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Sal. 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. [Exit.
SCENE I. Bolingbroke's Camp at Bristol.
Enter BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY, WILLOUGHBY, Ross: Officers behind with Bushy and GREEN, prisoners,
Boling. 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 death. 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
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 fou!
wrongs. Myself—a prince, by fortune of
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,
this, Condemns you to the death:-See them deliver'd
over To execution and the hand of death. Bushy. More welcome is the stroke of death to
me, Than Bolingbroke to England.—Lords, farewell. Green. My comfort is,—that heaven will take
our souls, And plague injustice with the pains of hell. Boling. My lord Northumberland, see them
York. A gentleman of mine I have despatch'd
2 Dispark'd my parks,] To dispark is to throw down the hedges of an enclosure.
3 From my own windows torn my household coat,] It was the practice when coloured glass was in use, of which there are still some remains in old seats and churches, to anneal the arms of the family in the windows of the house.
* Raz’d out my impress, &c.] The impress was a device or motto,
Boling. Thanks, gentle uncle.-Come, lords,
away; To fight with Glendower and his complices; Awhile to work, and, after, holiday. [Exeunt.
The Coast of Wales. A Castle in view.
Flourish: Drums and Trumpets. Enter. King Rs
CHARD, Bishop of Carlisle, AUMERLE, and
your grace the air, After late tossing on the breaking seas? K. Rich. 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 rav'nous 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;
Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;
• He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,] It is not easy to point out an image more striking and beautiful than this, in any poet, whether ancient or modern. STEEVENS.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Welcome, my lord; How far off lies your power?
Sal. 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, my 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. Aum. Comfort, my liege: why looks your grace
so pale? K. Rich. But now, the blood of twenty thousand
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.
Aum. Comfort, my liege; remember who you
K. Rich. I had forgot myself: Am I not king? Awake, thou sluggard majesty! thou sleep’st.