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)

    Scaena Secunda.
    Enter Gaunt, and Dutchesse of Gloucester.
    Gaunt. Alas, the part I had in Glousters blood,
    Doth more solicite me then your exclaimes,
    220To stirre against the Butchers of his life.
    The life and death of Richard the second. 25
    But since correction lyeth in those hands
    Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
    Put we our quarrell to the will of heauen,
    Who when they see the houres ripe on earth,
    225Will raigne hot vengeance on offenders heads.
    Dut. Findes brotherhood in thee no sharper spurre?
    Hath loue in thy old blood no liuing fire?
    Edwards seuen sonnes (whereof thy selfe art one)
    Were as seuen violles of his Sacred blood,
    230Or seuen faire branches springing from one roote:
    Some of those seuen are dride by natures course,
    Some of those branches by the destinies cut:
    But Thomas, my deere Lord, my life, my Glouster,
    One Violl full of Edwards Sacred blood,
    235One flourishing branch of his most Royall roote
    Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;
    Is hackt downe, and his summer leafes all vaded
    By Enuies hand, and Murders bloody Axe.
    Ah Gaunt! His blood was thine, that bed, that wombe,
    240That mettle, that selfe-mould that fashion'd thee,
    Made him a man: and though thou liu'st, and breath'st,
    Yet art thou slaine in him: thou dost consent
    In some large measure to thy Fathers death,
    In that thou seest thy wretched brother dye,
    245Who was the modell of thy Fathers life.
    Call it not patience ( Gaunt) it is dispaire,
    In suffring thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,
    Thou shew'st the naked pathway to thy life,
    Teaching sterne murther how to butcher thee:
    250That which in meane men we intitle patience
    Is pale cold cowardice in noble brests:
    What shall I say, to safegard thine owne life,
    The best way is to venge my Glousters death.
    Gaunt. Heauens is the quarrell: for heauens substitute
    255His Deputy annointed in his sight,
    Hath caus'd his death, the which if wrongfully
    Let heauen reuenge: for I may neuer lift
    An angry arme against his Minister.
    Dut. Where then (alas may I) complaint my selfe? ?
    260Gau. To heauen, the widdowes Champion to defence
    Dut. Why then I will: farewell old Gaunt.
    Thou go'st to Couentrie, there to behold
    Our Cosine Herford, and fell Mowbray fight:
    O sit my husbands wrongs on Herfords speare,
    265That it may enter butcher Mowbrayes brest:
    Or if misfortune misse the first carreere,
    Be Mowbrayes sinnes so heauy in his bosome,
    That they may breake his foaming Coursers backe,
    And throw the Rider headlong in the Lists,
    270A Caytiffe recreant to my Cosine Herford:
    Farewell old Gaunt, thy sometimes brothers wife
    With her companion Greefe, must end her life.
    Gau. Sister farewell: I must to Couentree,
    As much good stay with thee, as go with mee.
    275Dut. Yet one wotd more: Greefe boundeth where it (falls,
    Not with the emptie hollownes, but weight:
    I take my leaue, before I haue begun,
    For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
    Commend me to my brother Edmund Yorke.
    280Loe, this is all: nay, yet depart not so,
    Though this be all, do not so quickly go,
    I shall remember more. Bid him, Oh, what?
    With all good speed at Plashie visit mee.
    Alacke, and what shall good old Yorke there see
    285But empty lodgings, and vnfurnish'd walles,
    Vn-peopel'd Offices, vntroden stones?
    And what heare there for welcome, but my grones?
    Therefore commend me, let him not come there,
    To seeke out sorrow, that dwels euery where:
    290Desolate, desolate will I hence, and dye,
    The last leaue of thee, takes my weeping eye. Exeunt