My lord, you told me you would tell the rest,

5.2.22368When weeping made you break the story off

5.2.32369Of our two cousins coming into London.

Where did I leave?

Where did I leave? At that sad stop, my lord,

5.2.62372Where rude misgoverned hands from windows' tops

5.2.72373Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head.

Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,

5.2.92375Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

5.2.102376Which his aspiring rider seemed to know,

5.2.112377With slow but stately pace kept on his course,

5.2.122378Whilst all tongues cried "God save thee, Bolingbroke!"

5.2.132379You would have thought the very windows spake,

5.2.142380So many greedy looks of young and old

5.2.152381Through casements darted their desiring eyes

5.2.162382Upon his visage, and that all the walls

5.2.172383With painted imagery had said at once

5.2.182384"Jesu preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke! "

5.2.192385Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning,

5.2.202386Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed's neck,

5.2.212387Bespake them thus: "I thank you, countrymen."

5.2.222388And thus still doing, thus he passed along.

Alack, poor Richard! Where rode he the whilst?

As in a theater the eyes of men,

5.2.252391After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,

5.2.262392Are idly bent on him that enters next,

5.2.272393Thinking his prattle to be tedious,

5.2.282394Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes

5.2.292395Did scowl on gentle Richard. No man cried "God save him!"

5.2.302396No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home,

5.2.312397But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,

5.2.322398Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,

5.2.332399His face still combating with tears and smiles,

5.2.342400The badges of his grief and patience,

5.2.352401That had not God for some strong purpose steeled

5.2.362402The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,

5.2.372403And barbarism itself have pitied him.

5.2.382404But heaven hath a hand in these events,

5.2.392405To whose high will we bound our calm contents.

5.2.402406To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,

5.2.412407Whose state and honor I for aye allow.

Here comes my son Aumerle.

Here comes my son Aumerle. Aumerle that was;

5.2.442411But that is lost for being Richard's friend,

5.2.452412And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.

5.2.462413I am in parliament pledge for his truth

5.2.472414And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now

5.2.492416That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?

Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not.

5.2.512418God knows I had as lief be none as one.

Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,

5.2.532420Lest you be cropped before you come to prime.

5.2.542421What news from Oxford? Do these jousts and triumphs hold?

For aught I know, my lord, they do.

You will be there, I know.

If God prevent not, I purpose so.

What seal is that that hangs without thy bosom?

5.2.592426Yea, lookst thou pale? Let me see the writing.

My lord, 'tis nothing.

My lord, 'tis nothing. No matter, then, who see it.

5.2.622429I will be satisfied. Let me see the writing.

I do beseech your grace to pardon me.

5.2.642431It is a matter of small consequence,

5.2.652432Which for some reasons I would not have seen.

Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.

5.2.672434I fear, I fear --

I fear, I fear -- What should you fear?

5.2.692436'Tis nothing but some bond that he is entered into

5.2.702437For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day.

Bound to himself? What doth he with a bond

5.2.722439That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool. --

5.2.732440Boy, let me see the writing.

I do beseech you, pardon me. I may not show it.

I will be satisfied. Let me see it, I say.

Treason! Foul treason! Villain! Traitor! Slave!

What is the matter, my lord?

[Calling offstage] Ho! Who is within there? Saddle my horse! --

5.2.792446God for his mercy, what treachery is here!

Why, what is it, my lord?

[Calling offstage] Give me my boots, I say! Saddle my horse! --

5.2.822449Now by mine honor, by my life, by my troth,

5.2.832450I will appeach the villain.

I will appeach the villain. What is the matter?

Peace, foolish woman.

I will not peace! -- What is the matter, Aumerle?

Good mother, be content. It is no more

5.2.882455Than my poor life must answer.

Than my poor life must answer. Thy life answer?

[Calling offstage] Bring me my boots! -- I will unto the King.

Strike him, Aumerle! Poor boy, thou art amazed. --

5.2.922460[To York's man] Hence, villain, never more come in my sight!

Give me my boots, I say.

Why, York, what wilt thou do?

5.2.952463Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?

5.2.962464Have we more sons? Or are we like to have?

5.2.972465Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?

5.2.982466And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age

5.2.992467And rob me of a happy mother's name?

5.2.1002468Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own?

Thou fond mad woman,

5.2.1022470Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?

5.2.1032471A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament

5.2.1042472And interchangeably set down their hands

5.2.1052473To kill the King at Oxford.

To kill the King at Oxford. He shall be none;

5.2.1062475We'll keep him here. Then what is that to him?

Away, fond woman! Were he twenty times my son,

5.2.1092477I would appeach him.

Hadst thou groaned for him as I have done,

5.2.1112479Thou wouldst be more pitiful.

5.2.1122480But now I know thy mind. Thou dost suspect

5.2.1132481That I have been disloyal to thy bed,

5.2.1142482And that he is a bastard, not thy son.

5.2.1152483Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind!

5.2.1162484He is as like thee as a man may be,

5.2.1172485Not like to me or any of my kin,

5.2.1182486And yet I love him.

And yet I love him. Make way, unruly woman!

After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse,

5.2.1212489Spur post, and get before him to the King,

5.2.1222490And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.

5.2.1232491I'll not be long behind. Though I be old,

5.2.1242492I doubt not but to ride as fast as York,

5.2.1252493And never will I rise up from the ground

5.2.1262494Till Bolingbroke have pardoned thee. Away, be gone!