William Shakespeare's The Tragedy of King Richard the Second in the complete original text.
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The Tragedy of King Richard the Second

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Act V. Scene II.

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 Boling-
broke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seemed 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 had said at once
'Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!'
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-head than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus, I thank you, countrymen:'
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,
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 bow our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow.
Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle.
York, Aumerle that was;
But that is lost for being Richard's friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.
I am in parliament pledge for his truth
And lasting fealty to the new made king.

Enter AUMERLE.
Duch. Welcome, my son: who are the violets now
That strew the green lap of the new come spring?
Aum. 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 cropped before you come to prime.
What news from Oxford? hold those justs and
triumphs?
Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do.
York. You will be there, I know.
Aum. If God prevent it not, I purpose so.
York. What seal is that that hangs without
thy bosom?
Yea, look'st thou pale? let me see the writing.
Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.
York. 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 have seen.
York. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to
see.
I fear, I fear,—
Duch. What should you fear?
'Tis nothing but some bond he's entered into
For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day.
York. Bound to himself! what doth he with
a bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.
Boy, let me see the writing.
Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me; I may
not show it.
York. I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say.
[Snatches it, and reads.
Treason! foul treason! villain! traitor! slave!
Duch. What is the matter, my lord?
York. Ho! who is within there?

Enter a Servant.
Saddle my horse.
God for his mercy! what treachery is here!
Duch. Why, what is it, my lord?
York. Give me my boots, I say; saddle my
horse.
Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth,
I will appeach the villain. [Exit Servant.
Duch. What's the matter?
York. Peace, foolish woman.
Duch. I will not peace. What is the matter,
Aumerle?
Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.
Duch. Thy life answer!
York. Bring me my boots: I will unto the
king.

Re-enter Servant with boots.
Duch. Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou
art amaz'd.
[To Servant.] Hence, villain! never more come
in my sight. [Exit Servant.
York. Give me my boots, I say.
Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons, or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?
York. Thou fond, mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.
Duch. He shall be none;
We'll keep him here: then, what is that to him?
York. Away, fond woman! were he twenty
times
My son, I would appeach him.
Duch. Hadst thou groan'd for him
As I have done! thou'dst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son:
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me, nor any of my kin,
And yet I love him.
York. Make way, unruly woman! [Exit.
Duch. After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his
horse;
Spur post, and get before him to the king,
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
I'll not be long behind; though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:
And never will I rise up from the ground
Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away! be
gone. [Exeunt.
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