Imatges de pÓgina
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To a dear friend of the good duke of York's,
That tell black tidings.
Queen.

0, I am press’d to death, Through want of speaking !- Thou, old. Adam's likeness,

[Coming from her concealment. 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 downfal? Say, where, when, and how, Cam'st thou by these ill tidings ? speak, thou wretch.

Gard. 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'll 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 think'st 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.

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VOL. VI.

What, was I born to this! that my sad look
Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke ?
Gardner, for telling me this news of woe,
I would, the plants thou graft'st, may never grow $9.

[E.reunt Queen and Ladies. Gard. Poor queen! so that thy state might be no

worse, I would my skill were subject to thy curse. Here did she drop a tear; here, in this place, I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace : Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen, In the remembrance of a weeping queen. [Ereunt. ACT IV. SCENE I.

London. Westminster Hall.

The Lords spiritual on the right side of the throne ; the

Lords temporal on the left; the Commons below. Enter BOLINGBROKE, AUMERLE, SURREY, NORTHUMBERLAND, Percy, FitzWATER, another Lord, Bishop of Carlisle, Abbot of Westminster, and Attendants. Officers behind, with Bagot.

Boling. Call forth Bagot :Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind; What thou dost know of noble Gloster's death; Who wrought it with the king, and who perform'd T'he bloody office of his timeless end 40.

Bagot. Then set before my face the lord Aumerle. Boling. Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that

man.

Bagot. My lord Aumerle, I know, your daring

tongue Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver'd. In that dead time when Gloster's death was ploited, I heard you say, Is not my arm of length, That reacheil from the restful English court As far as Calais, to my uncle's head? Amongst much other talk, that very time, I heard you say, that you had rather resuse The offer of an hundred thousand crowns,

Than Bolingbroke's return to England;
Adding withal, how blest this land would be,
In this your cousin's death.
Aum.

Princes, and noble lords,
What answer shall I make to this base man?
Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars 41,
On equal terms to give him chastisement ?
Either I must, or have mine honour soil'd
With the attainder of his sland'rous lips.-
There is my gage, the manual seal of death,
That marks thee out for hell : I say, thou liest,
And will maintain, what thou hast said, is false,
In thy heart-blood, though being all too base
To stain the temper of my knightly sword.

Boling. Bagot, forbear, thou shalt not take it up.

Aum. Excepting one, I would he were the best In all this presence, that hath mov'd me so.

Fitz. If that thy valour stand on sympathies *, There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine : By that fair sun that shows me where thou stand'st, I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak'st it, That thou wert cause of noble Gloster's death. If thou deny'st it, twenty times thou liest ; And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart, Where it was forged, with my rapier's point.

Aum. Thou dar’st not, coward, live to see that day. Fitz. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour. Aum. Fitzwater, thou art damn'd to hell for this.

Percy. Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true, In this appeal, as thou art all unjust:

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