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 Hallowmas,1 or short'st of day.

Queen. And must we be divided? must we part? K. Ri. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.

Queen. Banish us both, and send the king with me. North. That were some love, but little policy. Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go. K. Ri. So two, together weeping, make one woe. Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here; Better far off, than, near, be ne'er the near.

Go, count thy way with sighs; I, mine with groans. Queen. So longest way shall have the longest

moans.

K. Ri. Twice for one step I'll groan, the way being short,

And piece the way out with a heavy heart.
Come, come, in wooing sorrow let's be brief,
Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief.
One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part:
Thus give I mine, and thus I take thy heart.

[they kiss. Queen. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good

part,

To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart.

[kiss again.

1 i. e. All Saints Day, November 1st.

2 i. e. make no advance towards the good desired.

So, now I have mine own again, be gone,
That I may strive to kill it with a groan.

K. Ri. We make woe wanton with this fond delay.

Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say. [Exeunt

SCENE II.

The same. A room in the duke of York's palace. Enter YORK and his DUCHESS.

Duch. My lord, you told me, you would tell the

rest,

When weeping made you break the story off

Of our two cousins coming into London.

York. Where did I leave?

Duch.

At that sad stop, my lord.

Where rude misgovern'd hands, from windows'

tops,

Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head. York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,

Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,—
With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course,

While all tongues cried—'God save thee, Boling

broke!'

You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old

Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls,

With painted imagery,1 had said at once,-
'Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!'
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus ;— - I thank you, countrymen :'
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rides he the while?

York. As, in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-graced 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;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,—
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience ;-

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.

To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,

Whose state and honor I for aye allow.

Painted tapestry affixed to the walls.