| ACT III SCENE II | The coast of Wales. A castle in view. | |
| | Drums; flourish and colours. Enter KING RICHARDII, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, DUKE OF AUMERLE, and Soldiers | |
| KING RICHARD II | Barkloughly castle call they this at hand? | |
| DUKE OF AUMERLE | Yea, my lord. How brooks your grace the air, | |
| | After your late tossing on the breaking seas? | |
| KING RICHARD II | Needs must I like it well: I weep for joy | 5 |
| | To stand upon my kingdom once again. | |
| | Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand, | |
| | Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs: | |
| | As a long-parted mother with her child | |
| | Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting, | 10 |
| | So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth, | |
| | And do thee favours with my royal hands. | |
| | Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth, | |
| | Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense; | |
| | But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, | 15 |
| | And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way, | |
| | Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet | |
| | Which with usurping steps do trample thee: | |
| | Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies; | |
| | And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, | 20 |
| | Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder | |
| | Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch | |
| | Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies. | |
| | Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords: | |
| | This earth shall have a feeling and these stones | 25 |
| | Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king | |
| | Shall falter under foul rebellion's arms. | |
| BISHOP OF CARLISLE | Fear not, my lord: that Power that made you king | |
| | Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. | |
| | The means that heaven yields must be embraced, | 30 |
| | And not neglected; else, if heaven would, | |
| | And we will not, heaven's offer we refuse, | |
| | The proffer'd means of succor and redress. | |
| DUKE OF AUMERLE | He means, my lord, that we are too remiss; | |
| | Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security, | 35 |
| | Grows strong and great in substance and in power. | |
| KING RICHARD II | Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not | |
| | That when the searching eye of heaven is hid, | |
| | Behind the globe, that lights the lower world, | |
| | Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen | 40 |
| | In murders and in outrage, boldly here; | |
| | But when from under this terrestrial ball | |
| | He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines | |
| | And darts his light through every guilty hole, | |
| | Then murders, treasons and detested sins, | 45 |
| | The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs, | |
| | Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves? | |
| | So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke, | |
| | Who all this while hath revell'd in the night | |
| | Whilst we were wandering with the antipodes, | 50 |
| | Shall see us rising in our throne, the east, | |
| | His treasons will sit blushing in his face, | |
| | Not able to endure the sight of day, | |
| | But self-affrighted tremble at his sin. | |
| | Not all the water in the rough rude sea | 55 |
| | Can wash the balm off from an anointed king; | |
| | The breath of worldly men cannot depose | |
| | The deputy elected by the Lord: | |
| | For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd | |
| | To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown, | 60 |
| | God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay | |
| | A glorious angel: then, if angels fight, | |
| | Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right. | |
| | Enter EARL OF SALISBURY | |
| | Welcome, my lord how far off lies your power? | |
| EARL OF SALISBURY | Nor near nor farther off, my gracious lord, | 65 |
| | Than this weak arm: discomfort guides my tongue | |
| | And bids me speak of nothing but despair. | |
| | One day too late, I fear me, noble lord, | |
| | Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth: | |
| | O, call back yesterday, bid time return, | 70 |
| | 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, dispersed and fled. | 75 |
| DUKE OF AUMERLE | Comfort, my liege; why looks your grace so pale? | |
| KING RICHARD II | But now the blood of twenty thousand men | |
| | Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; | |
| | And, till so much blood thither come again, | |
| | Have I not reason to look pale and dead? | 80 |
| | All souls that will be safe fly from my side, | |
| | For time hath set a blot upon my pride. | |
| DUKE OF AUMERLE | Comfort, my liege; remember who you are. | |
| KING RICHARD II | I had forgot myself; am I not king? | |
| | Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleepest. | 85 |
| | Is not the king's name twenty thousand names? | |
| | Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes | |
| | At thy great glory. Look not to the ground, | |
| | Ye favourites of a king: are we not high? | |
| | High be our thoughts: I know my uncle York | 90 |
| | Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here? | |
| | Enter SIR STEPHEN SCROOP | |
| SIR STEPHEN SCROOP | More health and happiness betide my liege | |
| | Than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him! | |
| KING RICHARD II | Mine ear is open and my heart prepared; | |
| | The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold. | 95 |
| | Say, is my kingdom lost? why, 'twas my care | |
| | And what loss is it to be rid of care? | |
| | Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we? | |
| | Greater he shall not be; if he serve God, | |
| | We'll serve Him too and be his fellow so: | 100 |
| | Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend; | |
| | They break their faith to God as well as us: | |
| | Cry woe, destruction, ruin and decay: | |
| | The worst is death, and death will have his day. | |
| SIR STEPHEN SCROOP | Glad am I that your highness is so arm'd | 105 |
| | To bear the tidings of calamity. | |
| | Like an unseasonable stormy day, | |
| | Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores, | |
| | As if the world were all dissolved to tears, | |
| | So high above his limits swells the rage | 110 |
| | Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land | |
| | With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel. | |
| | White-beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps | |
| | Against thy majesty; boys, with women's voices, | |
| | Strive to speak big and clap their female joints | 115 |
| | In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown: | |
| | The very beadsmen learn to bend their bows | |
| | Of double-fatal yew against thy state; | |
| | Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills | |
| | Against thy seat: both young and old rebel, | 120 |
| | And all goes worse than I have power to tell. | |
| KING RICHARD II | Too well, too well thou tell'st a tale so ill. | |
| | Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot? | |
| | What is become of Bushy? where is Green? | |
| | That they have let the dangerous enemy | 125 |
| | Measure our confines with such peaceful steps? | |
| | If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it: | |
| | I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke. | |
| SIR STEPHEN SCROOP | Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord. | |
| KING RICHARD II | O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption! | 130 |
| | Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! | |
| | Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart! | |
| | Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas! | |
| | Would they make peace? terrible hell make war | |
| | Upon their spotted souls for this offence! | 135 |
| SIR STEPHEN SCROOP | Sweet love, I see, changing his property, | |
| | Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate: | |
| | Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made | |
| | With heads, and not with hands; those whom you curse | |
| | Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound | 140 |
| | And lie full low, graved in the hollow ground. | |
| DUKE OF AUMERLE | Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead? | |
| SIR STEPHEN SCROOP | Ay, all of them at Bristol lost their heads. | |
| DUKE OF AUMERLE | Where is the duke my father with his power? | |
| KING RICHARD II | No matter where; of comfort no man speak: | 145 |
| | Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; | |
| | Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes | |
| | Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth, | |
| | Let's choose executors and talk of wills: | |
| | And yet not so, for what can we bequeath | 150 |
| | Save our deposed 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 serves as paste and cover to our bones. | 155 |
| | For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground | |
| | And tell sad stories of the death of kings; | |
| | How some have been deposed; some slain in war, | |
| | Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; | |
| | Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd; | 160 |
| | All murder'd: for within the hollow crown | |
| | That rounds the mortal temples of a king | |
| | Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits, | |
| | Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, | |
| | Allowing him a breath, a little scene, | 165 |
| | To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks, | |
| | Infusing him with self and vain conceit, | |
| | As if this flesh which walls about our life, | |
| | Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus | |
| | Comes at the last and with a little pin | 170 |
| | Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king! | |
| | Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood | |
| | With solemn reverence: throw away respect, | |
| | Tradition, form and ceremonious duty, | |
| | For you have but mistook me all this while: | 175 |
| | I live with bread like you, feel want, | |
| | Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus, | |
| | How can you say to me, I am a king? | |
| BISHOP OF CARLISLE | My lord, wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes, | |
| | But presently prevent the ways to wail. | 180 |
| | To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, | |
| | Gives in your weakness strength unto your foe, | |
| | And so your follies fight against yourself. | |
| | Fear and be slain; no worse can come to fight: | |
| | And fight and die is death destroying death; | 185 |
| | Where fearing dying pays death servile breath. | |
| DUKE OF AUMERLE | My father hath a power; inquire of him | |
| | And learn to make a body of a limb. | |
| KING RICHARD II | Thou chidest me well: proud Bolingbroke, I come | |
| | To change blows with thee for our day of doom. | 190 |
| | This ague fit of fear is over-blown; | |
| | An easy task it is to win our own. | |
| | Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power? | |
| | Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour. | |
| SIR STEPHEN SCROOP | Men judge by the complexion of the sky | 195 |
| | The state and inclination of the day: | |
| | So may you by my dull and heavy eye, | |
| | My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say. | |
| | I play the torturer, by small and small | |
| | To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken: | 200 |
| | Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke, | |
| | And all your northern castles yielded up, | |
| | And all your southern gentlemen in arms | |
| | Upon his party. | |
| KING RICHARD II | Thou hast said enough. | 205 |
| | Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth | |
| | To DUKE OF AUMERLE | |
| | Of that sweet way I was in to despair! | |
| | What say you now? what comfort have we now? | |
| | By heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly | |
| | That bids me be of comfort any more. | 210 |
| | Go to Flint castle: there I'll pine away; | |
| | A king, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey. | |
| | That power I have, discharge; and let them go | |
| | To ear the land that hath some hope to grow, | |
| | For I have none: let no man speak again | 215 |
| | To alter this, for counsel is but vain. | |
| DUKE OF AUMERLE | My liege, one word. | |
| KING RICHARD II | He does me double wrong | |
| | That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue. | |
| | Discharge my followers: let them hence away, | 220 |
| | From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day. | |
| | Exeunt | |