King Richard II

Choose out some secret place, some reverent room, More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life. So as thou liv’st in peace, die free from strife, For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, High sparks of honor in thee have I seen.

Forever may my knees grow to the earth, Kneels. My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak.

If thou do pardon, whosoever pray, More sins for this forgiveness prosper may. This fest’red joint cut off, the rest rest sound, This let alone will all the rest confound.

Intended, or committed, was this fault? If on the first, how heinous e’er it be, To win thy after-love I pardon thee.

Mine honor lives when his dishonor dies, Or my sham’d life in his dishonor lies: Thou kill’st me in his life; giving him breath, The traitor lives, the true man’s put to death.

The manner of their taking may appear At large discoursed in this paper here. K. HEN. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains, And to thy worth will add right worthy gains

Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails May tear a passage thorough the flinty ribs Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls; And for they cannot, die in their own pride.

As dissolute as desperate, yet through both I see some sparks of better hope, which elder years May happily bring forth.

I’ll not be long behind; though I be old, I doubt not but to ride as fast as York. An’ never will I rise up from the ground Till Bullingbrook have pardoned thee. Away, be gone!

Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not, God knows I had as lief be none as one. YORK. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time, Lest you be cropp’d before you come to prime.

Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind, He is as like thee as a man may be, Not like to me, or any of my kin, And yet I love him.

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. But heaven hath a hand in these events, To whose high will we bound our calm contents.

Give me mine own again, ’twere no good part To take on me to keep and kill thy heart. 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 rest let sorrow say.

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;

Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, To make my end too sudden. Learn, good soul, To think our former state a happy dream, From which awak’d, the truth of what we are Shows us but this.

Part us, Northumberland: I towards the north, Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime; My wife to France, from whence set forth in pomp She came adorned hither like sweet May, Sent back like Hollowmas or short’st of day.

Is this the face which fac’d so many follies, That was at last out-fac’d by Bullingbrook? A brittle glory shineth in this face, As brittle as the glory is the face,

Lords, you that here are under our arrest, Procure your sureties for your days of answer. Little are we beholding to your love, And little look’d for at your helping hands.

My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue Scorns to unsay what once it hath delivered.

O, good! Convey! Conveyers are you all, That rise thus nimbly by a true king’s fall.

That in a Christian climate souls refin’d Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed! I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, Stirr’d up by God, thus boldly for his king.

Who sets me else? By heaven, I’ll throw at all! I have a thousand spirits in one breast, To answer twenty thousand such as you.

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;

Worst in this royal presence may I speak, Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth.

Shall I so much dishonor my fair stars On equal terms to give him chastisement? Either I must, or have mine honor soil’d With the attainder of his slanderous lips. There is my gage, the manual seal of death, That marks thee out for hell.

Be he the fire, I’ll be the yielding water; The rage be his, whilst on the earth I rain My waters—on the earth, and not on him. March on, and mark King Richard how he looks.

Go bind thou up young dangling apricocks, Which like unruly children make their sire Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight; Give some supportance to the bending twigs.

It is, such crimson tempest should bedrench The fresh green lap of fair King Richard’s land, My stooping duty tenderly shall show. Go signify as much, while here we march Upon the grassy carpet of this plain.

Methinks King Richard and myself should meet With no less terror than the elements Of fire and water, when their thund’ring shock At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven.

Poor queen, so that thy state might be no worse, I would my skill were subject to thy curse. Here did she fall a tear, here in this place I’ll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace. Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen, In the remembrance of a weeping queen.

What you will have, I’ll give, and willing too, For do we must what force will have us do. Set on towards London, cousin, is it so? BULL. Yea, my good lord. K. RICH. Then I must not say no.

And till so much blood thither come again, Have I not reason to look pale and dead? All souls that will be safe, fly from my side, For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

Discomfortable cousin, know’st thou not That when the searching eye of heaven is hid Behind the globe, that lights the lower world, Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen In murders and in outrage boldly here,

Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day; So may you by my dull and heavy eye: My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.

Needs must I like it well; I weep for joy To stand upon my kingdom once again. Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand, Though rebels wound thee with their horses’ hoofs.

No matter where—of comfort no man speak: Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs, Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.

Too well, too well thou tell’st a tale so ill. Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? Where is Bagot? What is become of Bushy? Where is Green? That they have let the dangerous enemy Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?

Uncle, you say the Queen is at your house, For God’s sake fairly let her be entreated. Tell her I send to her my kind commends; Take special care my greetings be delivered.

It may be I will go with you, but yet I’ll pause, For I am loath to break our country’s laws. Nor friends, nor foes, to me welcome you are: Things past redress are now with me past care.

But theirs is sweet’ned with the hope to have The present benefit which I possess, And hope to joy is little less in joy Than hope enjoyed. By this the weary lords

Alas, poor duke, the task he undertakes Is numb’ring sands and drinking oceans dry; Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly. Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever.

I thank thee, gentle Percy, and be sure I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul rememb’ring my good friends, And as my fortune ripens with thy love, It shall be still thy true love’s recompense.

No, I will to Ireland to his Majesty. Farewell! If heart’s presages be not vain, We three here part that ne’er shall meet again.

He was—why, so go all which way it will! The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold, And will, I fear, revolt on Herford’s side.

With signs of war about his aged neck. O, full of careful business are his looks!

Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv’d From some forefather grief; mine is not so, For nothing hath begot my something grief, Or something hath the nothing that I grieve— ’Tis in reversion that I do possess—

It may be so; but yet my inward soul Persuades me it is otherwise. Howe’er it be, I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad, As, though on thinking on no thought I think, Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing, Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm; We see the wind sit sore upon our sails, And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke, Imp out our drooping country’s broken wing, Redeem from broking pawn the blemish’d crown, Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre’s gilt, And make high majesty look like itself, Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh;

Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Herford? If it be so, out with it boldly, man, Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.