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Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails

May tear a passage through the flinty ribs

Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;

And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.

Thoughts tending to content, flatter themselves,—

That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,

Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,

Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame,—

That many have, and others must sit there:

And in this thought they find a kind of ease,

Bearing their own misfortune on the back

Of such as have before endur'd the like.

Thus play I, in one person, many people,

And none contented: Sometimes am I king;

Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,

And so I am: Then crushing penury

Persuades 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, whate'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? [Miaidi.

Ha, ha! keep time : —How sour 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 string;

But, tor the concord of my state and time,

Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.

VOL. vI. D D

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
For now hath time made me his numb'ring clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and, with sighs, they jar
Their watches on to mine eyes, the outward watch.
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, sir, the sound, that tells what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell: So sighs, and tears, and groans,
Show minutes, times, and hours: —but my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o'the clock5S.
This musick mads me, let it sound no more;
For, though it have holpe madmen 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 Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

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 comest thou hither,
Where'no man never comes, but that sad dog a
That brings me food, to make misfortune live?

Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometimes master's face.

O, how it yern'd my heart, when I beheld,
In London streets, that coronation day,
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary!
That horse, that thou so often hast bestrid;
That horse, that I so carefully have dress'd!

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle

friend, How went he under him?

Groom. So proudly, as if he disdain'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 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,
Wast 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 jauncing Bolingbroke54.

Enter Keeper, with a dish.

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

[To the Groom. K. Etch. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert

away. Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart

shall say. [Exit.

Keep. My lord, will't please you to fall to?

K. Rich. Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do. Keep. My lord, I dare not; sir Pierce of Exton,

who

Lately came from the king, commands the contrary. K. Rich. The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and

thee! Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.

[Beats the Keeper. Keep. Help, help, help!

Enter Exton, and Servants, armed.

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

rude assault? Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument.

[Snatching a weapon, and killing one, Go thou, and fill another room in hell.

[He kills another; then Exton strikes him dawn. That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire, That staggers thus my person.—Exton, thy fierce hand Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own

land.

Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.

[Dies.

Exton. As full of valour, as of royal blood:
Both have I spilt; O, 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.

[Exeunt. SCENE VI.

Windsor. A Room in the Castle.

Flourish. Enter Bolinobroke, and York,
Lords and Attendants.

Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear,
Is—that the rebels have consum'd with fire
Our town of Cicester in Glostershire;
But whether they be ta'en, or slain, we hear not.

Enter Northumberland.

Welcome, my lord: What is the news?

North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness. The next news is,—I have to London sent The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent: The manner of their taking may appear At large discoursed in this paper here.

[Presenting a paper.

Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains; And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.

Enter Fitzwatek.

Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London The heads of Brocas, and Sir Bennet Seely; Two of the dangerous consorted traitors, That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

Baling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot; Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

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