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Then treason makes me wish my self a beggar,
And so I am. Then crushing penury
Perswades me, I was better when a King;
Then am I king'd again ; and by and by,
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing but what-e'er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, 'till he be eas’d
With being nothing -Musick do I hear ? [Muficko.
Ha, ha ; keep time : how sow'r sweet musick is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the musick of men's lives,
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To check time broke in a disorder'd ftring ;
But for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke:
I waited 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 till, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, Sir, the sounds that tell what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell ; so fighs, and tears, and groans,
Shew minutes, hours, and times -0, but my time
Runs posting on, in Bolingbroke’s proud joy,
While I stand 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 wise men mad.
Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!
For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Ricbard
Is a strange brooch, in this fall-hating world.
S CE N E XI. Enter Groom,
Groom. Hail, royal Prince! *
• royal Prince
K. Rich. Thanks, noble Peer.
The cheapeit of us, is ien groats too dear,
What are thou? and how com'ft, Ö.
K. Rieb. What art, how com'At thou hither?
Where no man ever comes, but that sad drudge
That brings me food, to make misfortune live?
Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, King,
When thou wert King; who travelling tow'rds York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my, * sometime, master'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 horse, that thou so often haft beftrid ;
That horse, that I so carefully have dress'd!
K. Ricb. Rode he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend,
How went he under him?
Groom. So proudly, as he had disdain'd the ground.
K. Ricb. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!
That jade hath 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 usurp his back ?
Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be aw'd by man,
Waft born to bear? I was not made a horse,
And yet I bear a burden like an ass,
Spur-galld, and tir’d by jaunting Bolingbroke.
SCENE XII. Enter Keeper with a Disb.
Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer ftay.
(To tbe Ĝroom K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away. Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall
Keep. My Lord, willt please you to fall to?
K. Ricb. Taste of it first, as thou wert wont to do.
Keep. My Lord, I dare not ; for Sir Pierce of Excon,
Who late came from the King, commands the contrary.
K. Rich. The Dev'l take Henry of Lancaster, and thee!
Patience is ftale, and I am weary of it. [Beat the Keeper.
Keep. Help, help, help!
• Sometime, for formerly.
Enter Exton and Servants, [assault ? K, Rich. How now ? what means death in this rude Wretch, chine own hand yields thy death's inftrument;
[Snatcbing a Sword from one of tbe Servants kills bim. Go thou, and fill another room in hell, [Kills anot ber.
[Exton Arikes bim down,
That hand shall burn in never.quenching fire,
That staggers thus my person : thy fierce hand
Hath with the King's blood ftain': the King's own land.
Mount, mount, my soul ! thy feat is up on high,
Whilft my gross flesh finks downward, here to die. [Diese
Exton. As full of valour, as of royal blood;
Both have I spilt: 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 rest, and give them burial here. (Exeunta
SCENE XIII. The Court at Windsor.
Flourish. Enter Boling broke, York, wirb orber
Lords and Attendants.
Boling: Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear,
Is that the rebels have consum'd with fire
Our town of Cicefter in Gloucestershire;
But whether they be ta'en or Nlain, we hear not.
Welcome, my Lord: what is the news ?
Norib. Firit to thy sacred state wish I all happiness;
The next news is, I have to London fent
The heads of Salsbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent :
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursed in this paper here. [Presenting a Papers
Boling: We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains,
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
Fitzw. My Lord, I have from Oxford sent to Londos
The Heads of Broccas, and Sir Bennet Şeely ;
Two of the dangerous conforted traitors,
That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.
Boling. Thy pains, Fitz-water, shall not be forgot,
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot,
Enter Percy and the Bishop of Carlisle.
Percy. The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,
With clog of conscience, and sour melancholy,
Hath yielded up his body to the grave :
But here is Carlife, living to abide
Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride.
Boling. Carlisle, this is your doom :
Chuse out some fecret place, some reverend room
More than thou hast, and with it 'joy thy life;
Şo as thou liv'ft in peace, die free from strife,
For though mine enemy thou håst ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee I have seen.
Enter Exton with a coffin.
Exton. Great King, within this coffin I present
Thy bury'd fear. Herein all breathless lyes
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Ricbard of Bourdeaux, by me hither brought.
Boling. Exton, I thank thee not ; for thou haft wrought
A deed of Nander with thy fatal hand,
Upon my head, and all this famous land.
Exton. From your own mouth, my Lord, did I this deed,
Boling. They love not poison, that do poison need;
Nor do I thee, though I did wish him dead; ,
I hate the murth'rer, love him murthered,
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word, nor princely favour,
With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
And never shew thy head by day, or light.
Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me, to make me grow,
Come, mourn with me for what I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent:
I'll make a voyage to the holy land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand,
March sadly after, grace my mourning here,
In weeping over this untimely bier,
The End of the FOURTH VOLUME.