Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heaven:

[Nay, all of you that stand and look upon, Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,

Though some of you with Pilate wash your hands

Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates 240 Have here deliver'd me to my sour1 cross, And water cannot wash away your sin.]

North. My lord, dispatch; read o'er these articles.

K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears, I can

not see:

And yet salt water blinds them not so much
But they can see a sort of traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,
I find myself a traitor with the rest;
For I have given here my soul's consent
T'undeck the pompous3 body of a king; 250
Made glory base and sovereignty a slave,
Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant.
North. My lord,-

K. Rich. No lord of thine, thou haught, insulting man,

Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no title,-
No, not that name was given me at the font,-
But 't is usurp'd:-alack the heavy day,
That I have worn so many winters out,
And know not now what name to call myself!
O that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt myself away in water-drops-
Good king, great king, and yet not greatly
good,

260

280

Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men? was this the face
That, like the sun, did make beholders wink?
Was this the face that fac'd so many follies,
And was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face:
As brittle as the glory is the face;

[Dashes the glass against the ground. For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.— Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport, 290 How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face. Boling. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd

The shadow of your face.

K. Rich. Say that again. The shadow of my sorrow! ha! let's see: 'Tis very true, my grief lies all within; And these external manners of lament Are merely shadows to the unseen grief, That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul; There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,

For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st 300 Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon, And then be gone and trouble you no more. Shall I obtain it?

Enter QUEEN and Ladies.

Queen. This way the king will come; this is the way

To Julius Cæsar's ill-erected tower,
To whose flint bosom my condemned lord
Is doom'd a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke:
Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth
Have any resting for her true king's queen.—
But soft, but see, or rather do not see,
My fair rose wither: yet look up, behold,
That you in pity may dissolve to dew,
And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.

Enter RICHARD and Guard.

9

Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand, Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb,

And not King Richard; thou most beauteous inn,

1 Conveyers, "to convey" often meant "to steal;" so by conveyers he means thieves.

Ill-erected, i.e. erected under evil auspices.

Why should hard-favour'd3 grief be lodg'd in thee,

14

When triumph is become an alehouse guest? K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair woman,

You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.-
And, madam, there is order ta'en for you;
With all swift speed you must away to France.
K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder
wherewithal

The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,
The time shall not be many hours of age
More than it is, ere foul sin gathering head
Shall break into corruption: thou shalt think,
Though he divide the realm and give thee half,
It is too little, helping him to all;6
And he shall think that thou, which know'st

the way

To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again, Being ne'er so little urg'd, another way

61

To pluck him headlong from the usurped

And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along. Duch. Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst?

York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-grac'd 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; 30 Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,