Internet Shakespeare Editions

About this text

  • 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)

    30The life and death of Richard the second.
    860What will ensue heereof, there's none can tell.
    But by bad courses may be vnderstood,
    That their euents can neuer fall out good. Exit.
    Rich. Go Bushie to the Earle of Wiltshire streight,
    Bid him repaire to vs to Ely house,
    865To see this businesse: to morrow next
    We will for Ireland, and 'tis time, I trow:
    And we create in absence of our selfe
    Our Vncle Yorke, Lord Gouernor of England:
    For he is iust, and alwayes lou'd vs well.
    870Come on our Queene, to morrow must we part,
    Be merry, for our time of stay is short. Flourish.
    Manet North. Willoughby, & Ross.
    Nor. Well Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.
    Ross. And liuing too, for now his sonne is Duke .
    875Wil. Barely in title, not in reuennew.
    Nor. Richly in both, if iustice had her right.
    Ross. My heart is great: but it must break with silence,
    Er't be disburthen'd with a liberall tongue.
    Nor. Nay speake thy mind: & let him ne'r speak more
    880That speakes thy words againe to do thee harme.
    Wil. Tends that thou'dst speake to th' Du . of Hereford,
    If it be so, out with it boldly man,
    Quicke is mine eare to heare of good towards him.
    Ross. No good at all that I can do for him,
    885Vnlesse you call it good to pitie him,
    Bereft and gelded of his patrimonie.
    Nor. Now afore heauen, 'tis shame such wrongs are
    In him a royall Prince, and many moe
    890Of noble blood in this declining Land;
    The King is not himselfe, but basely led
    By Flatterers, and what they will informe
    Meerely in hate 'gainst any of vs all,
    That will the King seuerely prosecute
    895'Gainst vs, our liues, our children, and our heires.
    Ros. The Commons hath he pil'd with greeuous taxes
    And quite lost their hearts: the Nobles hath he finde
    For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.
    Wil. And daily new exactions are deuis'd,
    900As blankes, beneuolences, and I wot not what:
    But what o' Gods name doth become of this?
    Nor. Wars hath not wasted it, for war'd he hath not.
    But basely yeelded vpon comprimize,
    That which his Ancestors atchieu'd with blowes:
    905More hath he spent in peace, then they in warres.
    Ros. The Earle of Wiltshire hath the realme in Farme.
    Wil. The Kings growne bankrupt like a broken man.
    Nor. Reproach, and dissolution hangeth ouer him.
    Ros. He hath not monie for these Irish warres:
    910(His burthenous taxations notwithstanding)
    But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.
    Nor. His noble Kinsman, most degenerate King:
    But Lords, we heare this fearefull tempest sing,
    Yet seeke no shelter to auoid the storme:
    915We see the winde sit sore vpon our salles,
    And yet we strike not, but securely perish.
    Ros. We see the very wracke that we must suffer,
    And vnauoyded is the danger now
    For suffering so the causes of our wracke.
    920Nor. Not so: euen through the hollow eyes of death,
    I spie life peering: but I dare not say
    How neere the tidings of our comfort is.
    Wil. Nay let vs share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours
    Ros. Be confident to speake Northumberland,
    925We three, are but thy selfe, and speaking so,

    Thy words are but as thoughts, therefore be bold.
    Nor. Then thus: I haue from Port le Blan
    A Bay in Britaine, receiu'd intelligence,
    That Harry Duke of Herford, Rainald Lord Cobham,
    930That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
    His brother Archbishop, late of Canterbury,
    Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir Iohn Rainston,
    Sir Iohn Norberie, Sir Robert Waterton, & Francis Quoint,
    All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Britaine,
    935With eight tall ships, three thousand men of warre
    Are making hither with all due expedience,
    And shortly meane to touch our Northerne shore:
    Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay
    The first departing of the King for Ireland.
    940If then we shall shake off our slauish yoake,
    Impe out our drooping Countries broken wing,
    Redeeme from broaking pawne the blemish'd Crowne,
    Wipe off the dust that hides our Scepters gilt,
    And make high Maiestie looke like it selfe,
    945Away with me in poste to Rauenspurgh,
    But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
    Stay, and be secret, and my selfe will go.
    Ros. To horse, to horse, vrge doubts to them yt feare.
    Wil. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.
    950 Exeunt.

    Scena Secunda.

    Enter Queene, Bushy, and Bagot.
    Bush. Madam, your Maiesty is too much sad,
    You promis'd when you parted with the King,
    955To lay aside selfe-harming heauinesse,
    And entertaine a cheerefull disposition.
    Qu. To please the King, I did: to please my selfe
    I cannot do it: yet I know no cause
    Why I should welcome such a guest as greefe,
    960Saue bidding farewell to so sweet a guest
    As my sweet Richard; yet againe me thinkes,
    Some vnborne sorrow, ripe in fortunes wombe
    Is comming towards me, and my inward soule
    With nothing trembles, at something it greeues,
    965More then with parting from my Lord the King.
    Bush. Each substance of a greefe hath twenty shadows
    Which shewes like greefe it selfe, but is not so:
    For sorrowes eye, glazed with blinding teares,
    Diuides one thing intire, to many obiects,
    970Like perspectiues, which rightly gaz'd vpon
    Shew nothing but confusion, ey'd awry,
    Distinguish forme: so your sweet Maiestie
    Looking awry vpon your Lords departure,
    Finde shapes of greefe, more then himselfe to waile,
    975Which look'd on as it is, is naught bur shadowes
    Of what it is not: then thrice-gracious Queene,
    More then your Lords departure weep not, more's not (seene;
    Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrowes eie,
    Which for things true, weepe things imaginary.
    980Qu. It may be so: but yet my inward soule
    Perswades me it is otherwise: how ere it be,
    I cannot but be sad: so heauy sad,
    As though on thinking on no thought I thinke,
    Makes me with heauy nothing faint and shrinke.
    985Bush. 'Tis nothing but conceit (my gracious Lady.)