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  • Title: Richard II (Quarto 1, 1597)
  • Editor: Catherine Lisak
  • ISBN: 978-1-55058-436-3

    Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Catherine Lisak
    Peer Reviewed

    Richard II (Quarto 1, 1597)

    King Richard the second.
    Should grace the triumph of great Bullingbrooke?
    Gardner for telling me these newes of wo,
    Pray God the plants thou graftst may neuer grow.
    Gard. Poore Queene, so that thy state might be no worse,
    1915I would my Skill were subiect to thy curse:
    Here did she fall a teare, here in this place
    Ile set a banke of Rew sowre hearb of grace,
    Rew euen for ruth heere shortly shall be seene,
    In the remembrance of a weeping Queene.

    Enter Bullingbrookewith the Lords to parliament.

    Bull. Call forth Bagot.
    Enter Bagot.
    1925Now Bagot, freely speake thy mind,
    What thou doest know of noble Gloucesters death,
    Who wrought it with the King, and who performde
    The bloudy office of his timeles end.
    Bagot Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle.
    1930Bull. Cousin, stand foorth, and looke vpon that man.
    Bagot My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tong
    Scornes to vnsay what once it hath deliuered.
    In that dead time when Glocesters death was plotted
    I heard you say, Is not my arme of length,
    1935That reacheth from the restful English court,
    As farre as Callice to mine vncles head?
    Amongst much other talke that very time
    I heard you say, that you had rather refuse
    The offer of an hundred thousand crownes,
    1940Then Bullingbrookes returne to England, adding withall,
    How blest this land would be in this your cosins death.
    Aum. Princes and noble Lords,
    What answer shall I make to this base man?
    Shall I so much dishonour my faire starres
    1945On equall termes to giue them chasticement?
    Either I must, or haue mine honour soild
    With the attainder of his slaunderous lippes,
    There is my gage, the manual seale of death,