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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

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