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To dim his glory, and to stain the track
Of his bright passage to the occident.

Richard's Humility.

What must the king do now? Must he submit? The king shall do it. Must he be depos'd?

The king shall be contented.

Must he lose

The name of king? O' God's name, let it go.
I'll give my jewels for a set of beads ;
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage;
My gay apparel for an alms-man's gown;
My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood;
My sceptre for a palmer's walking-staff;
My subjects for a pair of carved saints;
And my large kingdom for a little grave,
A little little grave—an obscure grave:
Or I'll be buried in the king's highway,
Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet
May hourly trample on their sovereign's head:
For on my heart they tread now whilst I live;
And, buried once, why not upon my head?


The Emptiness of Royalty.

Alack, why am I sent for to a king,
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts
Wherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd
To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee :-
Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me


To this submission. Yet I well remember
The favours of these men were they not mine?
Did they not sometime cry, all hail! to me?

*The countenances.

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So Judas did to Christ; but he, in twelve,

Found truth in all, but one; I in twelve thousand, none.
God save the king!-Will no man say amen?
Am I both priest and clerk? well then, amen.
God save the king! although I be not he;
And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me.

Richard's Resignation of his Crown.
Now mark me how I will undo myself:
I give this heavy weight from off my head,
And this unwieldly sceptre from my hand,
The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;
With mine own tears I wash away my balm,—
With mine own hands I give away my crown,—
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,-
With mine own breath release all duteous oaths:
All pomp and majesty I do forswear :
My manors, rents, revenues, I forego;
My acts, decrees, and statutes, I deny :
God pardon all oaths that are broke to me!
God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee!
Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd;
And thou with all pleas'd, that hast all achiev'd!
Long mayst thou live in Richard's seat to sit,
And soon lie Richard in an earthly pit!
God save King Henry, unking'd Richard says,
And send him many years of sunshine days!


Melancholy Stories.

In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire
With good old folks; and let them tell thee tales

Of woeful ages, long ago betid: *

And ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,

And send the hearers weeping to their beds.

Bolingbroke coming into London.

Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,-
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,—
With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course,

While all tongues cried-God save thee, Bolingbroke!
You would have thought the very windows spake,

So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls,
With painted imagery, had said at once,—
Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus,—I thank you, countrymen :
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

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After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,

Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God save him;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,—
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,—

* Long passed away.

That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him.


Who are the violets now,

That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?
Richard's Soliloquy in Prison.

I have been studying how I may compare
This prison, where I live, unto the world:
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it ;-yet I'll hammer it out.
My brain I'll prove. the female to my soul,
My soul, the father: and these two beget
A generation of still breeding thoughts,

And these same thoughts people this little world:
In humours, like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented.







Thoughts tending to content, flatter themselves,
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,
Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame,-
That many have, and others must sit there:
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of such as have before endured the like.

Thus play I, in one person, many people,
And none contented: sometimes am I a king;
Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am: then crushing penury

* His own body.



Persuades me I was better when a king:
Then am I king'd again: and, by and by,
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing.—But, whate'er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
With being nothing.

Bolingbroke's Remorse at Richard's Death.

They love not poison that do poison need,
Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer-love him murdered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word nor princely favour
With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
And never show thy head by day nor light.
Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe,

That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow.
Come, mourn with me for what I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent :*
I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.
March sadly after; grace my mournings here,
In weeping after this untimely bier.



The king is about to depart for the Holy Land, when he is stayed by intelligence of the defeat of Mortimer, Earl of March,


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