Internet Shakespeare Editions

Author: William Shakespeare
Editor: Catherine Lisak
Peer Reviewed

Richard II (Quarto 1, 1597)


Enter Bullingbrooke with the duke of Yorke.
King Kind vncle Yorke, the latest newes we heare,
2795Is, that the rebels haue consumed 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?
2800North. First to thy sacred state wish I all happinesse,
The next newes is, I haue to London sent
The heades of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt and Kent,
The maner of their taking may appeare
At large discoursed in this paper heere.
2805King We thanke thee gentle Percie for thy paines,
And to thy woorth will adde right worthy gaines.
Enter Lord Fitzwaters.
Fitz. My Lord, I haue from Oxford sent to London
The heads of Broccas, and sir Benet Seely,
2810Two of the daungerous consorted traitors,
That sought at Oxford thy dire ouerthrow.
king Thy paines Fitz. shall not be forgot,
Right noble is thy merit well I wot.
Enter H Percie.
2815Percie The grand conspirator Abbot of Westminster
With clog of conscience and sowre melancholy
Hath yeelded vp his body to the graue.
But here is Carleil liuing, to abide
Thy kingly doome, and sentence of his pride.
2820king Carleil, this is your doome;
Choose out some secret place, some reuerent roome
More than thou hast, and with it ioy thy life:
So as thou liu'st in peace, die free from strife,
For though mine enemy thou hast euer beene,
2825High sparkes of honour in thee haue I seene.
Enter Exton with the coffin.
Exton Great King, within this co{ffi}n I present
Thy buried feare: herein all breathlesse lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
2830Richard of Burdeaux, by me hither brought.
king Exton, I thanke thee not, for thou hast wrought
A deed of slaunder with thy fatall hand,
Vpon my head and all this famous Land.
Exton. From your owne mouth my Lo. did I this deed.
2835King. They loue not poison that do poison 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 labor,
But neither my good word, nor Princely fauour;
2840With Cayne go wander through shades of night,
And neuer shew thy head by day nor light.
Lordes, I protest my soule is full of wo,
That bloud should sprincle me to make me grow:
Come mourne with me, for what I do lament,
2845And put on sulleyn blacke incontinent,
Ile make a voiage to the holly lande,
To wash this bloud off from my guiltie hand:
March sadly after, grace my mournings heere,
In weeping after this vntimely Beere.