Richard II

Enter Exton and Seruants.

  Ext. Didst thou not marke the King what words heespake?Haue I no friend will rid me of this liuing feare:Was it not so?  Ser. Those were his very words.

Ex.

Haue I no Friend? (quoth he:) he spake it twice,And vrg'd it twice together, did he not?  Ser. He did.

Ex.

And speaking it, he wistly look'd on me,As who should say, I would thou wer't the manThat would diuorce this terror from my heart,Meaning the King at Pomfret: Come, let's goe;I am the Kings Friend, and will rid his Foe.

Enter.

Scaena Quarta

Enter Richard.

  Rich. I haue bin studying, how to compareThis Prison where I liue, vnto the World:And for because the world is populous,And heere is not a Creature, but my selfe,I cannot do it: yet Ile hammer't out.My Braine, Ile proue the Female to my Soule,My Soule, the Father: and these two begetA generation of still breeding Thoughts;And these same Thoughts, people this Little WorldIn humors, like the people of this world,For no thought is contented. The better sort,As thoughts of things Diuine, are intermixtWith scruples, and do set the Faith it selfeAgainst the Faith: as thus: Come litle ones: & then again,It is as hard to come, as for a CamellTo thred the posterne of a Needles eye.Thoughts tending to Ambition, they do plotVnlikely wonders; how these vaine weake nailesMay teare a passage through the Flinty ribbesOf this hard world, my ragged prison walles:And for they cannot, dye in their owne pride.Thoughts tending to Content, flatter themselues,That they are not the first of Fortunes slaues,Nor shall not be the last. Like silly Beggars,Who sitting in the Stockes, refuge their shameThat many haue, and others must sit there;And in this Thought, they finde a kind of ease,Bearing their owne misfortune on the backeOf such as haue before indur'd the like.Thus play I in one Prison, many people,And none contented. Sometimes am I King;Then Treason makes me wish my selfe a Beggar,And so I am. Then crushing penurie,Perswades me, I was better when a King:Then am I king'd againe: and by and by,Thinke that I am vn-king'd by Bullingbrooke,And straight am nothing. But what ere I am,

Musick

Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'dWith being nothing. Musicke do I heare?Ha, ha? keepe time: How sowre sweet Musicke is,When Time is broke, and no Proportion kept?So is it in the Musicke of mens liues:And heere haue I the daintinesse of eare,To heare time broke in a disorder'd string:But for the Concord of my State and Time,Had not an eare to heare my true Time broke.I wasted Time, and now doth Time waste me:For now hath Time made me his numbring clocke;My Thoughts, are minutes; and with Sighes they iarre,Their watches on vnto mine eyes, the outward Watch,Whereto my finger, like a Dialls point,Is pointing still, in cleansing them from teares.Now sir, the sound that tels what houre it is,Are clamorous groanes, that strike vpon my heart,Which is the bell: so Sighes, and Teares, and Grones,Shew Minutes, Houres, and Times: but my TimeRuns poasting on, in Bullingbrookes proud ioy,While I stand fooling heere, his iacke o'th' Clocke.This Musicke mads me, let it sound no more,For though it haue holpe madmen to their wits,In me it seemes, it will make wise-men mad:Yet blessing on his heart that giues it me;For 'tis a signe of loue, and loue to Richard,Is a strange Brooch, in this all-hating world.Enter Groome.Groo. Haile Royall Prince   Rich. Thankes Noble Peere,The cheapest of vs, is ten groates too deere.What art thou? And how com'st thou hither?Where no man euer comes, but that sad doggeThat brings me food, to make misfortune liue?  Groo. I was a poore Groome of thy Stable (King)When thou wer't King: who trauelling towards Yorke,With much adoo, at length haue gotten leaueTo looke vpon my (sometimes Royall) masters face.O how it yern'd my heart, when I beheldIn London streets, that Coronation day,When Bullingbrooke rode on Roane Barbary,That horse, that thou so often hast bestrid,That horse, that I so carefully haue drest   Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me gentle Friend,How went he vnder him?  Groo. So proudly, as if he had disdain'd the ground   Rich. So proud, that Bullingbrooke was on his backe;That Iade hath eate bread from my Royall hand.This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.Would he not stumble? Would he not fall downe(Since Pride must haue a fall) and breake the neckeOf that proud man, that did vsurpe his backe?Forgiuenesse horse: Why do I raile on thee,Since thou created to be aw'd by manWas't borne to beare? I was not made a horse,And yet I beare a burthen like an Asse,Spur-gall'd, and tyrd by iauncing Bullingbrooke.Enter Keeper with a Dish.Keep. Fellow, giue place, heere is no longer stayRich. If thou loue me, 'tis time thou wer't away   Groo. What my tongue dares not, that my heart shallsay.Enter.  Keep. My Lord, wilt please you to fall too?  Rich. Taste of it first, as thou wer't wont to doo   Keep. My Lord I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton,Who lately came from th' King, commands the contrary   Rich. The diuell take Henrie of Lancaster, and thee;Patience is stale, and I am weary of it   Keep. Helpe, helpe, helpe.Enter Exton and Seruants.  Ri. How now? what meanes Death in this rude assalt?Villaine, thine owne hand yeelds thy deaths instrument,Go thou and fill another roome in hell.Exton strikes him downe.That hand shall burne in neuer-quenching fire,That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand,Hath with the Kings blood, stain'd the Kings own land.Mount, mount my soule, thy seate is vp on high,Whil'st my grosse flesh sinkes downward, heere to dye   Exton. As full of Valor, as of Royall blood,Both haue I spilt: Oh would the deed were good.For now the diuell, that told me I did well,Sayes, that this deede is chronicled in hell.This dead King to the liuing King Ile beare,Take hence the rest, and giue them buriall heere.Enter.

Scoena Quinta

Flourish. Enter Bullingbrooke, Yorke, with other Lords & attendants.

  Bul. Kinde Vnkle Yorke, the latest newes we heare,Is that the Rebels haue consum'd with fireOur Towne of Cicester in Gloucestershire,But whether they be tane or slaine, we heare not.Enter Northumberland.Welcome my Lord: What is the newes?  Nor. First to thy Sacred State, wish I all happinesse:The next newes is, I haue to London sentThe heads of Salsbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent:The manner of their taking may appeareAt large discoursed in this paper heere   Bul. We thank thee gentle Percy for thy paines,And to thy worth will adde right worthy gaines.Enter Fitzwaters.  Fitz. My Lord, I haue from Oxford sent to London,The heads of Broccas, and Sir Bennet Seely,Two of the dangerous consorted Traitors,That sought at Oxford, thy dire ouerthrow   Bul. Thy paines Fitzwaters shall not be forgot,Right Noble is thy merit, well I wot.Enter Percy and Carlile.  Per. The grand Conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,With clog of Conscience, and sowre Melancholly,Hath yeelded vp his body to the graue:But heere is Carlile, liuing to abideThy Kingly doome, and sentence of his pride   Bul. Carlile, this is your doome:Choose out some secret place, some reuerend roomeMore then thou hast, and with it ioy thy life:So as thou liu'st in peace, dye free from strife:For though mine enemy, thou hast euer beene,High sparkes of Honor in thee haue I seene.Enter Exton with a Coffin.  Exton. Great King, within this Coffin I presentThy buried feare. Heerein all breathlesse liesThe mightiest of thy greatest enemiesRichard of Burdeaux, by me hither brought   Bul. Exton, I thanke thee not, for thou hast wroughtA deede of Slaughter, with thy fatall hand,Vpon my head, and all this famous Land.

Ex.

From your owne mouth my Lord, did I this deed   Bul. They loue not poyson, that do poyson neede,Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,I hate the Murtherer, loue him murthered.The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,But neither my good word, nor Princely fauour.With Caine go wander through the shade of night,And neuer shew thy head by day, nor light.Lords, I protest my soule is full of woe,That blood should sprinkle me, to make me grow.Come mourne with me, for that I do lament,And put on sullen Blacke incontinent:Ile make a voyage to the Holy-land,To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.March sadly after, grace my mourning heere,In weeping after this vntimely Beere.

Exeunt.

FINIS. The life and death of King Richard the Second.