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Ely House.
Enter JOHN OF GAUNT sick, with the DUKE OF YORK, &c.

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 (10)

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 whose taste the wise are fond,

Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound (20)

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: (301)

'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

Methinks I am a prophet new inspired

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, (41)

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, (50)

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 leased out, I die pronouncing it, (60)

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 blot 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! Enter KING RICHARD and QUEEN, AUMERLE, BUSHY, GREEN, BAGOT, ROSS, and WIL LOUGHBY.

The king is come: deal mildly with his youth; (70)

For young hot colts being raged do rage the more.

How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?

K. Rich.
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: (79)

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 naught but bones.

K. Rich.
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.

K. Rich.
Should dying men flatter with those that live?

No, no, men living flatter those that die.

K. Rich.
Thou, now a-dying, say'st thou flatterest me.

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

K. Rich.
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,

Commit'st thy anointed body to the cure

Of those physicians that first wounded thee: (100)

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 posess'd now to depose thyself.

Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world, (110)

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 bondslave to the law;

And thou--

K. Rich.
A lunatic lean-witted fool,

Presuming on an ague's privilege,

Darest with thy frozen admonition

Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood

With fury from his native residence. (120)

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 caroused:

My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul,

Whom fair befal in heaven 'mongst happy souls! (130)

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 honor have. [Exit, borne off by his Attendants.

K. Rich.
And let them die that age and sullens have;

For both hast thou, and both become the grave. (141)

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.

K. Rich.
Right, you say true: as Hereford's love, so his;

As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is. Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.

My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty.

K. Rich.
What says he?

Nay, nothing; all is said:

His tongue is now a stringless instrument;

Words, life and all, old Lancaster hath spent. (151)

Be York the next that must be bankrupt so!

Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich.
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, (160)

Towards our assistance we do sieze to us

The plate, coin, revenues and moveable,

Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand posess'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, not 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 my father, Prince of Wales, was first:

In war was never lion raged 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 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.

K. Rich.
Why, uncle, what's the matter?

O my liege,

Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleased

Not to be pardon'd, am content withal.

Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands (190)

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? (200)

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 honor and allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich.
Think what you will, we seize into our hands

His plate, his goods, his money and his lands. (211)

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. [Exit.

K. Rich.
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, (220)

Our uncle York lord governor of England;

For he is just and always loved us well.

Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part;

Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [Flourish. Exeunt King, Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green, and Bagot.

Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.

And living too; for now his son is duke.

Barely in title, not in revenues.

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. (230)

Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more

That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!

Tends that thou wouldst 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 moe (240)

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, 'gaint 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 fined

For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.

And daily new exactions are devised,

As blanks, benevolence, and I wot not what: (251)

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 noble ancestors achieved 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, (260)

His burthenous taxation 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 wreck that we must suffer;

And unavoided is the danger now,

For suffering so the causes of our wreck. (270)

Not so; even through the hollow eyes of death

I spy 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, received intelligence

That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham, (280)


That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,

Sir Thomas, 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 Bretagne

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 (290)

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 (295)

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. [Exeunt.


The palace..

Madam, your majesty is too much sad:

You promised, 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, (11)

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 shows like grief itself, but is not so;

For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,

Divides one thing entire to many objects;

Like perspectives, which rightly gazed upon

Show nothing but confusion, eyed awry (20)

Distinguish form: so your sweet majesty,

Looking awry upon your lord's departure,

Find 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, (30)

I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad

As, though on 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 derived

From some forefather grief; mine is not so,

For nothing had 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 (40)

I cannot name; 'tis nameless woe, I wot. Enter GREEN.

God save your majesty! and well met, gentlemen:

I hope the king is not yet shipp'd for Ireland.

Why hopest 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 retired his power,

And driven into despair an enemy's hope,

Who strongly hath set footing in this land:

The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself, (50)

And with uplifted arms is safe arrived

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 revolted faction traitors?

We have: whereupon the Earl of Worcester

Hath broke his staff, resign'd his stewardship, (60)

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, (70)

A parasite, a keeper back of death,

Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,

Which false hope lingers in extremity. Enter YORK.

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. (80)

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. Enter a Servant.

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. (90)

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! (100)

I know not what to do: I would to God,

So my untruth had not provoked him to it,

The king had cut off my head with my brother's.

What, are there no posts dispatched 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 armor that is there. [Exit Servant.

Gentlemen, will you go muster men?

If I know how or which way to order these affairs (110)

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. (120)

I should to Plashy too;

But time will not permit: all is uneven,

And every thing is left at six and seven. [Exeunt York and Queen.

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. (129)

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 judgement lie in them, then so do we,

Because we ever have been near the king.

Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol castle:

The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Thither will I with you; for little office

The hateful commons will perform for us,

Except like curs to tear us all to pieces. (140)

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. [Exeunt.


Wilds in Gloucestershire.

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

Draws out our miles, and makes them wearisome;

And 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 (10)

In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company,

Which, I protest, hath very much beguiled

The tediousness and process of my travel:

But theirs is sweetened 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? Enter HENRY PERCY.

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 dispersed

The household of the king.

What was his reason?

He was not so resolved when last we spake together. (30)

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 directions 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: (50)

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. Enter ROSS and WILLOUGHBY.

Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,

Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.

Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursues (60)

A banish'd traitor: all my treasury

Is yet but unfelt thanks, which more enrich'd

Shall be your love and labor's recompense.

Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.

And far surmounts our labor 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? Enter BERKELEY.

It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess.

My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you. (70)

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 honor 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 (80)

And fright our native peace with self-born arms. Enter YORK attended.

I shall not need transport my words by you;

Here comes his grace in person.

My noble uncle! [Kneels.

Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,

Whose duty is deceiveable 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. (90)

Why have those banish'd and forbidden legs

Dared once to touch a dust of England's ground?

But then more 'why?' why have they dared to march

So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,

Frighting her pale-faced villages with war

And ostentation of despised arms?

Comest 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 (101)

Rescued 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 cousin;

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 (130)

And yet my letters-patents 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 I challenge law: attorneys are denied me;

And therefore personally I lay claim

To my inheritance of free descent.

The noble duke hath been too much abused.

It stands your grace upon to do him right.

Base men by his endowments are made great. (140)

My lords of England, let me tell you this:

I have had feeling of my cousin's wrongs

And labor'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 to 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 (150)

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; (160)

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, Gagot 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. [Exeunt.


A camp in Wales.
Enter SALISBURY and a Welsh Captain.

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-faced moon looks bloody on the earth (11)

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 assured Richard their king is dead. [Exit.

Ah, Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind

I see thy glory like a shooting star (20)

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. [Exit.

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