it boots not to complain .

Madam , I'll sing .

'Tis well that thou hast cause ;
But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep .

I could weep , madam , would it do you good .

And I could sing would weeping do me good ,
And never borrow any tear of thee .
But stay , here come the gardeners :
Let's step into the shadow of these trees .
My wretchedness unto a row of pins ,
They'll talk of state ; for every one doth so 
Against a change : woe is forerun with woe .

Go , bind thou up yon dangling apricocks ,
Which , like unruly children , make their sire 
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight :
Give some supportance to the bending twigs .
Go thou , and like an executioner ,
Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays ,
That look too lofty in our commonwealth :
All must be even in our government .
You thus employ'd , I will go root away 
The noisome weeds , that without profit suck 
The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers .

Why should we in the compass of a pale 
Keep law and form and due proportion ,
Showing , as in a model , our firm estate ,
When our sea-walled garden , the whole land ,
Is full of weeds , her fairest flowers chok'd up ,
Her fruit-trees all unprun'd , her hedges ruin'd ,
Her knots disorder'd , and her wholesome herbs 
Swarming with caterpillars ?

Hold thy peace :
He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring 
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf ;
The weeds that his broad-spreading leaves did shelter ,
That seem'd in eating him to hold him up ,
Are pluck'd up root and all by Bolingbroke ;
I mean the Earl of Wiltshire , Bushy , Green .

What ! are they dead ?

They are ; and Bolingbroke 
Hath seiz'd the wasteful king . O ! what pity is it 
That he hath not so trimm'd and dress'd his land 
As we this garden . We at time of year 
Do wound the bark , the skin of our fruit-trees ,
Lest , being over-proud with sap and blood ,
With too much riches it confound itself :
Had he done so to great and growing men ,
They might have liv'd to bear and he to taste 
Their fruits of duty : superfluous branches 
We lop away that bearing boughs may live :
Had he done so , himself had borne the crown ,
Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down .

What ! think you then the king shall be depos'd ?

Depress'd he is already , and depos'd 
'Tis doubt he will be : letters came last night 
To a dear friend of the good Duke of York's ,
That tell black tidings .

O ! I am press'd to death through want of speaking .

Thou , old Adam's likeness , set to dress this garden ,
How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news ?
What Eve , what serpent , hath suggested thee 
To make a second fall of cursed man ?
Why dost thou say King Richard is depos'd ?
Dar'st thou , thou little better thing than earth ,
Divine his downfall ? Say , where , when , and how 
Cam'st thou by these ill tidings ? speak , thou wretch .

Pardon me , madam : little joy have I 
To breathe these news , yet what I say is true .
King Richard , he is in the mighty hold 
Of Bolingbroke ; their fortunes both are weigh'd :
In your lord's scale is nothing but himself ,
And some few vanities that make him light ;
But in the balance of great Bolingbroke ,
Besides himself , are all the English peers ,
And with that odds he weighs King Richard down .
Post you to London and you'll find it so ;
I speak no more than every one doth know .

Nimble mischance . that art so light of foot ,
Doth not thy embassage belong to me ,
And am I last that knows it ? O ! thou think'st 
To serve me last , that I may longest keep 
Thy sorrow in my breast . Come , ladies , go ,
To meet at London London's king in woe .
What ! was I born to this , that my sad look 
Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke ?
Gardener , for telling me these news of woe ,
Pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow .


Poor queen ! so that thy state might be no worse ,
I would my skill were subject to thy curse .
Here did she fall a tear ; here , in this place ,
I'll set a bank of rue , sour herb of grace ;
Rue , even for ruth , here shortly shall be seen ,
In the remembrance of a weeping queen .

Call forth Bagot .
Now , Bagot , freely speak thy mind ;
What thou dost know of noble Gloucester's death ,
Who wrought it with the king , and who perform'd 
The bloody office of his timeless end .

Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle .

Cousin , stand forth , and look upon that man .

My Lord Aumerle , I know your daring tongue 
Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver'd .
In that dead time when Gloucester's death was plotted ,
I heard you say , 'Is not my arm of length ,
That reacheth from the restful English court 
As far as Calais , to my uncle's head ?' 
Amongst much other talk , that very time ,
I heard you say that you had rather refuse 
The offer of a hundred thousand crowns 
Than Bolingbroke's return to England ;
Adding withal , how blest this land would be 
In this your cousin's death .

Princes and noble lords ,
What answer shall I make to this base man ?
Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars ,
On equal terms to give him chastisement ?
Either I must , or have mine honour soil'd 
With the attainder of his slanderous lips .
There is my gage , the manual seal of death ,
That marks thee out for hell : I say thou liest ,
And will maintain what thou hast said is false 
In thy heart-blood , though being all too base 
To stain the temper of my knightly sword .

Bagot , forbear ; thou shalt not take it up .

Excepting one , I would he were the best 
In all this presence that hath mov'd me so .

If that thy valour stand on sympathies ,
There is my gage , Aumerle , in gage to thine :
By that fair sun which shows me where thou stand'st ,
I heard thee say , and vauntingly thou spak'st it ,
That thou wert cause of noble Gloucester's death .
If thou deny'st it twenty times , thou liest ;
And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart ,
Where it was forged , with my rapier's point .

Thou dar'st not , coward , live to see that day .

Now , by my soul , I would it were this hour .

Fitzwater , thou art damn'd to hell for this .

Aumerle , thou liest ; his honour is as true 
In this appeal as thou art all unjust ;
And that thou art so , there I throw my gage ,
To prove it on thee to the extremest point 
Of mortal breathing : seize it if thou dar'st .

And if I do not may my hands rot off 
And never brandish more revengeful steel 
Over the glittering helmet of my foe !

I task the earth to the like , forsworn Aumerle ;
And spur thee on with full as many lies 
As may be holla'd in thy treacherous ear 
From sun to sun : there is my honour's pawn ;
Engage it to the trial if thou dar'st .

Who sets me else ? by heaven , I'll throw at all :
I have a thousand spirits in one breast ,
To answer twenty thousand such as you .

My Lord Fitzwater , I do remember well 
The very time Aumerle and you did talk .

'Tis very true : you were in presence then ;
And you can witness with me this is true .

As false , by heaven , as heaven itself is true .

Surrey , thou best .

Dishonourable boy !
That he shall lie so heavy on my sword 
That it shall render vengeance and revenge ,
Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do lie 
In earth as quiet as thy father's skull .
In proof whereof , there is my honour's pawn :
Engage it to the trial if thou dar'st .

How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse !
If I dare eat , or drink , or breathe , or live ,
I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness ,
And spit upon him , whilst I say he lies ,
And lies , and lies : there is my bond of faith 
To tie thee to my strong correction .
As I intend to thrive in this new world ,
Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal :
Besides , I heard the banish'd Norfolk say 
That thou , Aumerle , didst send two of thy men 
To execute the noble duke at Calais .

Some honest Christian trust me with a gage .
That Norfolk lies , here do I throw down this ,
If he may be repeal'd to try his honour .

These differences shall all rest under gage 
Till Norfolk be repeal'd : repeal'd he shall be ,
And though mine enemy , restor'd again 
To all his lands and signories ; when he's return'd ,
Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial .

That honourable day shall ne'er be seen .
Many a time hath banish'd Norfolk fought 
For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field ,
Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross 
Against black pagans , Turks , and Saracens ;
And toil'd with works of war , retir'd himself 
To Italy ; and there at Venice gave 
His body to that pleasant country's earth ,
And his pure soul unto his captain Christ ,
Under whose colours he had fought so long .

Why , bishop , is Norfolk dead ?

As surely as I live , my lord .

Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom 
Of good old Abraham ! Lords appellants ,
Your differences shall all rest under gage 
Till we assign you to your days of trial .


Great Duke of Lancaster , I come to thee 
From plume-pluck'd Richard ; who with willing soul 
Adopts thee heir , and his high sceptre yields 
To the possession of thy royal hand .
Ascend his throne , descending now from him ;
And long live Henry , of that name the fourth !

In God's name , I'll ascend the regal throne .

Marry , God forbid !
Worst in this royal presence may I speak ,
Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth .
Would God that any in this noble presence 
Were enough noble to be upright judge 
Of noble Richard ! then , true noblesse would 
Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong .
What subject can give sentence on his king ?
And who sits here that is not Richard's subject ?
Thieves are not judg'd but they are by to hear ,
Although apparent guilt be seen in them ;
And shall the figure of God's majesty ,
His captain , steward , deputy elect ,
Anointed , crowned , planted many years ,
Be judg'd by subject and inferior breath ,
And he himself not present ? O ! forfend it , God ,
That in a Christian climate souls refin'd 
Should show so heinous , black , obscene a deed .
I speak to subjects , and a subject speaks ,
Stirr'd up by God thus boldly for his king .
My Lord of Hereford here , whom you call king ,
Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king ;
And if you crown him , let me prophesy ,
The blood of English shall manure the ground 
And future ages groan for this foul act ;
Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels ,
And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars 
Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound ;
Disorder , horror , fear and mutiny 
Shall here inhabit , and this land be call'd 
The field of Golgotha and dead men's skulls .
O ! if you rear this house against this house ,
It will the woefullest division prove 
That ever fell upon this cursed earth .
Prevent it , resist it , let it not be so ,
Lest child , child's children , cry against you 'woe !' 

Well have you argu'd , sir ; and , for your pains ,
Of capital treason we arrest you here .
My Lord of Westminster , be it your charge 
To keep him safely till his day of trial .
May it please you , lords , to grant the commons' suit ?

Fetch hither Richard , that in common view 
He may surrender ; so we shall proceed 
Without suspicion .

I will be his conduct .


Lords , you that here are under our arrest ,
Procure your sureties for your days of answer .


Little are we beholding to your love ,
And little look'd for at your helping hands .


Alack ! why am I sent for to a king 
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts 
Wherewith I reign'd ? I hardly yet have learn'd 
To insinuate , flatter , bow , and bend my limbs :
Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me 
To this submission . Yet I well remember 
The favours of these men : were they not mine ?
Did they not sometime cry , 'All haill' to me ?
So Judas did to Christ : but he , in twelve ,
Found truth in all but one ; I , in twelve thousand , none .
God save the king ! Will no man say , amen ?
Am I both priest and clerk ? well then , amen .
God save the king ! although I be not he ;
And yet , amen , if heaven do think him me .
To do what service am I sent for hither ?

To do that office of thine own good will 
Which tired majesty did make thee offer ,
The resignation of thy state and crown 
To Henry Bolingbroke .

Give me the crown . Here , cousin , seize the crown ;
Here cousin ,
On this side my hand and on that side 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 , unseen and full of water :
That bucket down and full of tears am I ,
Drinking my griefs , whilst you mount up on high .

I thought you had been willing to resign .

My crown , I am ; but still my griefs are mine .
You may my glories and my state depose ,
But not my griefs ; still am I king of those .

Part of your cares you give me with your crown .

Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down .
My care is loss 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 still with me they stay .

Are you contented to resign the crown ?

Ay , no ; no , ay ; for I must nothing be ;
Therefore no no , for I resign to thee .
Now mark me how I will undo myself :
I give this heavy weight from off my head ,
And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand ,
The pride of kingly sway 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 sacred state ,
With mine own breath release all duteous rites :
All pomp and majesty I do forswear ;
My manors , rents , revenues , I forego ;
My acts , decrees , and statutes 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 hast all achiev'd !
Long mayst thou live in Richard's seat to sit ,
And soon lie Richard in an earthy pit !
God save King Henry , unking'd Richard says ,
And send him many years of sunshine days !
What more remains ?

No more , but that you read 
These accusations and these grievous crimes 
Committed by your person and your followers 
Against the state and profit of this land ;
That , by confessing them , the souls of men 
May deem that you are worthily depos'd .

Must I do so ? and must I ravel out 
My weav'd-up follies ? Gentle Northumberland ,
If thy offences were upon record ,
Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop 
To read a lecture of them ? If thou wouldst ,
There shouldst thou find one heinous article ,
Containing the deposing of a king ,
And cracking the strong warrant of an oath ,
Mark'd with a blot , damn'd in the book of heaven .
Nay , all of you that stand and look upon me ,
Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself ,
Though some of you with Pilate wash your hands ,
Showing an outward pity ; yet you Pilates 
Have here deliver'd me to my sour cross ,
And water cannot wash away your sin .

My lord , dispatch ; read o'er these articles .

Mine eyes are full of tears , I cannot see :
And yet salt water blinds them not so much 
But they can see a sort of traitors here .
Nay , if I turn mine eyes upon myself ,
I find myself a traitor with the rest ;
For I have given here my soul's consent 
To undeck the pompous body of a king ;
Made glory base and sovereignty a slave ,
Proud majesty a subject , state a peasant ,

My lord ,

No lord of thine , thou haught insulting man ,
Nor no man's lord ; I have no name , no title ,
No , not that name was given me at the font ,
But 'tis usurp'd : alack the heavy day !
That I have worn so many winters out ,
And know not now what name to call myself .
O ! that I were a mockery king of snow ,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke ,
To melt myself away in water-drops .
Good king , great king ,and yet not greatly good ,
An if my word be sterling yet in England ,
Let it command a mirror hither straight ,
That it may show me what a face I have ,
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty .

Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass .


Read o'er this paper while the glass doth come .

Fiend ! thou torment'st me ere I come to hell .

Urge it no more , my Lord Northumberland .

The commons will not then be satisfied .

They shall be satisfied : I'll read enough 
When I do see the very book indeed 
Where all my sins are writ , and that's myself .


Give me the glass , and therein will I read .
No deeper wrinkles yet ? Hath sorrow struck 
So many blows upon this face of mine 
And made no deeper wounds ? O , flattering glass !
Like to my followers in prosperity ,
Thou dost beguile me . Was this face the face 
That every day under his household roof 
Did keep ten thousand men ? Was this the face 
That like the sun did make beholders wink ?
Was this the face that fac'd so many follies ,
And was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke ?
A brittle glory shineth in this face :
As brittle as the glory is the face ;

For there it is , crack'd in a hundred shivers .
Mark , silent king , the moral of this sport ,

How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face .

The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd 
The shadow of your face .

Say that again .
The shadow of my sorrow ! Ha ! let's see :
'Tis very true , my grief lies all within ;
And these external manners of laments 
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief 
That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul ;
There lies the substance : and I thank thee , king ,
For thy great bounty , that not only giv'st 
Me cause to wail , but teachest me the way 
How to lament the cause . I'll beg one boon ,
And then be gone and trouble you no more .
Shall I obtain it ?

Name it , fair cousin .

'Fair cousin !' 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 so great , I have no need to beg .

Yet ask .

And shall I have ?

You shall .

Then give me leave to go .

Whither ?

Whither you will , so I were from your sights .

Go , some of you convey him to the Tower .

O , good ! convey ? conveyers are you all ,
That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall .


On Wednesday next we solemnly set down 
Our coronation : lords , prepare yourselves .


A woeful pageant have we here beheld .

The woe's to come ; the children yet unborn 
Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn .

You holy clergymen , is there no plot 
To rid the realm of this pernicious blot ?

My lord ,
Before I freely speak my mind herein ,
You shall not only take the sacrament 
To bury mine intents , but also to effect 
Whatever I shall happen to devise .
I see your brows are full of discontent ,
Your hearts of sorrow , and your eyes of tears :
Come home with me to supper ; I will lay 
A plot shall show us all a merry day .

This way the king will come ; this is the way 
To Julius C sar's ill-erected tower ,
To whose flint bosom my condemned lord 
Is doom'd a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke .
Here let us rest , if this rebellious earth 
Have any resting for her true king's queen .


But soft , but see , or rather do not see ,
My fair rose wither : yet look up , behold ,
That you in pity may dissolve to dew ,
And wash him fresh again with true-love tears .
Ah ! thou , the model where old Troy did stand ,
Thou map of honour , thou King Richard's tomb ,
And not King Richard ; thou most beauteous inn ,
Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee ,

When triumph is become an alehouse guest ?

Join not with grief , fair woman , do not so ,
To make my end too sudden : learn , good soul ,
To think our former state a happy dream ;
From which awak'd , the truth of what we are 
Shows us but this . I am sworn brother , sweet ,
To grim Necessity , and he and I 
Will keep a league till death . Hie thee to France ,
And cloister thee in some religious house :
Our holy lives must win a new world's crown ,
Which our profane hours here have stricken down .

What ! is my Richard both in shape and mind 
Transform'd and weaken'd ! Hath Bolingbroke depos'd 
Thine intellect ? hath he been in thy heart ?
The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw 
And wounds the earth , if nothing else , with rage 
To be o'erpower'd ; and wilt thou , pupil-like ,
Take thy correction mildly , kiss the rod ,
And fawn on rage with base humility ,
Which art a lion and a king of beasts ?

A king of beasts indeed ; if aught but beasts ,
I had been still a happy king of men .
Good sometime queen , prepare thee hence for France ,
Think I am dead , and that even here thou tak'st ,
As from my death-bed , my last living leave .
In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire 
With good old folks , and let them tell thee tales 
Of woeful ages , long ago betid ;
And ere thou bid good night , to quit their grief ,
Tell thou the lamentable tale of me ,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds :
For why the senseless brands will sympathize 
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue ,
And in compassion weep the fire out ;
And some will mourn in ashes , some coal-black ,
For the deposing of a rightful king .


My lord , the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd ;
You must to Pomfret , not unto the Tower .
And , madam , there is order ta'en for you ;
With all swift speed you must away to France .

Northumberland , thou ladder wherewithal 
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne ,
The time shall not be many hours of age 
More than it is , ere foul sin gathering head 
Shall break into corruption . Thou shalt think ,
Though he divide the realm and give thee half ,
It is too little , helping him to all ;
And he shall think that thou , which know'st the way 
To plant unrightful kings , wilt know again ,
Being ne'er so little urg'd , another way 
To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne .
The love of wicked friends converts to fear ;
That fear to hate , and hate turns one or both 
To worthy danger and deserved death .

My guilt be on my head , and there an end .
Take leave and part ; for you must part forthwith .

Doubly divorc'd ! Bad men , ye violate 
A two-fold marriage ; 'twixt my crown and me ,
And then , betwixt me and my married wife .
Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me ;
And yet not so , for with a kiss 'twas made .
Part us , Northumberland : I towards the north ,
Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime ;
My wife to France : from whence , set forth in pomp ,
She came adorned hither like sweet May ,
Sent back like Hallowmas or short'st of day .

And must we be divided ? must we part ?

Ay , hand from hand , my love , and heart from heart .

Banish us both and send the king with me .

That were some love but little policy .

Then whither he goes , thither let me go .

So two , together weeping , make one woe .
Weep thou for me in France , I for thee here ;
Better far off , than near , be ne'er the near .
Go , count thy way with sighs , I mine with groans .

So longest way shall have the longest moans .

Twice for one step I'll groan , the way being short ,
And piece the way out with a heavy heart .
Come , come , in wooing sorrow let's be brief ,
Since , wedding it , thero is such length in grief .
One kiss shall stop our mouths , and dumbly part ;
Thus give I mine , and thus take I thy heart .


Give me mine own again ; 'twere no good part 
To take on me to keep and kill thy heart .

So , now I have mine own again , be gone ,
That I may strive to kill it with a groan .

We make woe wanton with this fond delay :
Once more , adieu ; the rest let sorrow say .


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 .

Where did I leave ?

At that sad stop , my lord ,
Where rude misgovern'd hands , from windows' tops ,
Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head .

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 , Bolingbroke !' 
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 imagery had said at once 
'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 .

Alack , poor Richard ! where rode he the whilst ?

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 .

Here comes my son Aumerle .

Aumerle that was ;
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 .


Welcome , my son : who are the violets now 
That strew the green lap of the new come spring ?

Madam , I know not , nor I greatly care not :
God knows I had as lief be none as one .

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 ?

For aught I know , my lord , they do .

You will be there , I know .

If God prevent it not , I purpose so .

What seal is that that hangs without thy bosom ?
Yea , look'st thou pale ? let me see the writing .

My lord , 'tis nothing .

No matter then , who sees it :
I will be satisfied ; let me see the writing .

I do beseech your Grace to pardon me :
It is a matter of small consequence ,
Which for some reasons I would not have seen .

Which for some reasons , sir , I mean to see .
I fear , I fear ,

What should you fear ?
'Tis nothing but some bond he's enter'd into 
For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day .

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 .

I do beseech you , pardon me ; I may not show it .

I will be satisfied ; let me see it , I say .

Treason ! foul treason ! villain ! traitor ! slave !

What is the matter , my lord ?

Ho ! who is within there ?


Saddle my horse .

God for his mercy ! what treachery is here !

Why , what is it , my lord ?

Give me my boots , I say ; saddle my horse .
Now , by mine honour , by my life , my troth ,
I will appeach the villain .


What's the matter ?

Peace , foolish woman .

I will not peace . What is the matter , Aumerle ?

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

Thy life answer !

Bring me my boots : I will unto the king .


Strike him , Aumerle . Poor boy , thou art amaz'd .


Hence , villain ! never more come in my sight .


Give me my boots , I say .

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 ?

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 .

He shall be none ;
We'll keep him here : then , what is that to him ?

Away , fond woman ! were he twenty times 
My son , I would appeach him .

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 , nor any of my kin ,
And yet I love him .

Make way , unruly woman !


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 ! be gone .


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 ,
For there , they say , he daily doth frequent ,
With unrestrained loose companions ,
Even such , they say , as stand in narrow lanes 
And beat our watch and rob our passengers ;
While he , young wanton and effeminate boy ,
Takes on the point of honour to support 
So dissolute a crew .

My lord , some two days since I saw the prince ,
And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford .

And what said the gallant ?

His answer was : he would unto the stews ,
And from the common'st creature pluck a glove ,
And wear it as a favour ; and with that 
He would unhorse the lustiest challenger .

As dissolute as desperate ; yet , through both ,
I see some sparkles of a better hope ,
Which elder days may happily bring forth .
But who comes here ?


Where is the king ?

What means 
Our cousin , that he stares and looks so wildly ?

God save your Grace ! I do beseech your majesty ,
To have some conference with your Grace alone .

Withdraw yourselves , and leave us here alone .

What is the matter with our cousin now ?

For ever may my knees grow to the earth ,
My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth ,
Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak .

Intended or committed was this fault ?
If on the first , how heinous e'er it be ,
To win thy after-love I pardon thee .

Then give me leave that I may turn the key ,
That no man enter till my tale be done .

Have thy desire .


My liege , beware ! look to thyself ;
Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there .

Villain , I'll make thee safe .

Stay thy revengeful hand ; thou hast no cause to fear .

Open the door , secure , foolhardy king :
Shall I for love speak treason to thy face ?
Open the door , or I will break it open .

What is the matter , uncle ? speak ;
Recover breath ; tell us how near is danger ,
That we may arm us to encounter it .

Peruse this writing here , and thou shalt know 
The treason that my haste forbids me show .

Remember , as thou read'st , thy promise pass'd :
I do repent me ; read not my name there ;
My heart is not confederate with my hand .

'Twas , villain , ere thy hand did set it down .
I tore it from the traitor's bosom , king ;
Fear , and not love , begets his penitence .
Forget to pity him , lest thy pity prove 
A serpent that will sting thee to the heart .

O heinous , strong , and bold conspiracy !
O loyal father of a treacherous son !
Thou sheer , immaculate , and silver fountain ,
From whence this stream through muddy passages 
Hath held his current and defil'd himself !
Thy overflow of good converts to bad ,
And thy abundant goodness shall excuse 
This deadly blot in thy digressing son .

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 .
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies ,
Or my sham'd 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 .

What ho , my liege ! for God's sake let me in .

What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes this eager cry ?

A woman , and thine aunt , great king ; 'tis I .
Speak with me , pity me , open the door :
A beggar begs , that never begg'd before .

Our scene is alter'd from a serious thing ,
And now chang'd to 'The Beggar and the King .' 
My dangerous cousin , let your mother in :
I know she's come to pray for your foul sin .


If thou do pardon , whosoever pray ,
More sins , for this forgiveness , prosper may .
This fester'd joint cut off , the rest rests sound ;
This , let alone , will all the rest confound .


O king ! believe not this hard-hearted man :
Love , loving not itself , none other can .

Thou frantic woman , what dost thou make here ?
Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear ?

Sweet York , be-patient .

Hear me , gentle liege .

Rise up , good aunt .

Not yet , I thee beseech .
For ever will I walk upon my knees ,
And never see day that the happy sees ,
Till thou give joy ; until thou bid me joy ,
By pardoning Rutland , my transgressing boy .

Unto my mother's prayers I bend my knee .


Against them both my true joints bended be .

Ill mayst thou thrive if thou grant any grace !

Pleads he in earnest ? look upon his face ;
His eyes do drop no tears , his prayers are in jest ;
His words come from his mouth , ours from our breast :
He prays but faintly and would be denied ;
We pray with heart and soul and all beside :
His weary joints would gladly rise , I know ;
Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow :
His prayers are full of false hypocrisy ;
Ours of true zeal and deep integrity .
Our prayers do out-pray his ; then let them have 
That mercy which true prayer ought to have .

Good aunt , stand up .

Nay , do not say 'stand up ;' 
But 'pardon' first , and afterwards 'stand up .' 
An if I were thy nurse , thy tongue to teach ,
'Pardon' should be the first word of thy speech .
I never long'd to hear a word till now ;
Say 'pardon ,' king ; let pity teach thee how :
The word is short , but not so short as sweet ;
No word like 'pardon ,' for kings' mouths so meet .

Speak it in French , king ; say , 'pardonnez moy .' 

Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy ?
Ah ! my sour husband , my hard-hearted lord ,
That sett'st the word itself against the word .
Speak 'pardon' as 'tis current in our land ;
The chopping French we do not understand .
Thine eye begins to speak , set thy tongue there ,
Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear ,
That hearing how our plants and prayers do pierce ,
Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse .

Good aunt , stand up .

I do not sue to stand ;
Pardon is all the suit I have in hand .

I pardon him , as God shall pardon me .

O happy vantage of a kneeling knee !
Yet am I sick for fear : speak it again ;
Twice saying 'pardon' doth not pardon twain ,
But makes one pardon strong .

With all my heart 
I pardon him .

A god on earth thou art .

But for our trusty brother-in-law and the abbot ,
With all the rest of that consorted crew ,
Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels .
Good uncle , help to order several powers 
To Oxford , or where'er these traitors are :
They shall not live within this world , I swear ,
But I will have them , if I once know where .
Uncle , farewell : and cousin too , adieu :
Your mother well hath pray'd , and prove you true .

Come , my old son : I pray God make thee new .


Didst thou not mark the king , what words he spake ?
'Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear ?' 
Was it not so ?

Those were his very words .

'Have I no friend ?' quoth he : he spake it twice ,
And urg'd it twice together , did he not ?

He did .

And speaking it , he wistly looked on me ,
As who should say , 'I would thou wert the man 
That would divorce this terror from my heart ;' 
Meaning the king at Pomfret . Come , let's go :
I am the king's friend , and will rid his foe .


I have been studying how I may compare 
This prison where I live unto the world :
And for because the world is populous ,
And here is not a creature but myself ,
I cannot do it ; yet I'll hammer it out .
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul ;
My soul the father : and these two beget 
A generation of still-breeding thoughts ,
And these same thoughts people this little world 
In humours like the people of this world ,
For no thought is contented . The better sort ,
As thoughts of things divine , are intermix'd 
With scruples , and do set the word itself 
Against the word :
As thus , 'Come , little ones ;' and then again ,
'It is as hard to come as for a camel 
To thread the postern of a needle's eye .' 
Thoughts tending to ambition , they do plot 
Unlikely wonders ; how these vain weak nails 
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs 
Of this hard world , my ragged prison walls ;
And , for they cannot , die in their own pride .
Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves 
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves ,
Nor shall not be the last ; like silly beggars 
Who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame ,
That many have and others must sit there :
And in this thought they find a kind of ease ,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back 
Of such as have before endur'd the like .
Thus play I in one person many people ,
And none contented : sometimes am I king ;
Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar ,
And so I am : then crushing penury 
Persuades me I was better when a king ;
Then am I king'd again ; and by and by 
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke ,
And straight am nothing : but whate'er I be ,
Nor I nor any man that but man is 
With nothing shall be pleas'd , till he be eas'd 
With being nothing . Music do I hear ?

Ha , ha ! keep time . How sour sweet music is 
When time is broke and no proportion kept !
So is it in the music of men's lives .
And here have I the daintiness of ear 
To check time broke in a disorder'd string ;
But for the concord of my state and time 
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke .
I wasted time , and now doth time waste me ;
For now hath time made me his numbering clock :
My thoughts are minutes , and with sighs they jar 
Their watches on unto mine eyes , the outward watch ,
Whereto my finger , like a dial's point ,
Is pointing still , in cleansing them from tears .
Now sir , the sound that tells what hour it is 
Are clamorous groans , that strike upon my heart 
Which is the bell : so sighs and tears and groans 
Show minutes , times , and hours ; but my time 
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy ,
While I stand fooling here , his Jack o' the clock .
This music mads me : let it sound no more ;
For though it have holp madmen to their wits ,
In me it seems it will make wise men mad .
Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me !
For 'tis a sign of love , and love to Richard 
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world .


Hail , royal prince !

Thanks , noble peer ;
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear .
What art thou ? and how comest thou hither , man ,
Where no man never comes but that sad dog 
That brings me food to make misfortune live ?

I was a poor groom of thy stable , king ,
When thou wert king ; who , travelling towards York ,
With much ado at length have gotten leave 
To look upon my sometimes royal master's face .
O ! how it yearn'd my heart when I beheld 
In London streets , that coronation day 
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary ,
That horse that thou so often hast bestrid ,
That horse that I so carefully have dress'd .

Rode he on Barbary ? Tell me , gentle friend ,
How went he under him ?

So proudly as if he disdain'd the ground .

So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back !
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand ;
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him .
Would he not stumble ? Would he not fall down ,
Since pride must have a fall ,and break the neck 
Of that proud man that did usurp his back ?
Forgiveness , horse ! why do I rail on thee ,
Since thou , created to be aw'd by man ,
Wast born to bear ? I was not made a horse ;
And yet I bear a burden like an ass ,
Spur-gall'd and tir'd by jauncing Bolingbroke .


Fellow , give place ; here is no longer stay .

If thou love me , 'tis time thou wert away .

What my tongue dares not , that my heart shall say .


My lord , will't please you to fall to ?

Taste of it first , as thou art wont to do .

My lord , I dare not : Sir Pierce of Exton , who lately came from the king , commands the contrary .

The devil take Henry of Lancaster , and thee !
Patience is stale , and I am weary of it .


Help , help , help !


How now ! what means death in this rude assault ?
Villain , thine own hand yields thy death's instrument .

Go thou and fill another room in hell .

That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire 
That staggers thus my person . Exton , thy fierce hand 
Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land .
Mount , mount , my soul ! thy seat is up on high ,
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward , here to die .


As full of valour as of royal blood :
Both have I spilt ; O ! would the deed were good ;
For now the devil , that told me I did well ,
Says that this deed is chronicled in hell .
This dead king to the living king I'll bear .
Take hence the rest and give them burial here .


Kind uncle York , the latest news we hear 
Is that the rebels have consum'd with fire 
Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire ;
But whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not .

Welcome , my lord . What is the news ?

First , to thy sacred state wish I all happiness .
The next news is : I have to London sent 
The heads of Salisbury , Spencer , Blunt , and Kent .
The manner of their taking may appear 
At large discoursed in this paper here .

We thank thee , gentle Percy , for thy pains ,
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains .


My lord , I have from Oxford sent to London 
The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely ,
Two of the dangerous consorted traitors 
That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow .

Thy pains , Fitzwater , shall not be forgot ;
Right noble is thy merit , well I wot .


The grand conspirator , Abbot of Westminster ,
With clog of conscience and sour melancholy ,
Hath yielded up his body to the grave ;
But here is Carlisle living , to abide 
Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride .

Carlisle , this is your doom :
Choose out some secret place , some reverend room ,
More than thou hast , and with it joy thy life ;
So , as thou livest in peace , die free from strife :
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been ,
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen .


Great king , within this coffin I present 
Thy buried fear : herein all breathless lies 
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies ,
Richard of Bordeaux , by me hither brought .

Exton , I thank thee not ; for thou hast wrought 
A deed of slander with thy fatal hand 
Upon my head and all this famous land .

From your own mouth , my lord , did I this deed .

They love not poison that do poison need ,
Nor do I thee : though I did wish him dead ,
I hate the murderer , love him murdered .
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour ,
But neither my good word nor princely favour :
With Cain go wander through the shade of night ,
And never show thy head by day nor light .
Lords , I protest , my soul is full of woe ,
That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow :
Come , mourn with me for that I do lament ,
And put on sullen black incontinent .
I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land ,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand .
March sadly after ; grace my mournings here ,
In weeping after this untimely bier .