Enter the Queen with [two Ladies,] her attendants.
What sport shall we devise here in this garden
3.4.21809To drive away the heavy thought of care?
Madam, we'll play at bowls.
'Twill make me think the world is full of rubs
3.4.51812And that my fortune runs against the bias.
Madam, we'll dance.
My legs can keep no measure in delight
3.4.81815When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief.
3.4.91816Therefore no dancing, girl. Some other sport.
Madam, we'll tell tales.
Of sorrow or of joy?
Of sorrow or of joy? Of either, madam.
Of neither, girl,
3.4.141821For if of joy, being altogether wanting,
3.4.191826And what I want it boots not to complain.
Madam, I'll sing.
Madam, I'll sing. 'Tis well that thou hast cause,
3.4.221829But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep.
I could weep, madam, would it do you good.
And I could sing, would weeping do me good,
1833 Enter [Master] Gardener [and his two Men]. 3.4.271835Let's step into the shadow of these trees.
3.4.291837They will talk of state, for every one doth so
3.4.301838Against a change. Woe is forerun with woe.
[The Queen and her Ladies stand apart.]
3.4.311839Gardener[To one Man] Go, bind thou up young dangling apricots,
3.4.321840Which, like unruly children, make their sire
3.4.331841Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight.
3.4.341842Give some supportance to the bending twigs. --
3.4.351843[To other Man] Go thou, and like an executioner
3.4.361844Cut off the heads of too-fast-growing sprays
3.4.371845That look too lofty in our commonwealth.
3.4.401848The noisome weeds which without profit suck
3.4.411849The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers.
Why should we, in the compass of a pale,
3.4.451853When our sea-wallèd garden, the whole land,
3.4.461854Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers choked up,
3.4.471855Her fruit trees all unpruned, her hedges ruined,
3.4.481856Her knots disordered, and her wholesome herbs
Swarming with caterpillars? Hold thy peace,
3.4.511859He that hath suffered this disordered spring
3.4.521860Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf.
3.4.531861The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter,
3.4.541862That seemed in eating him to hold him up,
3.4.551863Are plucked up, root and all, by Bolingbroke --
3.4.561864I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.
What are they dead?
What are they dead? They are; and Bolingbroke
3.4.591867Hath seized the wasteful king. Oh, what pity is it
3.4.601868That he had not so trimmed and dressed his land
3.4.621870Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit trees,
3.4.631871Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood,
3.4.641872With too much riches it confound itself.
3.4.651873Had he done so to great and growing men,
3.4.661874They might have lived to bear and he to taste
3.4.671875Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches
3.4.681876We lop away, that bearing boughs may live.
3.4.691877Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,
3.4.701878Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.
What, think you the King shall be deposed?
Depressed he is already, and deposed
3.4.731881'Tis doubt he will be. Letters came last night
3.4.741882To a dear friend of the good Duke of York's,
Oh, I am pressed to death through want of speaking!
[She comes forward.]
3.4.771885Thou old Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden,
3.4.781886How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news?
3.4.791887What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested thee
3.4.811889Why dost thou say King Richard is deposed?
3.4.821890Dar'st thou, thou little better thing than earth,
3.4.831891Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how
3.4.841892Cam'st thou by this ill tidings? Speak, thou wretch?
Pardon me, madam. Little joy have I
3.4.861894To breathe this news, yet what I say is true.
3.4.881896Of Bolingbroke. Their fortunes both are weighed.
3.4.891897In your lord's scale is nothing but himself
3.4.901898And some few vanities that make him light,
3.4.911899But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,
3.4.921900Besides himself, are all the English peers,
3.4.931901And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.
3.4.941902Post you to London and you will find it so.
3.4.951903I speak no more than everyone doth know.
Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot,
3.4.981906And am I last that knows it? Oh, thou thinkest
3.4.991907To serve me last that I may longest keep
3.4.1001908Thy sorrow in my breast. -- Come, ladies, go
3.4.1031911Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke? --
1913Pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow.
Exit [with Ladies].
Poor Queen, so that thy state might be no worse,
3.4.1071916Here did she fall a tear. Here in this place
3.4.1091918Rue even for ruth here shortly shall be seen,
Exeunt.