Internet Shakespeare Editions

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  • Title: Richard II (Folio 1, 1623)
  • 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 (Folio 1, 1623)

    42The Life and Death of Richard the Second.
    Yorke. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bullingbrooke,
    2375Mounted vpon a hot and fierie Steed,
    Which his aspiring Rider seem'd to know,
    With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course:
    While all tongues cride, God saue thee Bullingbrooke.
    You would haue thought the very windowes spake,
    2380So many greedy lookes of yong and old,
    Through Casements darted their desiring eyes
    Vpon his visage: and that all the walles,
    With painted Imagery had said at once,
    Iesu preserue thee, welcom Bullingbrooke.
    2385Whil'st he, from one side to the other turning,
    Bare-headed, lower then his proud Steeds necke,
    Bespake them thus: I thanke you Countrimen:
    And thus still doing, thus he past along.
    Dutch. Alas poore Richard, where rides he the whilst?
    2390Yorke. As in a Theater, the eyes of men
    After a well grac'd Actor leaues the Stage,
    Are idlely bent on him that enters next,
    Thinking his prattle to be tedious:
    Euen so, or with much more contempt, mens eyes
    2395Did scowle on Richard: no man cride, God saue him:
    No ioyfull tongue gaue him his welcome home,
    But dust was throwne vpon his Sacred head,
    Which with such gentle sorrow he shooke off,
    His face still combating with teares and smiles
    2400(The badges of his greefe and patience)
    That had not God (for some strong purpose) steel'd
    The hearts of men, they must perforce haue melted,
    And Barbarisme it selfe haue pittied him.
    But heauen hath a hand in these euents,
    2405To whose high will we bound our calme contents.
    To Bullingbrooke, are we sworne Subiects now,
    Whose State, and Honor, I for aye allow.
    Enter Aumerle.
    Dut. Heere comes my sonne Aumerle.
    2410Yor. Aumerle that was,
    But that is lost, for being Richards Friend.
    And Madam, you must call him Rutland now:
    I am in Parliament pledge for his truth,
    And lasting fealtie to the new-made King.
    2415Dut. Welcome my sonne: who are the Violets now,
    That strew the greene lap of the new-come Spring?
    Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not,
    God knowes, I had as liefe be none, as one.
    Yorke. Well, beare you well in this new-spring of time
    2420Least you be cropt before you come to prime.
    What newes from Oxford? Hold those Iusts & Triumphs?
    Aum. For ought I know my Lord, they do.
    Yorke. You will be there I know.
    Aum. If God preuent not, I purpose so.
    2425Yor. What Seale is that that hangs without thy bosom?
    Yea, look'st thou pale? Let me see the Writing.
    Aum. My Lord, 'tis nothing.
    Yorke. No matter then who sees it,
    I will be satisfied, let me see the Writing.
    2430Aum. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me,
    It is a matter of small consequence,
    Which for some reasons I would not haue seene.
    Yorke. Which for some reasons sir, I meane to see:
    I feare, I feare.
    2435Dut. What should you feare?
    'Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter'd into
    For gay apparrell, against the Triumph.
    Yorke. Bound to himselfe? What doth he with a Bond
    That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a foole.

    2440Boy, let me see the Writing.
    Aum. I do beseech you pardon me, I may not shew it.
    Yor. I will be satisfied: let me see it I say. Snatches it
    Treason, foule Treason, Villaine, Traitor, Slaue.
    Dut. What's the matter, my Lord?
    2445Yorke. Hoa, who's within there? Saddle my horse.
    Heauen for his mercy: what treachery is heere?
    Dut. Why, what is't my Lord?
    Yorke. Giue me my boots, I say: Saddle my horse:
    Now by my Honor, my life, my troth,
    2450I will appeach the Villaine.
    Dut. What is the matter?
    Yorke. Peace foolish Woman.
    Dut. I will not peace. What is the matter Sonne?
    Aum. Good Mother be content, it is no more
    2455Then my poore life must answer.
    Dut. Thy life answer?
    Enter Seruant with Boots.
    Yor. Bring me my Boots, I will vnto the King.
    Dut. Strike him Aumerle. Poore boy, yu art amaz'd,
    2460Hence Villaine, neuer more come in my sight.
    Yor. Giue me my Boots, I say.
    Dut. Why Yorke, what wilt thou do?
    Wilt thou not hide the Trespasse of thine owne?
    Haue we more Sonnes? Or are we like to haue?
    2465Is not my teeming date drunke vp with time?
    And wilt thou plucke my faire Sonne from mine Age,
    And rob me of a happy Mothers name?
    Is he not like thee? Is he not thine owne?
    Yor. Thou fond mad woman:
    2470Wilt thou conceale this darke Conspiracy?
    A dozen of them heere haue tane the Sacrament,
    And interchangeably set downe their hands
    To kill the King at Oxford.
    Dut. He shall be none:
    2475Wee'l keepe him heere: then what is that to him?
    Yor. Away fond woman: were hee twenty times my
    Son, I would appeach him.
    Dut. Hadst thou groan'd for him as I haue done,
    Thou wouldest be more pittifull:
    2480But now I know thy minde; thou do'st suspect
    That I haue bene disloyall to thy bed,
    And that he is a Bastard, not thy Sonne:
    Sweet Yorke, sweet husband, be not of that minde:
    He is as like thee, as a man may bee,
    2485Not like to me, nor any of my Kin,
    And yet I loue him.
    Yorke. Make way, vnruly Woman. Exit
    Dut. After Aumerle. Mount thee vpon his horse,
    Spurre post, and get before him to the King,
    2490And begge thy pardon, ere he do accuse thee,
    Ile not be long behind: though I be old,
    I doubt not but to ride as fast as Yorke:
    And neuer will I rise vp from the ground,
    Till Bullingbrooke haue pardon'd thee: Away be gone. Exit

    2495Scoena Tertia.

    Enter Bullingbrooke, Percie, and other Lords.
    Bul. Can no man tell of my vnthriftie Sonne?
    'Tis full three monthes since I did see him last.
    If any plague hang ouer vs, 'tis he,
    2500I would to heauen (my Lords) he might be found:
    Enquire at London, 'mongst the Tauernes there: