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Madam, we’ll play at bowls.

       QUEEN.

       ‘Twill make me think the world is full of rubs

       And that my fortune runs against the bias.

       LADY.

       Madam, we’ll dance.

       QUEEN.

       My legs can keep no measure in delight,

       When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief:

       Therefore no dancing, girl; some other sport.

       LADY.

       Madam, we’ll tell tales.

       QUEEN.

       Of sorrow or of joy?

       LADY.

       Of either, madam.

       QUEEN.

       Of neither, girl:

       For if of joy, being altogether wanting,

       It doth remember me the more of sorrow;

       Or if of grief, being altogether had,

       It adds more sorrow to my want of joy;

       For what I have I need not to repeat,

       And what I want it boots not to complain.

       LADY.

       Madam, I’ll sing.

       QUEEN.

       ‘Tis well’ that thou hast cause;

       But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep.

       LADY.

       I could weep, madam, would it do you good.

       QUEEN.

       And I could sing, would weeping do me good,

       And never borrow any tear of thee.

       But stay, here come the gardeners.

       Let’s step into the shadow of these trees.

       My wretchedness unto a row of pins,

       They will talk of state, for every one doth so

       Against a change: woe is forerun with woe.

       [QUEEN and Ladies retire.]

       [Enter a Gardener and two Servants.]

       GARDENER.

       Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks,

       Which, like unruly children, make their sire

       Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight:

       Give some supportance to the bending twigs.

       Go thou, and like an executioner

       Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays

       That look too lofty in our commonwealth:

       All must be even in our government.

       You thus employ’d, I will go root away

       The noisome weeds which without profit suck

       The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers.

       SERVANT.

       Why should we in the compass of a pale

       Keep law and form and due proportion,

       Showing, as in a model, our firm estate,

       When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,

       Is full of weeds; her fairest flowers chok’d up,

       Her fruit trees all unprun’d, her hedges ruin’d,

       Her knots disordered, and her wholesome herbs

       Swarming with caterpillars?

       GARDENER.

       Hold thy peace.

       He that hath suffer’d this disorder’d spring

       Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf;

       The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter,

       That seem’d in eating him to hold him up,

       Are pluck’d up root and all by Bolingbroke;

       I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

       SERVANT.

       What! are they dead?

       GARDENER.

       They are; and Bolingbroke

       Hath seiz’d the wasteful King. O! what pity is it

       That he had not so trimm’d and dress’d his land

       As we this garden! We at time of year

       Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit trees,

       Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood,

       With too much riches it confound itself:

       Had he done so to great and growing men,

       They might have liv’d to bear, and he to taste

       Their fruits of duty: superfluous branches

       We lop away, that bearing boughs may live:

       Had he done so, himself had home the crown,

       Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.

       SERVANT.

       What! think you the king shall be depos’d?

       GARDENER.

       Depress’d he is already, and depos’d

       ‘Tis doubt he will be: letters came last night

       To a dear friend of the good Duke of York’s

       That tell black tidings.

       QUEEN.

       O! I am press’d to death through want of speaking!

       [Coming forward.]

       Thou, old Adam’s likeness, set to dress this garden,

       How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news?

       What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested thee

       To make a second fall of cursed man?

       Why dost thou say King Richard is depos’d?

       Dar’st thou, thou little better thing than earth,

       Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how,

       Cam’st thou by this ill tidings? Speak, thou wretch.

       GARDENER.

       Pardon me, madam: little joy have I

       To breathe this news; yet what I say is true.

       King Richard, he is in the mighty hold

       Of Bolingbroke: their fortunes both are weigh’d.

       In your lord’s scale is nothing but himself,

       And some few vanities that make him light;

       But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,

       Besides himself, are all the English peers,

       And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.

       Post you to London, and you will find it so;

       I speak no more than every one doth know.

       QUEEN.

       Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot,

       Doth not thy embassage belong to me,

       And am I last that knows it? O! thou thinkest

       To serve me last, that I may longest keep

       Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go,

       To meet at London London’s king in woe.

       What was I born to this, that my sad look

       Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?

       Gardener, for telling me these news of woe,

      

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