READ STUDY GUIDE: Act III, scenes i-ii |
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Act III, Scene ii:
The coast of Wales. A castle in view.
The coast of Wales. A castle in view.
| [Flourish: drums and trumpets. Enter KING RICHARD, the BISHOP OFCARLISLE, AUMERLE, and soldiers.] |
| KING RICHARD: |
| Barkloughly Castle call they this at hand? |
| AUMERLE: |
| Yea, my lord. How brooks your Grace the air |
| After your late tossing on the breaking seas? |
| KING RICHARD: |
| 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: |
| As a long-parted mother with her child |
| Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting, |
| So weeping-smiling greet I thee, my earth, |
| And do thee favours with my royal hands. |
| Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth, |
| Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense; |
| But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, |
| And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way, |
| Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet |
| Which with usurping steps do trample thee. |
| Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies; |
| And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, |
| Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder |
| Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch |
| Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies. |
| Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords. |
| This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones |
| Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king |
| Shall falter under foul rebellion's arms. |
| CARLISLE: |
| Fear not, my lord; that Power that made you king |
| Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. |
| The means that heaven yields must be embrac'd |
| And not neglected; else, if heaven would, |
| And we will not, heaven's offer we refuse, |
| The proffer'd means of succour and redress. |
| AUMERLE: |
| He means, my lord, that we are too remiss; |
| Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security, |
| Grows strong and great in substance and in friends. |
| KING RICHARD: |
| 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; |
| But when from under this terrestrial ball |
| He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines |
| And darts his light through every guilty hole, |
| Then murders, treasons, and detested sins, |
| The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs, |
| Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves? |
| So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke, |
| Who all this while hath revell'd in the night, |
| Whilst we were wandering with the Antipodes, |
| Shall see us rising in our throne, the east, |
| His treasons will sit blushing in his face, |
| Not able to endure the sight of day, |
| But self-affrighted tremble at his sin. |
| Not all the water in the rough rude sea |
| Can wash the balm off from an anointed king; |
| The breath of worldly men cannot depose |
| The deputy elected by the Lord. |
| For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd |
| To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown, |
| God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay |
| A glorious angel: then, if angels fight, |
| Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right. |
| [Enter SALISBURY.] |
| Welcome, my lord. How far off lies your power? |
| SALISBURY: |
| Nor near nor farther off, my gracious lord, |
| Than this weak arm: discomfort guides my tongue |
| And bids me speak of nothing but despair. |
| One day too late, I fear me, noble lord, |
| Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth. |
| O! call back yesterday, bid time return, |
| And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men! |
| To-day, to-day, unhappy day, too late, |
| O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state; |
| For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead, |
| Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers'd, and fled. |
| AUMERLE: |
| Comfort, my liege! why looks your Grace so pale? |
| KING RICHARD: |
| But now, the blood of twenty thousand men |
| Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; |
| 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. |
| AUMERLE: |
| Comfort, my liege! remember who you are. |
| KING RICHARD: |
| I had forgot myself. Am I not king? |
| Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleepest. |
| Is not the king's name twenty thousand names? |
| Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes |
| At thy great glory. Look not to the ground, |
| Ye favourites of a king; are we not high? |
| High be our thoughts. I know my uncle York |
| Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here? |
| [Enter SIR STEPHEN SCROOP.] |
| SCROOP: |
| More health and happiness betide my liege |
| Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him! |
| KING RICHARD: |
| Mine ear is open and my heart prepar'd: |
| The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold. |
| Say, is my kingdom lost? Why, 'twas my care, |
| And what loss is it to be rid of care? |
| Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we? |
| Greater he shall not be: if he serve God |
| We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so: |
| Revolt our subjects? That we cannot mend; |
| They break their faith to God as well as us: |
| Cry woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay; |
| The worst is death, and death will have his day. |
| SCROOP: |
| Glad am I that your highness is so arm'd |
| To bear the tidings of calamity. |
| Like an unseasonable stormy day |
| Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores, |
| As if the world were all dissolv'd to tears, |
| So high above his limits swells the rage |
| Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land |
| With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel. |
| White-beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps |
| Against thy majesty; and boys, with women's voices, |
| Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints |
| In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown; |
| Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows |
| Of double-fatal yew against thy state; |
| Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills |
| Against thy seat: both young and old rebel, |
| And all goes worse than I have power to tell. |
| KING RICHARD: |
| 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? |
| If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it. |
| I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke. |
| SCROOP: |
| Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord. |
| KING RICHARD: |
| O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption! |
| Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! |
| Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart! |
| Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas! |
| Would they make peace? Terrible hell make war |
| Upon their spotted souls for this offence! |
| SCROOP: |
| Sweet love, I see, changing his property, |
| Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate. |
| Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made |
| With heads, and not with hands: those whom you curse |
| Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound |
| And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground. |
| AUMERLE: |
| Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead? |
| SCROOP: |
| Ay, all of them at Bristol lost their heads. |
| AUMERLE: |
| Where is the Duke my father with his power? |
| KING RICHARD: |
| 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. |
| Let's choose executors and talk of wills; |
| And yet not so—for what can we bequeath |
| Save our deposed bodies to the ground? |
| Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's. |
| And nothing can we can our own but death, |
| And that small model of the barren earth |
| Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. |
| For God's sake let us sit upon the ground |
| And tell sad stories of the death of kings: |
| How some have been deposed, some slain in war, |
| Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd, |
| Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd; |
| All murder'd: for within the hollow crown |
| That rounds the mortal temples of a king |
| Keeps Death his court; and there the antick sits, |
| Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp; |
| Allowing him a breath, a little scene, |
| To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks, |
| Infusing him with self and vain conceit |
| As if this flesh which walls about our life |
| Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus, |
| Comes at the last, and with a little pin |
| Bores through his castle wall, and farewell, king! |
| Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood |
| With solemn reverence: throw away respect, |
| Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty; |
| For you have but mistook me all this while: |
| I live with bread like you, feel want, |
| Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus, |
| How can you say to me I am a king? |
| CARLISLE: |
| My lord, wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes, |
| But presently prevent the ways to wail. |
| To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, |
| Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe, |
| And so your follies fight against yourself. |
| Fear and be slain; no worse can come to fight; |
| And fight and die is death destroying death; |
| Where fearing dying pays death servile breath. |
| AUMERLE: |
| My father hath a power; inquire of him, |
| And learn to make a body of a limb. |
| KING RICHARD: |
| Thou chid'st me well. Proud Bolingbroke, I come |
| To change blows with thee for our day of doom. |
| This ague fit of fear is over-blown; |
| An easy task it is to win our own.— |
| Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power? |
| Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour. |
| SCROOP: |
| Men judge by the complexion of the sky |
 The state in inclination of the day; |
| So may you by my dull and heavy eye, |
| My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say. |
| I play the torturer, by small and small |
| To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken: |
| Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke; |
| And all your northern castles yielded up, |
| And all your southern gentlemen in arms |
| Upon his party. |
| KING RICHARD: |
| Thou hast said enough. |
| [To AUMERLE.] Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth |
| Of that sweet way I was in to despair! |
| What say you now? What comfort have we now? |
| By heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly |
| That bids me be of comfort any more. |
| Go to Flint Castle; there I'll pine away; |
| A king, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey. |
| That power I have, discharge; and let them go |
| To ear the land that hath some hope to grow, |
| For I have none. Let no man speak again |
| To alter this, for counsel is but vain. |
| AUMERLE: |
| My liege, one word. |
| KING RICHARD: |
| He does me double wrong |
| That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue. |
| Discharge my followers; let them hence away, |
| From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day. |
| [Exeunt.] |
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