Internet Shakespeare Editions

Author: William Shakespeare
Editor: Catherine Lisak
Peer Reviewed

Richard II (Folio 1, 1623)


Scœna Quinta.
Flourish. Enter Bullingbrooke, Yorke, with
other Lords & attendants.
Bul. Kinde Vnkle Yorke, the latest newes we heare,
2795Is that the Rebels haue consum'd with fire
Our Towne of Ciceter in Gloucestershire,
But whether they be tane or slaine, we heare not.
Enter Northumberland.
Welcome my Lord: What is the newes?
2800Nor. First to thy Sacred State, wish I all happinesse:
The next newes is, I haue to London sent
The heads of Salsbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent:
The manner of their taking may appeare
At large discoursed in this paper heere.
2805Bul. We thank thee gentle Percy for thy paines,
And to thy worth will adde right worthy gaines.
Enter Fitz-waters.
Fitz. My Lord, I haue from Oxford sent to London,
The heads of Broccas, and Sir Bennet Seely,
2810Two of the dangerous consorted Traitors,
That sought at Oxford, thy dire ouerthrow.
Bul. Thy paines Fitzwaters shall not be forgot,
Right Noble is thy merit, well I wot.
Enter Percy and Carlile.
2815Per. The grand Conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,
With clog of Conscience, and sowre Melancholly,
Hath yeelded vp his body to the graue:
But heere is Carlile, liuing to abide
Thy Kingly doome, and sentence of his pride.
2820Bul. Carlile, this is your doome:
Choose out some secret place, some reuerend roome
More then thou hast, and with it ioy thy life:
So as thou liu'st in peace, dye free from strife:
For though mine enemy, thou hast euer beene,
2825High sparkes of Honor in thee haue I seene.
Enter Exton with a Coffin.
Exton. Great King, within this Coffin I present
Thy buried feare. Heerein all breathlesse lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies
2830Richard of Burdeaux, by me hither brought.
Bul. Exton, I thanke thee not, for thou hast wrought
A deede of Slaughter, with thy fatall hand,
Vpon my head, and all this famous Land.
Ex. From your owne mouth my Lord, did I this deed.
2835Bul. They loue not poyson, that do poyson neede,
Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,
I hate the Murtherer, loue him murthered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word, nor Princely fauour.
2840With Caine go wander through the shade of night,
And neuer shew thy head by day, nor light.
Lords, I protest my soule is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me, to make me grow.
Come mourne with me, for that I do lament,
2845And put on sullen Blacke incontinent:
Ile make a voyage to the Holy-land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.
March sadly after, grace my mourning heere,
In weeping after this vntimely Beere.
Exeunt.