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With many legions of strange fantasies,
Which, in their throng and press to that last-hold,
Confound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should sing.
I am the cygnet to this pale saint swan,

Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death,
And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings
Ilis soul and body to their lasting rest.

Sal. Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born To set a form upon that indigest Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. Enter Attendants, and Bigot, carrying King Join in a

chair. K. John. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room; It would not out at windows nor at doors. There is so hot a summer in my bosom,

80 That all my bowels crumble up to dust: I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen Upon a parchment, and against this fire Do I shrink up.

P. Ilen. How fares your majesty?

K. John. Poison'd,-ill fare-dead, forsook, cast off: And none of you will bid the winter come To thrust bis icy fingers in my maw, Nor let my kingdom's rivers iake their course Through my burn'd bosom, nor entreat the north To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips

And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much,
I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait
And so ingrateful, you deny me that.

P. llen. O that there were some virtue in my tears,
That might relieve you!
K. John.

The salt in them is hot.
Within me is a hell; and there the poison
Is as a fiend confined to tyrannize
On unreprievable condemned blood.

Enter the BASTARD.
Bast. O, I am scalded with my violent motion,
And spleen of speed to see your majesty!

K. John. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:
The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd,
And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail
Are turned to one thread, one little hair:
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be uttered;
And then all this thou seest is but a clod

And module of confounded royalty.

Bast. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward, Where heaven He knows how we shall answer him; 60 For in a night the best part of my power, As I upon advantage did remove, Were in the Washes all unwarily Devoured by the unexpected tlood. [The king dies.

Sal. You breatlıc these dead news in as dead an ear. My liege! my lord! but now a king, now thus.

P. Hen. Even so must Irun on, and even so stop. What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, When this was now a king, and now is clay?

Bast. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind 70 To do the office for thee of revenge, And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, As it on earth hath been thy servant still. Now, now, you stars that move in your right spheres, Where be your powers? show now your mended faiths, And instantly return with me again, To push destruction and perpetual shame Out of the weak door of our fainting land. Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought; The Dauphin rages at our very heels.

80 Sal. It seems you know not, then, so much as we: The Cardinal Pandulplı is within at rest, Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin, And brings from him such offers of our peace As we with honour and respect may take, With purpose presently to leave this war.

Basi. Hic will the rather do it when he sees Ourselves well sinewed to our defence.

Sal. Nay, it is in a manner done already; For many carriages he hath dispatch'di

90 To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel To the disposing of the cardinal: With whom yourself, myself and other lords, If you think meet, this afternoon will post To consummate this business happily.

Bast. Let it be so: and you, my noble prince,
With other princes that may best be spared,
Shall wait upon your father's funeral.

P. Hen. At Worcester must his body be interr'd;
For so he will'd it.
Thither shall it then:

And happily may your sweet self put on
The lineal state and glory of the land!
To whom, with all submission, on my knee

I do bequeath my faithful services
And truc subjection everlastingly.

Sal. And the like tender of our love we make,
To rest without a spot forever more.

P. llen. I have a kind soul that would give you thanks And knows not how to do it but with tears.

Bast. O, let us pay the time but needful woe, 110 ! Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs. This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqteror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If Englaud to itself do rest but true.





spur, his son of Lancaster,

uncles to LORD Ross. EDMUND OF LANGLEY, | the King. LORD WILLOUGHBY. Duke of York,

HENRY, surnamed BOLINGBROKE, Bishop of Carlisle.

Duke of Hereford, son to John Abbot of Westminster.
of Gaunt; afterwards Kixo Lord Marshal.

DUKE OF A C'MERLE, son to the Sin PIERCE of Exton.
Duke of York.

Captain of a band of Welshmen, Thomas MOWBRAY, Duke of Norfolk.

QUEEN to King Richard. DUKE OF SURREY.



Lady attending on the Queen. BUSHY, BAGOT servants to King Richard. Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, GREEN,

two Gardeners, Keeper, MesEARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND.

senger, Groom, and other Attendants.

SCENE: England and Wales.


Scene I. London. KinG RICHARD's palace. Enter King RICHARD, JOIN OF Gaunt, with other Nobles

and Attendants. K. Rich. Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd Lancaster, Ilast thou, according to thy oath and band, Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son, Here to make good the boisterous late appeal, Which then our leisure would not let us hear, Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? Gaunt. I have, my liege.

K. Rich. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him,
If he appeal the duke on ancient inalice;
Or worthily, as a good subject should,

10 On some known ground of treachery in him?

Guunt. As near as I could sift him on that argument,
On some apparent danger seen in him
Aim'd at your highness, no inveterate malice.

K. Rich. Then call them to our presence; face to face,
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will liear
The accuser and the accused freely speak:
High-stomach'd are they both, and full of ire,
In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.

Boling. Many years of happy days befal

20 My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!

Mow. Each day still beiter other's happiness;
Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap,
Add an immortal title to your crown!

K. Rich. We thank you both: yet one but flatters us,
As well appeareth by the cause you come;
Namely, to appeal cach other of high treason.
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Boling. First, heaven be the record to my speech! 80
In the devotion of a subject's love,
Tendering the precious safety of my prince,
And free from other misbegotten bate,
Come I appellant to this princely presence.
Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,
And mark my greeting well; for what I speak
My body shall make good upon this earth,
Or my divine soul answer it in heaven.
Thou art a traitor and a miscreant,
Too good to be so and too bad to live,

Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,
The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.
Once more, the more to aggravate the note,
With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat;
And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move,
What my tongue speaks my right drawn sword may prove.

Mou. Lei not my cold words here accuse my zeal:
'Tis not the trial of a woman's war,
The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,
Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;

The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this:
Yet can I not of such tame patience boast


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