2

“Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves."
So when this thief, this traitor Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilft we were wand'ring with th' Antipodes,
Shall fee us rifing in our Throne, the caft;
His treasons will fit blufhing in his face,
Not able to endure the fight of day;
But, felf-affrighted, tremble at his fin.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm from an anointed King;
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The Deputy elected by the Lord.
For every man that Bolingbroke hath prest,
To lift fharp fteel against our golden Crown,
Heav'n for his Richard hath in heav'nly Pay
A glorious Angel; then if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heav'n still guards the Right.

Welcome, my lord, how far off lies your Power?
Salif. Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious lord,
Than this weak arm: Discomfort guides my tongue,
And bids me speak of nothing but Defpair:
One day (too late, I fear, my noble lord)
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.
Oh, 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, difperft and fled. [fo pale?
Aum. Comfort, my Liege, why looks your Grace
K. Rich. But now the blood of twenty thousand men

2 Whilst we were wand'ring &c.] This line added from the firft Edition.

Mr. Pope

Did

Did triumph in my face, and they are fled.
And till fo much blood thither come again,
Have I not reafon to look pale, and dead?
All fouls, that will be fafe, fly from my fide;
For time hath fet a blot upon my pride.

Aum. Comfort, my Liege; remember, who you are.
K. Rich. I had forgot my felf: am I not King?
Awake, thou coward Majefty, thou sleepest:
Is not the King's name forty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my Name; a puny Subject ftrikes
At thy great glory. Look not to the ground,
Ye fav'rites of a King! are we not high?
High be our thoughts. I know, my uncle Tork
Hath pow'r to serve our turn. But who comes here ?
SCENE

Enter Scroop.

IV.

Scroop. More health and happiness betide my Liege, Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him!

K. Rich. Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar'd: The worst is worldly lofs thou canft unfold. Say, is my Kingdom loft? why, 'twas my care: And what lofs is it, to be rid of care? Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we? Greater he fhall not be; if he ferve God, We'll ferve him too, and be his fellow fo. Revolt our Subjects? that we cannot mend; They break their faith to God, as well as us. Cry, Woe, Deftruction, Ruin, Lofs, Decay; The worst is death, and death will have his day. Scroop. Glad am I, that your Highnefs is fo arm'd To bear the tidings of calamity.

Like an unfeafonable ftormy day,

Which makes the filver rivers drown their fhores,
As if the world were all diffolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits fwells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring your fearful Land

With hard bright fteel, and hearts more hard than fteel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy Majefty; boys with women's voices
Strive to fpeak big, and clafp their female joints
In ftiff unwieldy arms, against thy Crown:
Thy very Beadfmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal Ewe, againft thy State:
Yea, diftaff-women manage rufty bills.
Against thy Seat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worfe than I have pow'r to tell.

K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'ft a Tale fo ill.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is he got?
What is become of Bufhy? where is Green?
That they have let the dang'rous enemy
Meafure our confines with fuch peaceful fteps?
If we prevail, their heads fhall pay for it.
I warrant, they've made peace with Bolingbroke.
Scroop. Peace they have made with him, indeed, my

lord.

[tion! K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn'd without redempDogs, easily won to fawn on any man! Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that fting my heart! Three Judaffes, each one thrice worse than Judas! Would they make peace? terrible hell make war Upon their fpotted fouls for this offence!

Scroop. Sweet love, I fee, changing his property, Turns to the fow'reft and moft deadly hate: Again uncurse their fouls; their peace is made [curfe, With heads, and not with hands: thofe, whom you Have felt the worst of death's destroying hand, And lie full low, 4 grav'd in the hallow'd ground.

Aum. Is Busby, Green, and th' Earl of Wiltshire dead?

3 Of double fatal Ewe,-] called fo, because the leaves of the Ewe are poison, and the wood is employed for inftruments of death; therefore double fatal fhould be with an hyphen.

4 -grav'd in the HOLLOW ground] We fhould read ballow'd, i. e. confecrated.

Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol loft their heads. Aum. Where is the Duke my Father, with his Power? K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man speak : 'Let's talk of Graves, of Worms, and Epitaphs, • Make duft our paper, and with rainy eyes

• Write forrow on the bofom of the earth!
'Let's chufe executors, and talk of wills;
And yet not fo-for what can we bequeath,
• Save our depofed 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 ferves as paste and cover to our bones. "For heav'n's fake, let us fit upon the ground, And tell fad ftories of the death of Kings: 'How some have been depos'd, some flain in war : "Some haunted by the Ghofts they difpoffefs'd: Some poison'd by their wives, fome fleeping kill'd: All murther'd.-For within the hollow Crown, That rounds the mortal temples of a King,

6

Keeps Death his Court; and there the Antick fits, 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 felf and vain conceit,

'As if this flesh, which walls about our life,

6

• Were brass impregnable: and, humour'd thus,
'Comes at the last, and with a little pin

"Bores through his caftle-walls, and farewel King!
'Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
• With folemn Rev'rence: throw away refpect,
• Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while :

I live on bread like you, feel want like you.

5

And that fmall model of the barren earth] He ufes model here, as he frequently does elfewhere, for part, portion.

Tafte

• Taste grief, need friends, like you: fubjected thus, How can you fay to me, I am a King?

Carl. My lord, wife men ne'er wail their prefent woes, But presently prevent the ways to wail:

To fear the foe, fince fear oppreffeth ftrength,
Gives, in your weakness, ftrength unto your foe;
• And fo your follies fight against your self.
Fear, and be flain; no worfe can come from fight;
And fight and die, is death destroying death:
Where fearing, dying, pays death fervile breath.
Aum. My father hath a power, enquire of him,
And learn to make a body of a limb. [I come
K. Rich. Thou chid'ft me well: proud Bolingbroke,
To change blows with thee, for our day of doom;
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown

An eafie task it is to win our own.

Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his Power? Speak fweetly, man, although thy looks be fower. Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the sky The ftate and inclination of the day;

So

may you, by my dull and heavy eye, My tongue hath but a heavier tale to fay. I play the torturer, by small and small

To lengthen out the worst, that must be spoken.
Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke,
And all your northern caftles yielded up,
And all your fouthern gentlemen in arms
Upon his faction.

K. Rich. Thou haft faid enough.

Befhrew thee, Coufin, which didft lead me forth

Of that sweet way I was in to Defpair.

[To Aumerle.

What fay you now? what comfort have we now?
By heav'n, I'll hate him everlaftingly,
That bids me be of comfort any more.

6 And fo your follies &c.] Edition.

This line is added from the first

Mr. Pope.