Chapter III: Part 3

Giue me that Glasse, and therein will I reade. No deeper wrinckles yet? hath Sorrow strucke So many Blowes vpon this Face of mine, And made no deeper Wounds? Oh flatt'ring Glasse, Like to my followers in prosperitie, Thou do'st beguile me. Was this Face, the Face That euery day, vnder his House-hold Roofe, Did keepe ten thousand men? Was this the Face, That like the Sunne, did make beholders winke? Is this the Face, which fac'd so many follyes, That was at last out-fac'd by Bullingbrooke? A brittle Glory shineth in this Face, As brittle as the Glory, is the Face, For there it is, crackt in an hundred shiuers. Marke silent King, the Morall of this sport, How soone my Sorrow hath destroy'd my Face

Bull. The shadow of your Sorrow hath destroy'd
The shadow of your Face

Rich. Say that againe. The shadow of my Sorrow: ha, let's see, 'Tis very true, my Griefe lyes all within, And these externall manner of Laments, Are meerely shadowes, to the vnseene Griefe, That swells with silence in the tortur'd Soule. There lyes the substance: and I thanke thee King For thy great bountie, that not onely giu'st Me cause to wayle, but teachest me the way How to lament the cause. Ile begge one Boone, And then be gone, and trouble you no more. Shall I obtaine it? Bull. Name it, faire Cousin

Rich. Faire Cousin? I am greater then a King: For when I was a King, my flatterers Were then but subiects; being now a subiect, I haue a King here to my flatterer: Being so great, I haue no neede to begge

Bull. Yet aske

Rich. And shall I haue?
Bull. You shall

Rich. Then giue me leaue to goe

Bull. Whither?
Rich. Whither you will, so I were from your sights

Bull. Goe some of you, conuey him to the Tower

Rich. Oh good: conuey: Conueyers are you all,
That rise thus nimbly by a true Kings fall

Bull. On Wednesday next, we solemnly set downe
Our Coronation: Lords, prepare your selues.

Exeunt.

Abbot. A wofull Pageant haue we here beheld

Carl. The Woes to come, the Children yet vnborne,
Shall feele this day as sharpe to them as Thorne

Aum. You holy Clergie-men, is there no Plot
To rid the Realme of this pernicious Blot

Abbot. Before I freely speake my minde herein, You shall not onely take the Sacrament, To bury mine intents, but also to effect What euer I shall happen to deuise. I see your Browes are full of Discontent, Your Heart of Sorrow, and your Eyes of Teares. Come home with me to Supper, Ile lay a Plot Shall shew vs all a merry day.

Exeunt.

Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.

Enter Queene, and Ladies.

Qu. This way the King will come: this is the way To Iulius C├Žsars ill-erected Tower: To whose flint Bosome, my condemned Lord Is doom'd a Prisoner, by prowd Bullingbrooke. Here let vs rest, if this rebellious Earth Haue any resting for her true Kings Queene. Enter Richard, and Guard.

But soft, but see, or rather doe not see, My faire Rose wither: yet looke vp; behold, That you in pittie may dissolue to dew, And wash him fresh againe with true-loue Teares. Ah thou, the Modell where old Troy did stand, Thou Mappe of Honor, thou King Richards Tombe, And not King Richard: thou most beauteous Inne, Why should hard-fauor'd Griefe be lodg'd in thee, When Triumph is become an Ale-house Guest

Rich. Ioyne not with griefe, faire Woman, do not so, To make my end too sudden: learne good Soule, To thinke our former State a happie Dreame, From which awak'd, the truth of what we are, Shewes vs but this. I am sworne Brother (Sweet) To grim Necessitie; and hee and I Will keepe a League till Death. High thee to France, And Cloyster thee in some Religious House: Our holy liues must winne a new Worlds Crowne, Which our prophane houres here haue stricken downe

Qu. What, is my Richard both in shape and minde Transform'd, and weaken'd? Hath Bullingbrooke Depos'd thine Intellect? hath he beene in thy Heart? The Lyon dying, thrusteth forth his Paw, And wounds the Earth, if nothing else, with rage To be o're-powr'd: and wilt thou, Pupill-like, Take thy Correction mildly, kisse the Rodde, And fawne on Rage with base Humilitie, Which art a Lyon, and a King of Beasts? Rich. A King of Beasts indeed: if aught but Beasts, I had beene still a happy King of Men. Good (sometime Queene) prepare thee hence for France: Thinke I am dead, and that euen here thou tak'st, As from my Death-bed, my last liuing leaue. In Winters tedious Nights sit by the fire With good old folkes, and let them tell thee Tales Of wofull Ages, long agoe betide: And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their griefe, Tell thou the lamentable fall of me, And send the hearers weeping to their Beds: For why? the sencelesse Brands will sympathize The heauie accent of thy mouing Tongue, And in compassion, weepe the fire out: And some will mourne in ashes, some coale-black, For the deposing of a rightfull King. Enter Northumberland.

North. My Lord, the mind of Bullingbrooke is chang'd. You must to Pomfret, not vnto the Tower. And Madame, there is order ta'ne for you: With all swift speed, you must away to France

Rich. Northumberland, thou Ladder wherewithall The mounting Bullingbrooke ascends my Throne, The time shall not be many houres of age, More then it is, ere foule sinne, gathering head, Shall breake into corruption: thou shalt thinke, Though he diuide the Realme, and giue thee halfe, It is too little, helping him to all: He shall thinke, that thou which know'st the way To plant vnrightfull Kings, wilt know againe, Being ne're so little vrg'd another way, To pluck him headlong from the vsurped Throne. The Loue of wicked friends conuerts to Feare; That Feare, to Hate; and Hate turnes one, or both, To worthie Danger, and deserued Death

North. My guilt be on my Head, and there an end:
Take leaue, and part, for you must part forthwith

Rich. Doubly diuorc'd? (bad men) ye violate A two-fold Marriage; 'twixt my Crowne, and me. And then betwixt me, and my marryed Wife. Let me vn-kisse the Oath 'twixt thee, and me; And yet not so, for with a Kisse 'twas made. Part vs, Northumberland: I, towards the North, Where shiuering Cold and Sicknesse pines the Clyme: My Queene to France: from whence, set forth in pompe, She came adorned hither like sweet May; Sent back like Hollowmas, or short'st of day

Qu. And must we be diuided? must we part?
Rich. I, hand from hand (my Loue) and heart fro[m] heart

Qu. Banish vs both, and send the King with me

North. That were some Loue, but little Pollicy

Qu. Then whither he goes, thither let me goe

Rich. So two together weeping, make one Woe. Weepe thou for me in France; I, for thee heere: Better farre off, then neere, be ne're the neere. Goe, count thy Way with Sighes; I, mine with Groanes

Qu. So longest Way shall haue the longest Moanes

Rich. Twice for one step Ile groane, y Way being short, And peece the Way out with a heauie heart. Come, come, in wooing Sorrow let's be briefe, Since wedding it, there is such length in Griefe: One Kisse shall stop our mouthes, and dumbely part; Thus giue I mine, and thus take I thy heart

Qu. Giue me mine owne againe: 'twere no good part, To take on me to keepe, and kill thy heart. So, now I haue mine owne againe, be gone, That I may striue to kill it with a groane

Rich. We make Woe wanton with this fond delay:
Once more adieu; the rest, let Sorrow say.

Exeunt.

Scoena Secunda.

Enter Yorke, and his Duchesse.

Duch. My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you breake the story off, Of our two Cousins comming into London

Yorke. Where did I leaue?
Duch. At that sad stoppe, my Lord,
Where rude mis-gouern'd hands, from Windowes tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on King Richards head

Yorke. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bullingbrooke, Mounted vpon a hot and fierie Steed, Which his aspiring Rider seem'd to know, With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course: While all tongues cride, God saue thee Bullingbrooke. You would haue thought the very windowes spake, So many greedy lookes of yong and old, Through Casements darted their desiring eyes Vpon his visage: and that all the walles, With painted Imagery had said at once, Iesu preserue thee, welcom Bullingbrooke. Whil'st he, from one side to the other turning, Bare-headed, lower then his proud Steeds necke, Bespake them thus: I thanke you Countrimen: And thus still doing, thus he past along

Dutch. Alas poore Richard, where rides he the whilst? Yorke. As in a Theater, the eyes of men After a well grac'd Actor leaues the Stage, Are idlely bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious: Euen so, or with much more contempt, mens eyes Did scowle on Richard: no man cride, God saue him: No ioyfull tongue gaue him his welcome home, But dust was throwne vpon his Sacred head, Which with such gentle sorrow he shooke off, His face still combating with teares and smiles (The badges of his greefe and patience) That had not God (for some strong purpose) steel'd The hearts of men, they must perforce haue melted, And Barbarisme it selfe haue pittied him. But heauen hath a hand in these euents, To whose high will we bound our calme contents. To Bullingbrooke, are we sworne Subiects now, Whose State, and Honor, I for aye allow. Enter Aumerle

Dut. Heere comes my sonne Aumerle

Yor. Aumerle that was, But that is lost, for being Richards Friend. And Madam, you must call him Rutland now: I am in Parliament pledge for his truth, And lasting fealtie to the new-made King

Dut. Welcome my sonne: who are the Violets now,
That strew the greene lap of the new-come Spring?
Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not,
God knowes, I had as liefe be none, as one

Yorke. Well, beare you well in this new-spring of time
Least you be cropt before you come to prime.
What newes from Oxford? Hold those Iusts & Triumphs?
Aum. For ought I know my Lord, they do

Yorke. You will be there I know

Aum. If God preuent not, I purpose so

Yor. What Seale is that that hangs without thy bosom?
Yea, look'st thou pale? Let me see the Writing

Aum. My Lord, 'tis nothing

Yorke. No matter then who sees it,
I will be satisfied, let me see the Writing

Aum. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, It is a matter of small consequence, Which for some reasons I would not haue seene

Yorke. Which for some reasons sir, I meane to see:
I feare, I feare

Dut. What should you feare? 'Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter'd into For gay apparrell, against the Triumph

Yorke. Bound to himselfe? What doth he with a Bond That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a foole. Boy, let me see the Writing

Aum. I do beseech you pardon me, I may not shew it

Yor. I will be satisfied: let me see it I say.

Snatches it

Treason, foule Treason, Villaine, Traitor, Slaue

Dut. What's the matter, my Lord?
Yorke. Hoa, who's within there? Saddle my horse.
Heauen for his mercy: what treachery is heere?
Dut. Why, what is't my Lord?
Yorke. Giue me my boots, I say: Saddle my horse:
Now by my Honor, my life, my troth,
I will appeach the Villaine

Dut. What is the matter?
Yorke. Peace foolish Woman

Dut. I will not peace. What is the matter Sonne?
Aum. Good Mother be content, it is no more
Then my poore life must answer

Dut. Thy life answer?
Enter Seruant with Boots.

Yor. Bring me my Boots, I will vnto the King

Dut. Strike him Aumerle. Poore boy, y art amaz'd,
Hence Villaine, neuer more come in my sight

Yor. Giue me my Boots, I say

Dut. Why Yorke, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou not hide the Trespasse of thine owne? Haue we more Sonnes? Or are we like to haue? Is not my teeming date drunke vp with time? And wilt thou plucke my faire Sonne from mine Age, And rob me of a happy Mothers name? Is he not like thee? Is he not thine owne? Yor. Thou fond mad woman: Wilt thou conceale this darke Conspiracy? A dozen of them heere haue tane the Sacrament, And interchangeably set downe their hands To kill the King at Oxford

Dut. He shall be none:
Wee'l keepe him heere: then what is that to him?
Yor. Away fond woman: were hee twenty times my
Son, I would appeach him

Dut. Hadst thou groan'd for him as I haue done, Thou wouldest be more pittifull: But now I know thy minde; thou do'st suspect That I haue bene disloyall to thy bed, And that he is a Bastard, not thy Sonne: Sweet Yorke, sweet husband, be not of that minde: He is as like thee, as a man may bee, Not like to me, nor any of my Kin, And yet I loue him

Yorke. Make way, vnruly Woman.

Exit

Dut. After Aumerle. Mount thee vpon his horse, Spurre post, and get before him to the King, And begge thy pardon, ere he do accuse thee, Ile not be long behind: though I be old, I doubt not but to ride as fast as Yorke: And neuer will I rise vp from the ground, Till Bullingbrooke haue pardon'd thee: Away be gone.

Exit

Scoena Tertia.

Enter Bullingbrooke, Percie, and other Lords.

Bul. Can no man tell of my vnthriftie Sonne? 'Tis full three monthes since I did see him last. If any plague hang ouer vs, 'tis he, I would to heauen (my Lords) he might be found: Enquire at London, 'mongst the Tauernes there: For there (they say) he dayly doth frequent, With vnrestrained loose Companions, Euen such (they say) as stand in narrow Lanes, And rob our Watch, and beate our passengers, Which he, yong wanton, and effeminate Boy Takes on the point of Honor, to support So dissolute a crew

Per. My Lord, some two dayes since I saw the Prince,
And told him of these Triumphes held at Oxford

Bul. And what said the Gallant? Per. His answer was: he would vnto the Stewes, And from the common'st creature plucke a Gloue And weare it as a fauour, and with that He would vnhorse the lustiest Challenger

Bul. As dissolute as desp'rate, yet through both, I see some sparkes of better hope: which elder dayes May happily bring forth. But who comes heere? Enter Aumerle.

Aum. Where is the King?
Bul. What meanes our Cosin, that hee stares
And lookes so wildely?
Aum. God saue your Grace. I do beseech your Maiesty
To haue some conference with your Grace alone

Bul. Withdraw your selues, and leaue vs here alone: What is the matter with our Cosin now? Aum. For euer may my knees grow to the earth, My tongue cleaue to my roofe within my mouth, Vnlesse a Pardon, ere I rise, or speake

Bul. Intended, or committed was this fault? If on the first, how heynous ere it bee, To win thy after loue, I pardon thee

Aum. Then giue me leaue, that I may turne the key,
That no man enter, till my tale be done

Bul. Haue thy desire.

Yorke within.

Yor. My Liege beware, looke to thy selfe,
Thou hast a Traitor in thy presence there

Bul. Villaine, Ile make thee safe

Aum. Stay thy reuengefull hand, thou hast no cause
to feare

Yorke. Open the doore, secure foole-hardy King: Shall I for loue speake treason to thy face? Open the doore, or I will breake it open. Enter Yorke.

Bul. What is the matter (Vnkle) speak, recouer breath, Tell vs how neere is danger, That we may arme vs to encounter it

Yor. Peruse this writing heere, and thou shalt know
The reason that my haste forbids me show

Aum. Remember as thou read'st, thy promise past: I do repent me, reade not my name there, My heart is not confederate with my hand

Yor. It was (villaine) ere thy hand did set it downe. I tore it from the Traitors bosome, King. Feare, and not Loue, begets his penitence; Forget to pitty him, least thy pitty proue A Serpent, that will sting thee to the heart

Bul. Oh heinous, strong, and bold Conspiracie, O loyall Father of a treacherous Sonne: Thou sheere, immaculate, and siluer fountaine, From whence this streame, through muddy passages Hath had his current, and defil'd himselfe. Thy ouerflow of good, conuerts to bad, And thy abundant goodnesse shall excuse This deadly blot, in thy digressing sonne

Yorke. So shall my Vertue be his Vices bawd, And he shall spend mine Honour, with his Shame; As thriftlesse Sonnes, their scraping Fathers Gold. Mine honor liues, when his dishonor dies, Or my sham'd life, in his dishonor lies: Thou kill'st me in his life, giuing him breath, The Traitor liues, the true man's put to death.

Dutchesse within.

Dut. What hoa (my Liege) for heauens sake let me in

Bul. What shrill-voic'd Suppliant, makes this eager cry?
Dut. A woman, and thine Aunt (great King) 'tis I.
Speake with me, pitty me, open the dore,
A Begger begs, that neuer begg'd before

Bul. Our Scene is alter'd from a serious thing, And now chang'd to the Begger, and the King. My dangerous Cosin, let your Mother in, I know she's come, to pray for your foule sin

Yorke. If thou do pardon, whosoeuer pray, More sinnes for this forgiuenesse, prosper may. This fester'd ioynt cut off, the rest rests sound, This let alone, will all the rest confound. Enter Dutchesse.

Dut. O King, beleeue not this hard-hearted man,
Loue, louing not it selfe, none other can

Yor. Thou franticke woman, what dost y make here,
Shall thy old dugges, once more a Traitor reare?
Dut. Sweet Yorke be patient, heare me gentle Liege

Bul. Rise vp good Aunt

Dut. Not yet, I thee beseech. For euer will I kneele vpon my knees, And neuer see day, that the happy sees, Till thou giue ioy: vntill thou bid me ioy, By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing Boy

Aum. Vnto my mothers prayres, I bend my knee

Yorke. Against them both, my true ioynts bended be

Dut. Pleades he in earnest? Looke vpon his Face, His eyes do drop no teares: his prayres are in iest: His words come from his mouth, ours from our brest. He prayes but faintly, and would be denide, We pray with heart, and soule, and all beside: His weary ioynts would gladly rise, I know, Our knees shall kneele, till to the ground they grow: His prayers are full of false hypocrisie, Ours of true zeale, and deepe integritie: Our prayers do out-pray his, then let them haue That mercy, which true prayers ought to haue

Bul. Good Aunt stand vp

Dut. Nay, do not say stand vp. But Pardon first, and afterwards stand vp. And if I were thy Nurse, thy tongue to teach, Pardon should be the first word of thy speach. I neuer long'd to heare a word till now: Say Pardon (King,) let pitty teach thee how. The word is short: but not so short as sweet, No word like Pardon, for Kings mouth's so meet

Yorke. Speake it in French (King) say Pardon'ne moy

Dut. Dost thou teach pardon, Pardon to destroy? Ah my sowre husband, my hard-hearted Lord, That set's the word it selfe, against the word. Speake Pardon, as 'tis currant in our Land, The chopping French we do not vnderstand. Thine eye begins to speake, set thy tongue there, Or in thy pitteous heart, plant thou thine eare, That hearing how our plaints and prayres do pearce, Pitty may moue thee, Pardon to rehearse

Bul. Good Aunt, stand vp

Dut. I do not sue to stand,
Pardon is all the suite I haue in hand

Bul. I pardon him, as heauen shall pardon mee

Dut. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee? Yet am I sicke for feare: Speake it againe, Twice saying Pardon, doth not pardon twaine, But makes one pardon strong

Bul. I pardon him with all my hart

Dut. A God on earth thou art

Bul. But for our trusty brother-in-Law, the Abbot, With all the rest of that consorted crew, Destruction straight shall dogge them at the heeles: Good Vnckle helpe to order seuerall powres To Oxford, or where ere these Traitors are: They shall not liue within this world I sweare, But I will haue them, if I once know where. Vnckle farewell, and Cosin adieu: Your mother well hath praid, and proue you true

Dut. Come my old son, I pray heauen make thee new.

Exeunt.

Enter Exton and Seruants.

Ext. Didst thou not marke the King what words hee spake? Haue I no friend will rid me of this liuing feare: Was it not so? Ser. Those were his very words.

Ex.

Haue I no Friend? (quoth he:) he spake it twice, And vrg'd it twice together, did he not? Ser. He did.

Ex.

And speaking it, he wistly look'd on me, As who should say, I would thou wer't the man That would diuorce this terror from my heart, Meaning the King at Pomfret: Come, let's goe; I am the Kings Friend, and will rid his Foe. Enter.

Scaena Quarta.

Enter Richard.

Rich. I haue bin studying, how to compare This Prison where I liue, vnto the World: And for because the world is populous, And heere is not a Creature, but my selfe, I cannot do it: yet Ile hammer't out. My Braine, Ile proue the Female to my Soule, My Soule, the Father: and these two beget A generation of still breeding Thoughts; And these same Thoughts, people this Little World In humors, like the people of this world, For no thought is contented. The better sort, As thoughts of things Diuine, are intermixt With scruples, and do set the Faith it selfe Against the Faith: as thus: Come litle ones: & then again, It is as hard to come, as for a Camell To thred the posterne of a Needles eye. Thoughts tending to Ambition, they do plot Vnlikely wonders; how these vaine weake nailes May teare a passage through the Flinty ribbes Of this hard world, my ragged prison walles: And for they cannot, dye in their owne pride. Thoughts tending to Content, flatter themselues, That they are not the first of Fortunes slaues, Nor shall not be the last. Like silly Beggars, Who sitting in the Stockes, refuge their shame That many haue, and others must sit there; And in this Thought, they finde a kind of ease, Bearing their owne misfortune on the backe Of such as haue before indur'd the like. Thus play I in one Prison, many people, And none contented. Sometimes am I King; Then Treason makes me wish my selfe a Beggar, And so I am. Then crushing penurie, Perswades me, I was better when a King: Then am I king'd againe: and by and by, Thinke that I am vn-king'd by Bullingbrooke, And straight am nothing. But what ere I am,

Musick

Nor I, nor any man, that but man is, With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd With being nothing. Musicke do I heare? Ha, ha? keepe time: How sowre sweet Musicke is, When Time is broke, and no Proportion kept? So is it in the Musicke of mens liues: And heere haue I the daintinesse of eare, To heare time broke in a disorder'd string: But for the Concord of my State and Time, Had not an eare to heare my true Time broke. I wasted Time, and now doth Time waste me: For now hath Time made me his numbring clocke; My Thoughts, are minutes; and with Sighes they iarre, Their watches on vnto mine eyes, the outward Watch, Whereto my finger, like a Dialls point, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from teares. Now sir, the sound that tels what houre it is, Are clamorous groanes, that strike vpon my heart, Which is the bell: so Sighes, and Teares, and Grones, Shew Minutes, Houres, and Times: but my Time Runs poasting on, in Bullingbrookes proud ioy, While I stand fooling heere, his iacke o'th' Clocke. This Musicke mads me, let it sound no more, For though it haue holpe madmen to their wits, In me it seemes, it will make wise-men mad: Yet blessing on his heart that giues it me; For 'tis a signe of loue, and loue to Richard, Is a strange Brooch, in this all-hating world. Enter Groome.

Groo. Haile Royall Prince

Rich. Thankes Noble Peere, The cheapest of vs, is ten groates too deere. What art thou? And how com'st thou hither? Where no man euer comes, but that sad dogge That brings me food, to make misfortune liue? Groo. I was a poore Groome of thy Stable (King) When thou wer't King: who trauelling towards Yorke, With much adoo, at length haue gotten leaue To looke vpon my (sometimes Royall) masters face. O how it yern'd my heart, when I beheld In London streets, that Coronation day, When Bullingbrooke rode on Roane Barbary, That horse, that thou so often hast bestrid, That horse, that I so carefully haue drest

Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me gentle Friend,
How went he vnder him?
Groo. So proudly, as if he had disdain'd the ground

Rich. So proud, that Bullingbrooke was on his backe; That Iade hath eate bread from my Royall hand. This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. Would he not stumble? Would he not fall downe (Since Pride must haue a fall) and breake the necke Of that proud man, that did vsurpe his backe? Forgiuenesse horse: Why do I raile on thee, Since thou created to be aw'd by man Was't borne to beare? I was not made a horse, And yet I beare a burthen like an Asse, Spur-gall'd, and tyrd by iauncing Bullingbrooke. Enter Keeper with a Dish.

Keep. Fellow, giue place, heere is no longer stay

Rich. If thou loue me, 'tis time thou wer't away

Groo. What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say. Enter.

Keep. My Lord, wilt please you to fall too?
Rich. Taste of it first, as thou wer't wont to doo

Keep. My Lord I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton,
Who lately came from th' King, commands the contrary

Rich. The diuell take Henrie of Lancaster, and thee;
Patience is stale, and I am weary of it

Keep. Helpe, helpe, helpe.
Enter Exton and Seruants.

Ri. How now? what meanes Death in this rude assalt? Villaine, thine owne hand yeelds thy deaths instrument, Go thou and fill another roome in hell.

Exton strikes him downe.

That hand shall burne in neuer-quenching fire, That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand, Hath with the Kings blood, stain'd the Kings own land. Mount, mount my soule, thy seate is vp on high, Whil'st my grosse flesh sinkes downward, heere to dye

Exton. As full of Valor, as of Royall blood, Both haue I spilt: Oh would the deed were good. For now the diuell, that told me I did well, Sayes, that this deede is chronicled in hell. This dead King to the liuing King Ile beare, Take hence the rest, and giue them buriall heere. Enter.

Scoena Quinta.

Flourish. Enter Bullingbrooke, Yorke, with other Lords & attendants.

Bul. Kinde Vnkle Yorke, the latest newes we heare, Is that the Rebels haue consum'd with fire Our Towne of Cicester in Gloucestershire, But whether they be tane or slaine, we heare not. Enter Northumberland.

Welcome my Lord: What is the newes? Nor. First to thy Sacred State, wish I all happinesse: The next newes is, I haue to London sent The heads of Salsbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent: The manner of their taking may appeare At large discoursed in this paper heere

Bul. We thank thee gentle Percy for thy paines, And to thy worth will adde right worthy gaines. Enter Fitzwaters.

Fitz. My Lord, I haue from Oxford sent to London, The heads of Broccas, and Sir Bennet Seely, Two of the dangerous consorted Traitors, That sought at Oxford, thy dire ouerthrow

Bul. Thy paines Fitzwaters shall not be forgot, Right Noble is thy merit, well I wot. Enter Percy and Carlile.

Per. The grand Conspirator, Abbot of Westminster, With clog of Conscience, and sowre Melancholly, Hath yeelded vp his body to the graue: But heere is Carlile, liuing to abide Thy Kingly doome, and sentence of his pride

Bul. Carlile, this is your doome: Choose out some secret place, some reuerend roome More then thou hast, and with it ioy thy life: So as thou liu'st in peace, dye free from strife: For though mine enemy, thou hast euer beene, High sparkes of Honor in thee haue I seene. Enter Exton with a Coffin.

Exton. Great King, within this Coffin I present Thy buried feare. Heerein all breathlesse lies The mightiest of thy greatest enemies Richard of Burdeaux, by me hither brought

Bul. Exton, I thanke thee not, for thou hast wrought A deede of Slaughter, with thy fatall hand, Vpon my head, and all this famous Land.

Ex.

From your owne mouth my Lord, did I this deed

Bul. They loue not poyson, that do poyson neede, Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead, I hate the Murtherer, loue him murthered. The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour, But neither my good word, nor Princely fauour. With Caine go wander through the shade of night, And neuer shew thy head by day, nor light. Lords, I protest my soule is full of woe, That blood should sprinkle me, to make me grow. Come mourne with me, for that I do lament, And put on sullen Blacke incontinent: Ile make a voyage to the Holy-land, To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March sadly after, grace my mourning heere, In weeping after this vntimely Beere.

Exeunt.

FINIS.