Would not he plough his field, and sow the corn,
Ay, and in peace enjoy the harvest too?
Would not the sun shine and the dews descend,
Though neither King nor Parliament existed?
Do your court politics ought matter him?
Would he be warring even unto death

With his French neighbours? Charles and Richard

contend,

The people fight and suffer:- think ye, Sirs,
If neither country had been cursed with a chief,
The peasants would have quarrell'd?

King.

This is treason!

The patience of the court has been insulted
Condemn the foul-mouth'd, contumacious rebel.
Sir John Tr. John Ball, whereas you are accused

before us,

Of stirring up the people to rebellion,

And preaching to them strange and dangerous doc

trines;

And whereas your behaviour to the court

Has been most insolent and contumacious;

Insulting Majesty — and since you have pleaded
Guilty to all these charges; I condemn you

To death you shall be hangèd by the neck,
But not till you are dead-your bowels open'd—
Your heart torn out, and burnt before your face-
Your traitorous head be severed from your body-
Your body quarter'd, and exposed upon

The city gates—a terrible example

And the Lord God have mercy on your soul.

John Ball. Why, be it so.

vengeance,

I can smile at your

For I am arm'd with rectitude of soul.

The truth, which all my life I have divulged,
And am now doom'd in torments to expire for,
Shall still survive. The destined hour must come,
When it shall blaze with sun-surpassing splendour,
And the dark mists of prejudice and falsehood
Fade in its strong effulgence. Flattery's incense
No more shall shadow round the gore-dyed throne;
That altar of oppression, fed with rites,

More savage than the priests of Moloch taught,
Shall be consumed amid the fire of Justice;

The rays of truth shall emanate around

And the whole world be lighted.

King.

Drag him hence:

Away with him to death; order the troops

Now to give quarter, and make prisoners ·

Let the blood-reeking sword of war be sheathed,
That the law may take vengeance on the rebels.

KING RICHARD THE SECOND

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

THE wayward boy became a passionate and wilful man. He rejected the counsel of the great lords and banished them from the kingdom. His uncle, John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster, had been a party to the extravagance and corruption attending the French wars. He knew better than any one else the influences that were ruining England. But Richard the Redeless, as he was called, turned a deaf ear to his words of warning. Henry Bolingbroke, Gaunt's son, was

sent into exile and, after the death of John of Gaunt, the Lancastrian estates were confiscated by the king. In 1399, Bolingbroke returned to claim first his inheritance and, later, the kingdom. The leading nobles crowded to his standard, and London sent an army to his aid. Richard, deserted by his most trusted friends, was obliged to yield himself a prisoner and to surrender the crown to his "fair cousin Bolingbroke." The death of the deposed king is variously reported by tradition as due to hard usage, assassination, voluntary starvation.

ACT II

SCENE I. LONDON. A Room in Ely House.

(Gaunt on a couch; the Duke of York and others standing by him).

Gaunt. Will the king come, that I may breathe my last

In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?

York. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;

For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.

Gaunt. O, but they say the tongues of dying men Enforce attention like deep harmony:

Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,

For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.

He that no more must say is listen'd more

Than they whom youth and ease have taught to

glose;

More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before: The setting sun, and music at the close,

As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance more than things long past:
Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,
My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.

York. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds,

As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond,
Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound

The open ear of youth doth always listen;
Report of fashions in proud Italy,

Whose manners still our tardy apish nation
Limps after in base imitation.

Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity

So it be new, there's no respect how vile
That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?
Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,
Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard.

Direct not him whose way himself will choose:

'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

Gaunt. Methinks I am a prophet new inspired

And thus expiring do foretell of him:

His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,

For violent fires soon burn out themselves;

Small showers last long, but sudden storms are

short;

He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;

With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder:

Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,

Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise;

This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands;

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry

Of the world's ransom, blessèd Mary's Son;
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,

Is now leas'd out, I die pronouncing it,
Like to a tenement or pelting1 farm:

England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds:
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!
1 paltry.