Then treafon makes me with my self a beggar,
And fo I am. Then crushing penury
Perfwades 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 fhall be pleas'd, 'till he be eas'd
With being nothing-
-Mufick do I hear?

[Muficks
Ha, ha; keep time: how fow'r fweet mufick is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the mufick of men's lives,
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To check time broke in a diforder'd ftring;
But for the concord of my ftate and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke:
I wafted time, and now doth time wafte 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 cleanfing them from tears.
Now, Sir, the founds that tell what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that ftrike 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 ftrange brooch, in this fall-hating world.
SCENE XI. Enter Groom.
Groom. Hail, royal Prince! *

K. Rich. Thanks, noble Peer.

The cheapest of us, is ten groats too dear,
What art thou? and how com'ft, &c.

K. Rich. What art, how com'ft thou hither?
Where no man ever comes, 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,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my, * fometime, 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 horfe, that thou fo often haft beftrid;
That horse, that I fo carefully have dress'd!

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

Groom. Se proudly, as he had difdain'd the ground. K. Rich. 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 ftumble? 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 horse,
And yet I bear a burden like an ass,
Spur-gall'd, and tir'd by jaunting Bolingbroke.

SCENE XII. Enter Keeper with a Difb. 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.

Keep. My Lord, will't pleafe you to fall to?

[Exit.

K. Rich. Tafte of it firft, 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. 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

Enter Exton and Servants.

[affault?

K. Rich. How now ? what means death in this rude Wretch, thine own hand yields thy death's inftrument; [Snatching a Sword from one of the Servants kills bim. Go thou, and fill another room in hell,

[Kills another. [Exton Arikes him down. That hand fhall burn in never-quenching fire, That ftaggers thus my perfon: thy fierce hand Hath with the King's blood ftain'd the King's own land. 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. [Exeunt.
SCENE XIII. The Court at Windfor.
Flourish. Enter Bolingbroke, York, with other
Lords and Attendants.

Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear,
Is that the rebels have confum'd with fire
Our town of Cicefter in Gloucestershire;

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

Welcome, my Lord: what is the news?

North. Firft to thy facred state wish I all happiness
The next news is, I have to London fent

The heads of Salfbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent:
The manner of their taking may appear

At large difcourfed 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.

Fitzw. My Lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
The Heads of Broccas, and Sir Bennet Seely;
Two of the dangerous conforted traitors,
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

Enter Percy and the Bishop of Carlife.

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 Carlisle, living to abide

Thy kingly doom, and fentence of his pride.
Boling. Carlife, 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 lyes
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bourdeaux, by me hither brought.

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.

Exton. From your own mouth, my Lord, did I this deed.
Boling. They love not poifon, 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 End of the FOURTH VOLUME.