And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To check time broke in a disorder'd string;
But for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke:
I wafted time, and now doth time waste me.
For now hath time made me his numbring clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and with fighs they jar,
Their watches to mine eyes the outward watch;
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,

Is pointing ftill, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, Sir, the founds, that tell what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell; fo fighs, and tears, and groans,
Shew minutes, hours, and times-O, but my time
Runs pofting on, in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I ftand fooling here, his jack o'th' clock.
This mufick mads me, let it found no more;
For though it have help'd mad men to their wits,
In me, it seems, it will make wife men mad.
Yet bleffing on his heart, that gives it me!
For 'tis a fign of love; and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch, in this all-hating world.

2

SCENE

Enter Groom.

Groom. Hail, royal Prince!

K. Rich. Thanks, noble Peer.

XI.

The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.

What art? how com'ft thou hither?

Where no man ever comes, 3 but that fad Drudge, That brings me food, to make misfortune live?

Groom. I was a poor groom of thy ftable, King, When thou wert King; who travelling tow'rds York,

2 — in this ALL-HATING world.] We fhould read FALLHATING, i. e. Love to Richard is a very rare jewel, in a world that fhuns and avoids those who are fallen, or in misfortunes. 3 but that fad Dog.] Read Drudge,

With

4

With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my fometime Mafter's face.
O, how it yearn'd my heart, when I beheld,
In London streets, that Coronation day;
When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary,
That horfe, that thou fo often haft beftrid;
That horfe, that I fo carefully have drefs'd.

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him?

Groom. So proudly, as he had difdain'd the ground. K. Rich. So proud, that Bolingbroke was on his back! That jade had eat bread from my royal hand.

This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Would he not stumble? would he not fall down,
(Since pride must have a fall) and break the neck
Of that proud man, that did ufurp his back?
Forgiveness, horfe; why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be aw'd by man,
Waft born to bear? I was not made a horfe;
And yet I bear a burthen like an ass;
Spur-gall'd, and tir'd, by jaunting Bolingbroke.

Enter Keeper, with a difh.

Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.

[To the Groom. K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away. Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart fhall fay. [Exit. Keep. My lord, will't please you to fall to? K. Rich. Tafte of it first, as thou wert wont to do. Keep. My lord, I dare not; for Sir Pierce of Exton, Who late came from the King, commands the contrary.

4-fometime Mafter's face.] fometime for formerly.

Mr. Pope.

K. Rich.

K. Rich. The Dev'l take Henry of Lancaster, and

thee!

Patience is ftale, and I am weary of it.

Keep. Help, help, help!

[Beats the Keeper.

Enter Exton, and Servants.

K. Rich. How now? what means death in this rude affault?

Wretch, thine own hand yields thy death's inftrument;
[Snatching a Sword.
Go thou, and fill another room in hell. [Kills another.
[Exton ftrikes him down.
That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire,
That staggers thus my perfon: thy fierce hand [Land.
Hath with the King's blood ftain'd the King's own
Mount, mount, my foul! thy feat is up on high;
Whilft my grofs flesh finks downward, here to die.

[Dies.
Exton. As full of valour, as of royal blood;
Both have I fpilt: Oh, would the deed were good!
For now the devil, that told me, I did well,
Says, that this deed is chronicled in hell.
This dead King to the living King I'll bear;
Take hence the reft, and give them burial here.

SCENE

XIII.

Changes to the Court at Windfor.

[Exeunt.

Flourish: Enter Bolingbroke, York, with other Lord's and attendants.

Boling. K Ind Uncle York, the latest news we hear,

Is, that the Rebels have confum'd with fire

Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;

But whether they be ta'en or flain, we hear not.

Enter

Enter Northumberland.

Welcome, my lord: what is the news?

North. First to thy facred State wish I all happiness ; The next news is, I have to London fent

The heads of Sal'sbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent :
The manner of their Taking may appear

At large discoursed in this paper here.

[Prefenting a Paper. Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains, And to thy worth will add right-worthy gains.

Enter Fitz-water.

Fitz-w. My lord, I have from Oxford fent to London The heads of Broccas, and Sir Bennet Seely; Two of the dangerous conforted traytors, That fought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

Boling. Thy pains, Fitz-water, fhall not be forgot, Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

Enter Percy, and the Bishop of Carlisle.

Percy. The grand Confpirator, Abbot of Westminster, With clog of confcience, and four melancholy, Hath yielded up his body to the Grave:

But here is Carlife, living to abide

Thy kingly doom, and fentence of his pride.
Boling. Carlisle, this is your doom:

Chufe out fome fecret place, fome reverend room
More than thou haft, and with it joy thy life;
So, as thou liv'ft in peace, die free from ftrife.
For though mine enemy thou haft ever been,
High fparks of honour in thee I have feen.

Enter Exton, with a coffin.

Exton. Great King, within this Coffin I prefent
Thy bury'd fear. Herein all breathlefs lies
The mightieft of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bourdeaux, by me hither brought.

Boling.

Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou haft wrought A deed of flander with thy fatal hand, Upon my head, and all this famous Land.

[deed.

Exton. From your own mouth, my Lord, did I this Boling. They love not poison, that do poifon need; Nor do I thee; though I did with him dead, I hate the murth'rer, love him murthered. The Guilt of Confcience take thou for thy labour, But neither my good word, nor princely favour. With Cain go wander through the fhade of night, And never fhew thy head by day, or light. Lords, I proteft, my foul is full of woe, That blood fhould fprinkle me, to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put on fullen Black, incontinent: I'll make a voyage to the Holy-land, To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March fadly after, grace my Mourning here, In weeping over this untimely Bier.

[Exeunt omnes.

The