Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their
Aum. Where is the duke, my father, with his
K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man speak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills: And yet not so, for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own, but death; And that small model of the barren earth, Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings :How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd; Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd; All murder'd:-For within the hollow crown, That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Keeps death his court: and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp; Allowing him a breath, a little scene To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks; Infusing him with self and vain conceit,As if this flesh, which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and-farewell king! Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence; throw away respect, Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty, For you have but mistook me all this while: I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief, Need friends:-Subjected thus, How can you say to me I am a king?
Car. My lord, wise men ne'er wail their present
But presently prevent the ways to wail. To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe, And so your follies fight against yourself. Fear, and be slain; no worse can come, to fight: And fight and die, is death destroying death; Where fearing dying, pays death servile breath. Aum. My father hath a power, inquire of him; And learn to make a body of a limb.
K. Rich. Thou chid'st me well:-Proud Bo
To change blows with thee for our day of doom. This ague-fit of fear is over-blown; An easy task it is, to win our own.-
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power? Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour. Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day: So may you by my dull and heavy eye,
My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.
I play the torturer, by small and small, To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken:---- Your uncle York hath join'd with Bolingbroke; And all your northern castles yielded up,
And all your southern gentlemen in arms Upon his party.1
Thou hast said enough.
Beshrew2 thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth [To Aumerle.
Of that sweet way I was in to despair! What say you now? What comfort have we now? By heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly, That bids me be of comfort any more. Go, to Flint castle; there I'll pine away; A king, wo's slave, shall kingly wo obey. That power3 I have, discharge; and let them go
Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads. Aum. Where is the duke, my father, with his
K. Rich. No matter where ; of comfort no man speak :
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills: And yet not so, for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own, but death; And that small model of the barren earth, Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings :- How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd; Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd; All murder'd:-For within the hollow crown, That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Keeps death his court and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp; Allowing him a breath, a little scene To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks; Infusing him with self and vain conceit,- As if this flesh, which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and-farewell king! Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence; throw away respect, Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty, For you have but mistook me all this while: I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief, Need friends:-Subjected thus, How can you say to me-I am a king?
Car. My lord, wise men ne'er wail their present
But presently prevent the ways to wail. To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe, And so your follies fight against yourself. Fear, and be slain; no worse can come, to fight: And fight and die, is death destroying death; Where fearing dying, pays death servile breath. Aum. My father hath a power, inquire of him; And learn to make a body of a limb.
K. Rich. Thou chid'st me well:-Proud Bo
To change blows with thee for our day of doom. This ague-fit of fear is over-blown; An easy task it is, to win our own.-
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power? Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour. Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day: So may you by my dull and heavy eye, My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.
I play the torturer, by small and small, To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken:- Your uncle York hath join'd with Bolingbroke; And all your northern castles yielded up,
And all your southern gentlemen in arms Upon his party.1 K. Rich.
Beshrew2 thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth Thou hast said enough.- [To Aumerle.
Of that sweet way I was in to despair! What say you now? What comfort have we now? By heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly, That bids me be of comfort any more. Go, to Flint castle; there I'll pine away; A king, wo's slave, shall kingly wo obey. That power3 I have, discharge; and let them go
To ear the land that hath some hope to grow, For I have none :-Let no man speak again
To alter this, for counsel is but vain.
Aum. My liege, one word.
K. Rich. He does me double wrong, That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue. Discharge my followers, let them hence:-Away, From Richard's night, to Bolingbroke's fair day.
SCENE III-Wales. Before Flint Castle. En- ter, with drum and colours, Bolingbroke and forces; York, Northumberland, and others.
Boling. So that by this intelligence we learn, The Welshmen are dispers'd; and Salisbury Is gone to meet the king, who lately landed, With some few private friends, upon this coast. North. The news is very fair and good, my lord; Richard, not far from hence, hath hid his head. York. It would beseem the lord Northumberland, To say-king Richard :-Alack the heavy day, When such a sacred king should hide his head!
North. Yourgrace mistakes me; only to be brief, 2 Left I his title out.
York. The time hath been,
Would you have been so brief with him, he would Have been so brief with you, to shorten you, For taking so the head, your whole head's length. Boling. Mistake not, uncle, further than you
York. Take not, good cousin, further than you
Lest you mis-take: The heavens are o'er your head. Boling. I know it, uncle; and oppose not Myself against their will. But who comes here?
Well, Harry; what, will not this castle yield?
(1) Plough. (2) Short. (3) Such liberty.
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