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 misfortunes 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 king;
Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am: then crushing penury
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 be,
Nor I nor any man that but man is
With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased
With being nothing. Music do I hear?

Ha, ha! keep time: how sour sweet music is,
When time is broke and no proportion kept!
So is it in the music of men's lives.
And here have I the daintiness of car
To check time broke in a disorder'd string;
But for the concord of my state and time
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;

For now hath time made me his numbering clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar
Their watches on uato mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,

Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is

Are clamorous groans, which strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans
Show minutes, times, and hours: but my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o' the clock.
This music mads me; let it sound no more;
For though it have holp madmen to their wits,
In me it seems it will make wise men mad.
Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!
For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.
Enter a Groom of the Stable.

Groom. Hail, royal prince!

K. Rich.
Thanks, noble peer;
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
What art thou? and how comest thou hither,
Where no man ever comes but that sad dog
That brings me food to make misfortune live?
Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,
With much ado at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometimes royal master's face.
O, how it yearn'd my heart when I beheld
In London streets, that coronation-day,
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary,
That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,
That horse that I so carefully have dress'd!

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,
How went he under him?

Groom. So proudly as if he disdain'd the ground.
K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!
That jade hath cat bread from my royal hand;
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Would he not stumble? would he not fall down,
Since pride must have a fall, and break the neck
Of that proud man that did usurp his back?
Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be awed by man,
Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;
And yet I bear a burthen like an ass,

Spurr'd, gall'd and tired by jauncing Bolingbroke.
Enter Keeper, with a dish.

ΤΟ

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Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.
K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away.
Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall
say.

Keep. My lord, will't please you to fall to?

[Exit..

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1 K. Rich. Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do. Keep. My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton, who lately came from the king, commands the contrary. K. Rich. The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee! Patience is stale, and I am weary of it. [Beats the keeper.

Keep. Help, help, help!

Enter EXTON and Servants, armed.

K. Rich. How now! what means death in this rude assault? Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument.

[Snatching an axe from a Servant and killing him.

Go thou, and fill another room in hell.

[He kills another. Then Exton strikes him down.

That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire

That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand 110 Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land. Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high;

Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die. [Dies.
Exton. As full of valour as of royal blood:

Both have I spill'd; O would the deed were good!
For now the devil, that told me I did well,
Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.

This dead king to the living king I'll bear:

Take hence the rest, and give them burial here. [Exeunt.

SCENE VI. Windsor castle.

Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE, YORK, with other Lords, and Attendants.

Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear

Is that the rebels have consumed with fire

Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;

But whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.

Welcome, my lord: what is the news?

North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness. The next news is, I have to London sent

The heads of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt and Kent:
The manner of their taking may appear

At large discoursed in this paper here.

Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;

And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.

Enter FITZWATER.

Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely,

Two of the dangerous consorted traitors
That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
Right nobie is thy merit, weli I wot

Enter PERCY, and the BISHOP OF CARLISLE.

Percy The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster, With clog of conscience and sour melancholy Hath yielded up his body to the grave;

But here is Carlisle living, to abide

Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride.

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Boling. Carlisle, this is your doom:

Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
So as thou livest in peace, die free from strife:
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.

Enter EXTON, with persons bearing a coffin.
Erton. Great king, within this coffin I present
Thy buried fear herein all breathless lies

The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,

Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.

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Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought A deed of slander with thy fatal hand

Upon my head and all this famous land.

Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.
Boling. 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 thorough shades 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 that 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.

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[Exeunt.

Enter KING HENRY, LORD JOHN OF LANCASTER, the EARL
OF WESTMORELAND, SIR WALTER BLUNT, and others.
King. So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenced in strands afar remote.

No more the thirsty entrance of this soil
Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood;
No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one substance bred,

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