That I have worn so many winters out, And know not now what name to call myself! Good king,—great king,—(and yet not greatly good,) Boling. Go some of you, and fetch a looking-glass. [Exit an Attendant. North. Read o'er this paper, while the glass doth come. K. Rich. Fiend! thou torment'st me! Boling. Urge it no more, my lord Northumberland. K. Rich. They shall be satisfied: I'll read enough, Where all my sins are writ, and that's-myself. Re-enter Attendant, with a glass. Give me the glass, and therein will I read.- So many blows upon this face of mine, And made no deeper wounds?-O, flattering glass! 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, As brittle as the glory is the face; [Dashes the glass against the ground. For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.- K. Rich. 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 lament Are merely shadows to the unseen grief, There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king, Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way Boling. Name it, fair cousin. K. Rich. Fair cousin! I am greater than a king: Were then but subjects; being now a subject, Being so great, I have no need to beg. K. Rich. And shall I have? Boling. You shall. R. Rich. Then give me leave to go. K. Rich. Whither you will, so I were from your sights. [Exeunt KING RICHARD, some Lords, and a Guard. Boling. On Wednesday next we solemnly set down Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves. [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I.-London. A Street leading to the Tower. Enter QUEEN and Attendants. Queen. This way the king will come; this is the way To whose flint bosom my condemnèd lord And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.- Ah! thou, the model where old Troy did stand, K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France, Queen. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage K. Rich. 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 night sit by the fire With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales And ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief, And send the hearers weeping to their beds. Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, attended. North. 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. K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder, wherewithal He shall think, that thou, which know'st the way To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne. That fear to hate; and hate turns one, or both, North. My guilt be on my head, and there an end. Sent back like Hallowmas, or short'st of day. Queen. And must we be divided? must we part? K. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart. North. That were some love, but little policy. Go, count thy way with sighs, I mine with groans. Queen. So longest way shall have the longest moans. K. Rich. 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, there is such length in grief [They kiss. Queen. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good part, One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part; Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. To take on me to keep and kill thy heart. So, now I have mine own again, be gone, [They kiss again. K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay: Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say. SCENE II.-London. [Exeunt. A Room in the DUKE OF YORK's Palace. Enter YORK and his Duchess. Duch. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you break the story off, Of our two cousins coming into London. York. Where did I leave? At that sad stop, my lord, Duch. York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know, With slow but stately pace kept on his course, While all tongues cried-" God save thee, Bolingbroke!" You would have thought the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old :" Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rode he the while? After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage, Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes That had not heaven, for some strong purpose, steel'd But heaven hath a hand in these events, To whose high will we bound our calm contents. Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle. York. Aumerle that was; But that is lost for being Richard's friend, And lasting fealty to the new-made king. Enter AUMERLE. Duch. Welcome, my son: who are the violets now, That strew the green lap of the new-come spring? Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not: God knows, I had as lief be none as one. York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time, |