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With being nothing.

       Music do I hear? [Music.]

       Ha, ha! keep time. How sour sweet music is

       When time is broke and no proportion kept!

       So is it in the music of men’s lives.

       And here have I the daintiness of ear

       To check time broke in a disorder’d string;

       But, for the concord of my state and time,

       Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.

       I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;

       For now hath time made me his numbering clock:

       My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar

       Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch,

       Whereto my finger, like a dial’s point,

       Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.

       Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is

       Are clamorous groans, which strike upon my heart,

       Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans

       Show minutes, times, and hours; but my time

       Runs posting on in Bolingbroke’s proud joy,

       While I stand fooling here, his Jack o’ the clock.

       This music mads me; let it sound no more;

       For though it have holp madmen to their wits,

       In me it seems it will make wise men mad.

       Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!

       For ‘tis a sign of love; and love to Richard

       Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

       [Enter a Groom of the stable.]

       GROOM.

       Hail, royal Prince!

       KING RICHARD.

       Thanks, noble peer;

       The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.

       What art thou? and how comest thou hither, man,

       Where no man never comes but that sad dog

       That brings me food to make misfortune live?

       GROOM.

       I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,

       When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,

       With much ado at length have gotten leave

       To look upon my sometimes royal master’s face.

       O! how it yearn’d my heart when I beheld,

       In London streets, that coronation day,

       When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary,

       That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,

       That horse that I so carefully have dress’d.

       KING RICHARD.

       Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,

       How went he under him?

       GROOM.

       So proudly as if he disdain’d the ground.

       KING RICHARD.

       So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!

       That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;

       This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.

       Would he not stumble? would he not fall down,—

       Since pride must have a fall,—and break the neck

       Of that proud man that did usurp his back?

       Forgiveness, horse! Why do I rail on thee,

       Since thou, created to be aw’d by man,

       Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;

       And yet I bear a burden like an ass,

       Spur-gall’d and tir’d by jauncing Bolingbroke.

       [Enter Keeper, with a dish.]

       KEEPER. [To the Groom.]

       Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.

       KING RICHARD.

       If thou love me, ‘tis time thou wert away.

       GROOM.

       My tongue dares not, that my heart shall say.

       [Exit.]

       KEEPER.

       My lord, will’t please you to fall to?

       KING RICHARD.

       Taste of it first as thou art wont to do.

       KEEPER.

       My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton,

       Who lately came from the king, commands the contrary.

       KING RICHARD.

       The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee!

       Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.

       [Strikes the Keeper.]

       KEEPER.

       Help, help, help!

       [Enter EXTON and Servants, armed.]

       KING RICHARD.

       How now! What means death in this rude assault?

       Villain, thy own hand yields thy death’s instrument.

       [Snatching a weapon and killing one.]

       Go thou and fill another room in hell.

       [He kills another, then EXTON strikes him down.]

       That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire

       That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand

       Hath with the king’s blood stain’d the king’s own land.

       Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high;

       Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.

       [Dies.]

       EXTON.

       As full of valour as of royal blood:

       Both have I spilt; O! would the deed were good;

       For now the devil, that told me I did well,

       Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.

       This dead king to the living king I’ll bear.

       Take hence the rest, and give them burial here.

       [Exeunt.]

       SCENE VI. Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle.

       [Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE and YORK, with Lords and Attendants.]

       BOLINGBROKE.

       Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear

       Is that the rebels have consum’d with fire

       Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;

       But whether they be ta’en or slain we hear not.

       [Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.]

       Welcome, my lord. What is the news?

       NORTHUMBERLAND.

       First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness.

       The next news is: I have to London sent

       The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent.

       The manner of their taking may appear

       At large discoursed in this paper here.

       BOLINGBROKE.

       We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;

       And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.

      

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