Richard II
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Actus Quartus. Scoena Prima
Enter as to the Parliament, Bullingbrooke, Aumerle, Northumberland, Percie, FitzWater, Surrey, Carlile, Abbot of Westminster. Herauld, Officers, and Bagot.
Bullingbrooke. Call forth Bagot.Now Bagot, freely speake thy minde,What thou do'st know of Noble Glousters death:Who wrought it with the King, and who perform'dThe bloody Office of his Timelesse endBag. Then set before my face, the Lord AumerleBul. Cosin, stand forth, and looke vpon that man Bag. My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongueScornes to vnsay, what it hath once deliuer'd.In that dead time, when Glousters death was plotted,I heard you say, Is not my arme of length,That reacheth from the restfull English CourtAs farre as Callis, to my Vnkles head.Amongst much other talke, that very time,I heard you say, that you had rather refuseThe offer of an hundred thousand Crownes,Then Bullingbrookes returne to England; adding withall,How blest this Land would be, in this your Cosins death Aum. Princes, and Noble Lords:What answer shall I make to this base man?Shall I so much dishonor my faire Starres,On equall termes to giue him chasticement?Either I must, or haue mine honor soyl'dWith th' Attaindor of his sland'rous Lippes.There is my Gage, the manuall Seale of deathThat markes thee out for Hell. Thou lyest,And will maintaine what thou hast said, is false,In thy heart blood, though being all too baseTo staine the temper of my Knightly swordBul. Bagot forbeare, thou shalt not take it vp Aum. Excepting one, I would he were the bestIn all this presence, that hath mou'd me so Fitz. If that thy valour stand on sympathize:There is my Gage, Aumerle, in Gage to thine:By that faire Sunne, that shewes me where thou stand'st,I heard thee say (and vauntingly thou spak'st it)That thou wer't cause of Noble Glousters death.If thou deniest it, twenty times thou lyest,And I will turne thy falshood to thy hart,Where it was forged with my Rapiers pointAum. Thou dar'st not (Coward) liue to see the dayFitz. Now by my Soule, I would it were this houreAum. Fitzwater thou art damn'd to hell for this Per. Aumerle, thou lye'st: his Honor is as trueIn this Appeale, as thou art all vniust:And that thou art so, there I throw my GageTo proue it on thee, to th' extreamest pointOf mortall breathing. Seize it, if thou dar'st Aum. And if I do not, may my hands rot off,And neuer brandish more reuengefull Steele,Ouer the glittering Helmet of my Foe Surrey. My Lord Fitzwater:I do remember well, the very timeAumerle, and you did talke Fitz. My Lord,'Tis very true: You were in presence then,And you can witnesse with me, this is true Surrey. As false, by heauen,As Heauen it selfe is trueFitz. Surrey, thou Lyest Surrey. Dishonourable Boy;That Lye, shall lie so heauy on my Sword,That it shall render Vengeance, and Reuenge,Till thou the Lye-giuer, and that Lye, doe lyeIn earth as quiet, as thy Fathers Scull.In proofe whereof, there is mine Honors pawne,Engage it to the Triall, if thou dar'st Fitzw. How fondly do'st thou spurre a forward Horse?If I dare eate, or drinke, or breathe, or liue,I dare meete Surrey in a Wildernesse,And spit vpon him, whilest I say he Lyes,And Lyes, and Lyes: there is my Bond of Faith,To tye thee to my strong Correction.As I intend to thriue in this new World,Aumerle is guiltie of my true Appeale.Besides, I heard the banish'd Norfolke say,That thou Aumerle didst send two of thy men,To execute the Noble Duke at Callis Aum. Some honest Christian trust me with a Gage,That Norfolke lyes: here doe I throw downe this,If he may be repeal'd, to trie his Honor Bull. These differences shall all rest vnder Gage,Till Norfolke be repeal'd: repeal'd he shall be;And (though mine Enemie) restor'd againeTo all his Lands and Seignories: when hee's return'd,Against Aumerle we will enforce his Tryall Carl. That honorable day shall ne're be seene.Many a time hath banish'd Norfolke foughtFor Iesu Christ, in glorious Christian fieldStreaming the Ensigne of the Christian Crosse,Against black Pagans, Turkes, and Saracens:And toyl'd with workes of Warre, retyr'd himselfeTo Italy, and there at Venice gaueHis Body to that pleasant Countries Earth,And his pure Soule vnto his Captaine Christ,Vnder whose Colours he had fought so long Bull. Why Bishop, is Norfolke dead? Carl. As sure as I liue, my Lord Bull. Sweet peace conduct his sweet SouleTo the Bosome of good old Abraham.Lords Appealants, your differe[n]ces shal all rest vnder gage,Till we assigne you to your dayes of Tryall.Enter Yorke. Yorke. Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to theeFrom plume-pluckt Richard, who with willing SouleAdopts thee Heire, and his high Scepter yeeldsTo the possession of thy Royall Hand.Ascend his Throne, descending now from him,And long liue Henry, of that Name the FourthBull. In Gods Name, Ile ascend the Regall Throne Carl. Mary, Heauen forbid.Worst in this Royall Presence may I speake,Yet best beseeming me to speake the truth.Would God, that any in this Noble PresenceWere enough Noble, to be vpright IudgeOf Noble Richard: then true Noblenesse wouldLearne him forbearance from so foule a Wrong.What Subiect can giue Sentence on his King?And who sits here, that is not Richards Subiect?Theeues are not iudg'd, but they are by to heare,Although apparant guilt be seene in them:And shall the figure of Gods Maiestie,His Captaine, Steward, Deputie elect,Anoynted, Crown'd, planted many yeeres,Be iudg'd by subiect, and inferior breathe,And he himselfe not present? Oh, forbid it, God,That in a Christian Climate, Soules refin'deShould shew so heynous, black, obscene a deed.I speake to Subiects, and a Subiect speakes,Stirr'd vp by Heauen, thus boldly for his KingMy Lord of Hereford here, whom you call King,Is a foule Traytor to prowd Herefords King.And if you Crowne him, let me prophecie,The blood of English shall manure the ground,And future Ages groane for his foule Act.Peace shall goe sleepe with Turkes and Infidels,And in this Seat of Peace, tumultuous WarresShall Kinne with Kinne, and Kinde with Kinde confound.Disorder, Horror, Feare, and MutinieShall here inhabite, and this Land be call'dThe field of Golgotha, and dead mens Sculls.Oh, if you reare this House, against this HouseIt will the wofullest Diuision proue,That euer fell vpon this cursed Earth.Preuent it, resist it, and let it not be so,Least Child, Childs Children cry against you, Woe North. Well haue you argu'd Sir: and for your paines,Of Capitall Treason we arrest you here.My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge,To keepe him safely, till his day of Tryall.May it please you, Lords, to grant the Commons Suit? Bull. Fetch hither Richard, that in common viewHe may surrender: so we shall proceedeWithout suspition Yorke. I will be his Conduct.Enter. Bull. Lords, you that here are vnder our Arrest,Procure your Sureties for your Dayes of Answer:Little are we beholding to your Loue,And little look'd for at your helping Hands.Enter Richard and Yorke. Rich. Alack, why am I sent for to a King,Before I haue shooke off the Regall thoughtsWherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet haue learn'dTo insinuate, flatter, bowe, and bend my Knee.Giue Sorrow leaue a while, to tuture meTo this submission. Yet I well rememberThe fauors of these men: were they not mine?Did they not sometime cry, All hayle to me?So Iudas did to Christ: but he in twelue,Found truth in all, but one; I, in twelue thousand, none.God saue the King: will no man say, Amen?Am I both Priest, and Clarke? well then, Amen.God saue the King, although I be not hee:And yet Amen, if Heauen doe thinke him mee.To doe what seruice, am I sent for hither? Yorke. To doe that office of thine owne good will,Which tyred Maiestie did make thee offer:The Resignation of thy State and CrowneTo Henry Bullingbrooke Rich. Giue me the Crown. Here Cousin, seize y Crown:Here Cousin, on this side my Hand, on that side thine.Now is this Golden Crowne like a deepe Well,That owes two Buckets, filling one another,The emptier euer dancing in the ayre,The other downe, vnseene, and full of Water:That Bucket downe, and full of Teares am I,Drinking my Griefes, whil'st you mount vp on highBull. I thought you had been willing to resigne Rich. My Crowne I am, but still my Griefes are mine:You may my Glories and my State depose,But not my Griefes; still am I King of thoseBull. Part of your Cares you giue me with your Crowne Rich. Your Cares set vp, do not pluck my Cares downe.My Care, is losse of Care, by old Care done,Your Care, is gaine of Care, by new Care wonne:The Cares I giue, I haue, though giuen away,They 'tend the Crowne, yet still with me they stay: Bull. Are you contented to resigne the Crowne? Rich. I, no; no, I: for I must nothing bee:Therefore no, no, for I resigne to thee.Now, marke me how I will vndoe my selfe.I giue this heauie Weight from off my Head,And this vnwieldie Scepter from my Hand,The pride of Kingly sway from out my Heart.With mine owne Teares I wash away my Balme,With mine owne Hands I giue away my Crowne,With mine owne Tongue denie my Sacred State,With mine owne Breath release all dutious Oathes;All Pompe and Maiestie I doe forsweare:My Manors, Rents, Reuenues, I forgoe;My Acts, Decrees, and Statutes I denie:God pardon all Oathes that are broke to mee,God keepe all Vowes vnbroke are made to thee.Make me that nothing haue, with nothing grieu'd,And thou with all pleas'd, that hast all atchieu'd.Long may'st thou liue in Richards Seat to sit,And soone lye Richard in an Earthie Pit.God saue King Henry, vn-King'd Richard sayes,And send him many yeeres of Sunne-shine dayes.What more remaines? North. No more: but that you readeThese Accusations, and these grieuous Crymes,Committed by your Person, and your followers,Against the State, and Profit of this Land:That by confessing them, the Soules of menMay deeme, that you are worthily depos'd Rich. Must I doe so? and must I rauell outMy weau'd-vp follyes? Gentle Northumberland,If thy Offences were vpon Record,Would it not shame thee, in so faire a troupe,To reade a Lecture of them? If thou would'st,There should'st thou finde one heynous Article,Contayning the deposing of a King,And cracking the strong Warrant of an Oath,Mark'd with a Blot, damn'd in the Booke of Heauen.Nay, all of you, that stand and looke vpon me,Whil'st that my wretchednesse doth bait my selfe,Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands,Shewing an outward pittie: yet you PilatesHaue here deliuer'd me to my sowre Crosse,And Water cannot wash away your sinneNorth. My Lord dispatch, reade o're these Articles Rich. Mine Eyes are full of Teares, I cannot see:And yet salt-Water blindes them not so much,But they can see a sort of Traytors here.Nay, if I turne mine Eyes vpon my selfe,I finde my selfe a Traytor with the rest:For I haue giuen here my Soules consent,T' vndeck the pompous Body of a King;Made Glory base; a Soueraigntie, a Slaue;Prowd Maiestie, a Subiect; State, a PesantNorth. My Lord Rich. No Lord of thine, thou haught-insulting man;No, nor no mans Lord: I haue no Name, no Title;No, not that Name was giuen me at the Font,But 'tis vsurpt: alack the heauie day,That I haue worne so many Winters out,And know not now, what Name to call my selfe.Oh, that I were a Mockerie, King of Snow,Standing before the Sunne of Bullingbrooke,To melt my selfe away in Water-drops.Good King, great King, and yet not greatly good,And if my word be Sterling yet in England,Let it command a Mirror hither straight,That it may shew me what a Face I haue,Since it is Bankrupt of his MaiestieBull. Goe some of you, and fetch a Looking-GlasseNorth. Read o're this Paper, while y Glasse doth comeRich. Fiend, thou torments me, ere I come to HellBull. Vrge it no more, my Lord NorthumberlandNorth. The Commons will not then be satisfy'd Rich. They shall be satisfy'd: Ile reade enough,When I doe see the very Booke indeede,Where all my sinnes are writ, and that's my selfe.Enter one with a Glasse.Giue me that Glasse, and therein will I reade.No deeper wrinckles yet? hath Sorrow struckeSo many Blowes vpon this Face of mine,And made no deeper Wounds? Oh flatt'ring Glasse,Like to my followers in prosperitie,Thou do'st beguile me. Was this Face, the FaceThat euery day, vnder his House-hold Roofe,Did keepe ten thousand men? Was this the Face,That like the Sunne, did make beholders winke?Is this the Face, which fac'd so many follyes,That was at last out-fac'd by Bullingbrooke?A brittle Glory shineth in this Face,As brittle as the Glory, is the Face,For there it is, crackt in an hundred shiuers.Marke silent King, the Morall of this sport,How soone my Sorrow hath destroy'd my Face Bull. The shadow of your Sorrow hath destroy'dThe shadow of your Face Rich. Say that againe.The shadow of my Sorrow: ha, let's see,'Tis very true, my Griefe lyes all within,And these externall manner of Laments,Are meerely shadowes, to the vnseene Griefe,That swells with silence in the tortur'd Soule.There lyes the substance: and I thanke thee KingFor thy great bountie, that not onely giu'stMe cause to wayle, but teachest me the wayHow to lament the cause. Ile begge one Boone,And then be gone, and trouble you no more.Shall I obtaine it? Bull. Name it, faire Cousin Rich. Faire Cousin? I am greater then a King:For when I was a King, my flatterersWere then but subiects; being now a subiect,I haue a King here to my flatterer:Being so great, I haue no neede to beggeBull. Yet aske Rich. And shall I haue? Bull. You shallRich. Then giue me leaue to goe Bull. Whither? Rich. Whither you will, so I were from your sightsBull. Goe some of you, conuey him to the Tower Rich. Oh good: conuey: Conueyers are you all,That rise thus nimbly by a true Kings fall Bull. On Wednesday next, we solemnly set downeOur Coronation: Lords, prepare your selues.Exeunt.
Abbot. A wofull Pageant haue we here beheld Carl. The Woes to come, the Children yet vnborne,Shall feele this day as sharpe to them as Thorne Aum. You holy Clergie-men, is there no PlotTo rid the Realme of this pernicious Blot Abbot. Before I freely speake my minde herein,You shall not onely take the Sacrament,To bury mine intents, but also to effectWhat euer I shall happen to deuise.I see your Browes are full of Discontent,Your Heart of Sorrow, and your Eyes of Teares.Come home with me to Supper, Ile lay a PlotShall shew vs all a merry day.Exeunt.
Actus Quintus. Scena Prima
Enter Queene, and Ladies.
Qu. This way the King will come: this is the wayTo Iulius Cćsars ill-erected Tower:To whose flint Bosome, my condemned LordIs doom'd a Prisoner, by prowd Bullingbrooke.Here let vs rest, if this rebellious EarthHaue any resting for her true Kings Queene.Enter Richard, and Guard.But soft, but see, or rather doe not see,My faire Rose wither: yet looke vp; behold,That you in pittie may dissolue to dew,And wash him fresh againe with true-loue Teares.Ah thou, the Modell where old Troy did stand,Thou Mappe of Honor, thou King Richards Tombe,And not King Richard: thou most beauteous Inne,Why should hard-fauor'd Griefe be lodg'd in thee,When Triumph is become an Ale-house Guest Rich. Ioyne not with griefe, faire Woman, do not so,To make my end too sudden: learne good Soule,To thinke our former State a happie Dreame,From which awak'd, the truth of what we are,Shewes vs but this. I am sworne Brother (Sweet)To grim Necessitie; and hee and IWill keepe a League till Death. High thee to France,And Cloyster thee in some Religious House:Our holy liues must winne a new Worlds Crowne,Which our prophane houres here haue stricken downe Qu. What, is my Richard both in shape and mindeTransform'd, and weaken'd? Hath BullingbrookeDepos'd thine Intellect? hath he beene in thy Heart?The Lyon dying, thrusteth forth his Paw,And wounds the Earth, if nothing else, with rageTo be o're-powr'd: and wilt thou, Pupill-like,Take thy Correction mildly, kisse the Rodde,And fawne on Rage with base Humilitie,Which art a Lyon, and a King of Beasts? Rich. A King of Beasts indeed: if aught but Beasts,I had beene still a happy King of Men.Good (sometime Queene) prepare thee hence for France:Thinke I am dead, and that euen here thou tak'st,As from my Death-bed, my last liuing leaue.In Winters tedious Nights sit by the fireWith good old folkes, and let them tell thee TalesOf wofull Ages, long agoe betide:And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their griefe,Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,And send the hearers weeping to their Beds:For why? the sencelesse Brands will sympathizeThe heauie accent of thy mouing Tongue,And in compassion, weepe the fire out:And some will mourne in ashes, some coale-black,For the deposing of a rightfull King.Enter Northumberland. North. My Lord, the mind of Bullingbrooke is chang'd.You must to Pomfret, not vnto the Tower.And Madame, there is order ta'ne for you:With all swift speed, you must away to France Rich. Northumberland, thou Ladder wherewithallThe mounting Bullingbrooke ascends my Throne,The time shall not be many houres of age,More then it is, ere foule sinne, gathering head,Shall breake into corruption: thou shalt thinke,Though he diuide the Realme, and giue thee halfe,It is too little, helping him to all:He shall thinke, that thou which know'st the wayTo plant vnrightfull Kings, wilt know againe,Being ne're so little vrg'd another way,To pluck him headlong from the vsurped Throne.The Loue of wicked friends conuerts to Feare;That Feare, to Hate; and Hate turnes one, or both,To worthie Danger, and deserued Death North. My guilt be on my Head, and there an end:Take leaue, and part, for you must part forthwith Rich. Doubly diuorc'd? (bad men) ye violateA two-fold Marriage; 'twixt my Crowne, and me.And then betwixt me, and my marryed Wife.Let me vn-kisse the Oath 'twixt thee, and me;And yet not so, for with a Kisse 'twas made.Part vs, Northumberland: I, towards the North,Where shiuering Cold and Sicknesse pines the Clyme:My Queene to France: from whence, set forth in pompe,She came adorned hither like sweet May;Sent back like Hollowmas, or short'st of day Qu. And must we be diuided? must we part? Rich. I, hand from hand (my Loue) and heart fro[m] heartQu. Banish vs both, and send the King with meNorth. That were some Loue, but little PollicyQu. Then whither he goes, thither let me goe Rich. So two together weeping, make one Woe.Weepe thou for me in France; I, for thee heere:Better farre off, then neere, be ne're the neere.Goe, count thy Way with Sighes; I, mine with GroanesQu. So longest Way shall haue the longest Moanes Rich. Twice for one step Ile groane, y Way being short,And peece the Way out with a heauie heart.Come, come, in wooing Sorrow let's be briefe,Since wedding it, there is such length in Griefe:One Kisse shall stop our mouthes, and dumbely part;Thus giue I mine, and thus take I thy heart Qu. Giue me mine owne againe: 'twere no good part,To take on me to keepe, and kill thy heart.So, now I haue mine owne againe, be gone,That I may striue to kill it with a groane Rich. We make Woe wanton with this fond delay:Once more adieu; the rest, let Sorrow say.Exeunt.
Scoena Secunda
Enter Yorke, and his Duchesse.
Duch. My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest,When weeping made you breake the story off,Of our two Cousins comming into London Yorke. Where did I leaue? Duch. At that sad stoppe, my Lord,Where rude mis-gouern'd hands, from Windowes tops,Threw dust and rubbish on King Richards head Yorke. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bullingbrooke,Mounted vpon a hot and fierie Steed,Which his aspiring Rider seem'd to know,With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course:While all tongues cride, God saue thee Bullingbrooke.You would haue thought the very windowes spake,So many greedy lookes of yong and old,Through Casements darted their desiring eyesVpon his visage: and that all the walles,With painted Imagery had said at once,Iesu preserue thee, welcom Bullingbrooke.Whil'st he, from one side to the other turning,Bare-headed, lower then his proud Steeds necke,Bespake them thus: I thanke you Countrimen:And thus still doing, thus he past along Dutch. Alas poore Richard, where rides he the whilst? Yorke. As in a Theater, the eyes of menAfter a well grac'd Actor leaues the Stage,Are idlely bent on him that enters next,Thinking his prattle to be tedious:Euen so, or with much more contempt, mens eyesDid scowle on Richard: no man cride, God saue him:No ioyfull tongue gaue him his welcome home,But dust was throwne vpon his Sacred head,Which with such gentle sorrow he shooke off,His face still combating with teares and smiles(The badges of his greefe and patience)That had not God (for some strong purpose) steel'dThe hearts of men, they must perforce haue melted,And Barbarisme it selfe haue pittied him.But heauen hath a hand in these euents,To whose high will we bound our calme contents.To Bullingbrooke, are we sworne Subiects now,Whose State, and Honor, I for aye allow.Enter AumerleDut. Heere comes my sonne Aumerle Yor. Aumerle that was,But that is lost, for being Richards Friend.And Madam, you must call him Rutland now:I am in Parliament pledge for his truth,And lasting fealtie to the new-made King Dut. Welcome my sonne: who are the Violets now,That strew the greene lap of the new-come Spring? Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not,God knowes, I had as liefe be none, as one Yorke. Well, beare you well in this new-spring of timeLeast you be cropt before you come to prime.What newes from Oxford? Hold those Iusts & Triumphs? Aum. For ought I know my Lord, they doYorke. You will be there I knowAum. If God preuent not, I purpose so Yor. What Seale is that that hangs without thy bosom?Yea, look'st thou pale? Let me see the WritingAum. My Lord, 'tis nothing Yorke. No matter then who sees it,I will be satisfied, let me see the Writing Aum. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me,It is a matter of small consequence,Which for some reasons I would not haue seene Yorke. Which for some reasons sir, I meane to see:I feare, I feare Dut. What should you feare?'Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter'd intoFor gay apparrell, against the Triumph Yorke. Bound to himselfe? What doth he with a BondThat he is bound to? Wife, thou art a foole.Boy, let me see the WritingAum. I do beseech you pardon me, I may not shew itYor. I will be satisfied: let me see it I say.Snatches itTreason, foule Treason, Villaine, Traitor, Slaue Dut. What's the matter, my Lord? Yorke. Hoa, who's within there? Saddle my horse.Heauen for his mercy: what treachery is heere? Dut. Why, what is't my Lord? Yorke. Giue me my boots, I say: Saddle my horse:Now by my Honor, my life, my troth,I will appeach the Villaine Dut. What is the matter? Yorke. Peace foolish Woman Dut. I will not peace. What is the matter Sonne? Aum. Good Mother be content, it is no moreThen my poore life must answer Dut. Thy life answer?Enter Seruant with Boots.Yor. Bring me my Boots, I will vnto the King Dut. Strike him Aumerle. Poore boy, y art amaz'd,Hence Villaine, neuer more come in my sightYor. Giue me my Boots, I say Dut. Why Yorke, what wilt thou do?Wilt thou not hide the Trespasse of thine owne?Haue we more Sonnes? Or are we like to haue?Is not my teeming date drunke vp with time?And wilt thou plucke my faire Sonne from mine Age,And rob me of a happy Mothers name?Is he not like thee? Is he not thine owne? Yor. Thou fond mad woman:Wilt thou conceale this darke Conspiracy?A dozen of them heere haue tane the Sacrament,And interchangeably set downe their handsTo kill the King at Oxford Dut. He shall be none:Wee'l keepe him heere: then what is that to him? Yor. Away fond woman: were hee twenty times mySon, I would appeach him Dut. Hadst thou groan'd for him as I haue done,Thou wouldest be more pittifull:But now I know thy minde; thou do'st suspectThat I haue bene disloyall to thy bed,And that he is a Bastard, not thy Sonne:Sweet Yorke, sweet husband, be not of that minde:He is as like thee, as a man may bee,Not like to me, nor any of my Kin,And yet I loue himYorke. Make way, vnruly Woman.Exit
Dut. After Aumerle. Mount thee vpon his horse,Spurre post, and get before him to the King,And begge thy pardon, ere he do accuse thee,Ile not be long behind: though I be old,I doubt not but to ride as fast as Yorke:And neuer will I rise vp from the ground,Till Bullingbrooke haue pardon'd thee: Away be gone.Exit
Scoena Tertia
Enter Bullingbrooke, Percie, and other Lords.
Bul. Can no man tell of my vnthriftie Sonne?'Tis full three monthes since I did see him last.If any plague hang ouer vs, 'tis he,I would to heauen (my Lords) he might be found:Enquire at London, 'mongst the Tauernes there:For there (they say) he dayly doth frequent,With vnrestrained loose Companions,Euen such (they say) as stand in narrow Lanes,And rob our Watch, and beate our passengers,Which he, yong wanton, and effeminate BoyTakes on the point of Honor, to supportSo dissolute a crew Per. My Lord, some two dayes since I saw the Prince,And told him of these Triumphes held at Oxford Bul. And what said the Gallant? Per. His answer was: he would vnto the Stewes,And from the common'st creature plucke a GloueAnd weare it as a fauour, and with thatHe would vnhorse the lustiest Challenger Bul. As dissolute as desp'rate, yet through both,I see some sparkes of better hope: which elder dayesMay happily bring forth. But who comes heere?Enter Aumerle. Aum. Where is the King? Bul. What meanes our Cosin, that hee staresAnd lookes so wildely? Aum. God saue your Grace. I do beseech your MaiestyTo haue some conference with your Grace alone Bul. Withdraw your selues, and leaue vs here alone:What is the matter with our Cosin now? Aum. For euer may my knees grow to the earth,My tongue cleaue to my roofe within my mouth,Vnlesse a Pardon, ere I rise, or speake Bul. Intended, or committed was this fault?If on the first, how heynous ere it bee,To win thy after loue, I pardon thee Aum. Then giue me leaue, that I may turne the key,That no man enter, till my tale be doneBul. Haue thy desire.Yorke within. Yor. My Liege beware, looke to thy selfe,Thou hast a Traitor in thy presence thereBul. Villaine, Ile make thee safe Aum. Stay thy reuengefull hand, thou hast no causeto feare Yorke. Open the doore, secure foole-hardy King:Shall I for loue speake treason to thy face?Open the doore, or I will breake it open.Enter Yorke. Bul. What is the matter (Vnkle) speak, recouer breath,Tell vs how neere is danger,That we may arme vs to encounter it Yor. Peruse this writing heere, and thou shalt knowThe reason that my haste forbids me show Aum. Remember as thou read'st, thy promise past:I do repent me, reade not my name there,My heart is not confederate with my hand Yor. It was (villaine) ere thy hand did set it downe.I tore it from the Traitors bosome, King.Feare, and not Loue, begets his penitence;Forget to pitty him, least thy pitty proueA Serpent, that will sting thee to the heart Bul. Oh heinous, strong, and bold Conspiracie,O loyall Father of a treacherous Sonne:Thou sheere, immaculate, and siluer fountaine,From whence this streame, through muddy passagesHath had his current, and defil'd himselfe.Thy ouerflow of good, conuerts to bad,And thy abundant goodnesse shall excuseThis deadly blot, in thy digressing sonne Yorke. So shall my Vertue be his Vices bawd,And he shall spend mine Honour, with his Shame;As thriftlesse Sonnes, their scraping Fathers Gold.Mine honor liues, when his dishonor dies,Or my sham'd life, in his dishonor lies:Thou kill'st me in his life, giuing him breath,The Traitor liues, the true man's put to death.Dutchesse within.Dut. What hoa (my Liege) for heauens sake let me in Bul. What shrill-voic'd Suppliant, makes this eager cry? Dut. A woman, and thine Aunt (great King) 'tis I.Speake with me, pitty me, open the dore,A Begger begs, that neuer begg'd before Bul. Our Scene is alter'd from a serious thing,And now chang'd to the Begger, and the King.My dangerous Cosin, let your Mother in,I know she's come, to pray for your foule sin Yorke. If thou do pardon, whosoeuer pray,More sinnes for this forgiuenesse, prosper may.This fester'd ioynt cut off, the rest rests sound,This let alone, will all the rest confound.Enter Dutchesse. Dut. O King, beleeue not this hard-hearted man,Loue, louing not it selfe, none other can Yor. Thou franticke woman, what dost y make here,Shall thy old dugges, once more a Traitor reare? Dut. Sweet Yorke be patient, heare me gentle LiegeBul. Rise vp good Aunt Dut. Not yet, I thee beseech.For euer will I kneele vpon my knees,And neuer see day, that the happy sees,Till thou giue ioy: vntill thou bid me ioy,By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing BoyAum. Vnto my mothers prayres, I bend my kneeYorke. Against them both, my true ioynts bended be Dut. Pleades he in earnest? Looke vpon his Face,His eyes do drop no teares: his prayres are in iest:His words come from his mouth, ours from our brest.He prayes but faintly, and would be denide,We pray with heart, and soule, and all beside:His weary ioynts would gladly rise, I know,Our knees shall kneele, till to the ground they grow:His prayers are full of false hypocrisie,Ours of true zeale, and deepe integritie:Our prayers do out-pray his, then let them haueThat mercy, which true prayers ought to haueBul. Good Aunt stand vp Dut. Nay, do not say stand vp.But Pardon first, and afterwards stand vp.And if I were thy Nurse, thy tongue to teach,Pardon should be the first word of thy speach.I neuer long'd to heare a word till now:Say Pardon (King,) let pitty teach thee how.The word is short: but not so short as sweet,No word like Pardon, for Kings mouth's so meetYorke. Speake it in French (King) say Pardon'ne moy Dut. Dost thou teach pardon, Pardon to destroy?Ah my sowre husband, my hard-hearted Lord,That set's the word it selfe, against the word.Speake Pardon, as 'tis currant in our Land,The chopping French we do not vnderstand.Thine eye begins to speake, set thy tongue there,Or in thy pitteous heart, plant thou thine eare,That hearing how our plaints and prayres do pearce,Pitty may moue thee, Pardon to rehearseBul. Good Aunt, stand vp Dut. I do not sue to stand,Pardon is all the suite I haue in handBul. I pardon him, as heauen shall pardon mee Dut. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee?Yet am I sicke for feare: Speake it againe,Twice saying Pardon, doth not pardon twaine,But makes one pardon strongBul. I pardon him with all my hartDut. A God on earth thou art Bul. But for our trusty brother-in-Law, the Abbot,With all the rest of that consorted crew,Destruction straight shall dogge them at the heeles:Good Vnckle helpe to order seuerall powresTo Oxford, or where ere these Traitors are:They shall not liue within this world I sweare,But I will haue them, if I once know where.Vnckle farewell, and Cosin adieu:Your mother well hath praid, and proue you trueDut. Come my old son, I pray heauen make thee new.Exeunt.