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To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart. [Kifs again. So, now I have mine own again, be gone,

That I may strive to kill it with a groan.

K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay: Once more, adieu; the reft, let forrow fay.

SCENE II.

The duke of York's palace.

Enter York and bis Dutchefs.

[Exeunt.

Dutch. My lord, you told me, you would tell the reft,

When weeping made you break the ftory off
Of our two coufins coming into London.
York. Where did I leave?

Dutch. At that fad ftop, my lord,

Where rude mifgovern'd hands, from window-tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head.
York. Then, as I faid, the duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

Which his afpiring rider feem'd to know,

With flow, but stately pace, kept on his course,
While all tongues cry'd, God fave thee, Bolingbroke!
You wou'd have thought the very windows fpake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through cafements darted their defiring eyes
Upon his vifage; and that all the walls
With painted imag'ry had faid at once,
Jefu, preferve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke !
Whilft he, from one fide to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud fteed's neck,
Bespoke them thus; I thank you, countrymen :
And thus ftill doing, thus he paft along.

Dutch. Alas, poor Richard! where rides he the while?

York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-grac'd actor leaves the ftage,

Are

4 Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Even fo, or with much more contempt, mens' eyes
Did fcowl on Richard; no man cry'd, God fave him;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But duft was thrown upon his facred head;
Which with fuch gentle forrow he shook off-
His face ftill combating with tears and fmiles,
The badges of his grief and patience-

That had not God, for fome ftrong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted;
And barbarifin itself have pitied him.

But heaven hath a hand in thefe events,

To whofe high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we fworn fubjects now,
Whofe ftate, and honour, I for aye allow.

Enter Aumerle.

Dutch. Here comes my fon Aumerle.
York. Aumerle that was;

But that is loft, for being Richard's friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.
I am in parliament pledge for his truth,
And lafting fealty to the new-made king.

Dutch. Welcome, my fon: who are the violets now, 5 That ftrew the green lap of the new-come spring? Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not; God knows, I had as lief be none, as one.

6

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

Left

you be cropt before you come to prime.

Are idly bent- -] That is carelefly turned, thrown without attention. This the poet learned by his attendance and practice on the stage. JOHNSON.

5 That fire the green lap of the new-come fpring?] So Milton in one of his fongs,

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who from her green lap throws

"The yellow cowflip and the pale primrofe." STEEV. 6 - bear you well-] That is, conduct yourfelf with prudence. JOHNSON.

What

What news from Oxford? hold thefe jufts and tri

umphs?

Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do.
York. You will be there, I know.

Aum. If God prevent me not; I purpose so.
York. What feal is that, which hangs without thy
bofom?

7 Yea, look'st thou pale? let me fee the writing. Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.

York. No matter then who fees it:

I will be fatisfied, let me fee the writing.

Aum. I do befeech your grace to pardon me;
It is a matter of fmall confequence,

Which for fome reasons I would not have seen.
York. Which, for some reasons, Sir, I mean to fee.
I fear, I fear

Dutch. What should you fear?

'Tis nothing but some bond that he is enter'd into,
For
gay apparel, against the triumph.

York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond,
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.
Boy, let me fee the.writing.

Aum. I do befeech you pardon me; I may not

fhew it.

York. I will be fatisfied; let me fee it, I fay.

[Snatches it and reads. Treafon foul treafon! villain! traitor! flave! Dutch. What is the matter, my lord? York. Ho! who is within there? faddle my Heaven, for his mercy! what treachery is here? Dutch. Why, what is it, my lord?

horse.

York. Give me my boots, I fay: faddle my horse. Now by my honour, by my life, my troth, I will appeach the villain.

Yea, look'ft thou pale? let me fee the writing.] Such harsh and defective lines as this, are probably corrupt, and might be eafily fupplied, but that it would be dangerous to let conjecture loofe on fuck flight occafions. JoHNSON.

Dutch.

Dutch. What is the matter?

York. Peace, foolish woman!

Dutch. I will not peace: what is the matter, fon? Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more Than my poor life muft answer.

Dutch. Thy life answer!

Enter fervant with boots.

York. Bring me my boots. I will unto the king. Dutch. Strike him, Aumerle.-Poor boy, thou art amaz'd.

Hence, villain, never more come in my fight.

York. Give me my boots.

[Speaking to the fervant.

Dutch. Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trefpafs of thine own?
Have we more fons ? or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair fon from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?
York. Thou fond mad-woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conípiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the facrament,
And interchangeably have fet their hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.

Dutch. He fhall be none:

We'll keep him here; then what is that to him? York. Away, fond woman! were he twenty times My fon, I would appeach him.

Dutch. Hadft thou groan'd for him,

As I have done, thou'dft be more pitiful.

But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect,

That I have been difloyal to thy bed,

And that he is a baftard, not thy fon.

Sweet York, fweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Nor like to me, nor any of my kin,

And yet I love him.

York.

York. Make way, unruly woman!

[Exit.

Dutch. After, Aumerle: mount thee upon his horfe; Spur poft; and get before him to the king, And beg thy pardon, ere he do accufe thee. I'll not be long behind; though I be old, I doubt not but to ride as faft as York: And never will I rife up from the ground,

Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away. [Exeunt,

SCENE III.

The court at Windfor-castle.

Enter Bolingbroke, Percy, and other lords.

Boling. Can no man tell of my unthrifty fon? 'Tis full three months fince I did fee him laft.If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.

I would to heaven, my lords, he might be found.
Enquire at London, 'mong the taverns there :
For there, they fay, he daily doth frequent,
With unreftrained loofe companions;

Even fuch, they fay, as ftand in narrow lanes,
And beat our watch, and rob our paffengers;
While he, young, wanton, and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour, to fupport

So diffolute a crew.

Percy. My lord, fome two days fince I saw the prince,

And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford.
Boling. And what faid the gallant?

Percy. His anfwer was, he would unto the ftews, And from the common'ft creature pluck a glove, And wear it as a favour; and with that

He would unhorfe the luftieft challenger.

Enquire at London, &c.] This is a very proper introduction to the future character of Henry the Fifth, to his debaucheries in his youth, and his greatnefs in his manhood. JOHNSON.

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