La. Madame, wee'le tell Tales
Qu. Of Sorrow, or of Griefe? La. Of eyther, Madame
Qu. Of neyther, Girle. For if of Ioy, being altogether wanting, It doth remember me the more of Sorrow: Or if of Griefe, being altogether had, It addes more Sorrow to my want of Ioy: For what I haue, I need not to repeat; And what I want, it bootes not to complaine
La. Madame, Ile sing
Qu. 'Tis well that thou hast cause: But thou should'st please me better, would'st thou weepe
La. I could weepe, Madame, would it doe you good
Qu. And I could sing, would weeping doe me good, And neuer borrow any Teare of thee. Enter a Gardiner, and two Seruants.
But stay, here comes the Gardiners, Let's step into the shadow of these Trees. My wretchednesse, vnto a Rowe of Pinnes, They'le talke of State: for euery one doth so, Against a Change; Woe is fore-runne with Woe
Gard. Goe binde thou vp yond dangling Apricocks, Which like vnruly Children, make their Syre Stoupe with oppression of their prodigall weight: Giue some supportance to the bending twigges. Goe thou, and like an Executioner Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprayes, That looke too loftie in our Common-wealth: All must be euen, in our Gouernment. You thus imploy'd, I will goe root away The noysome Weedes, that without profit sucke The Soyles fertilitie from wholesome flowers
Ser. Why should we, in the compasse of a Pale, Keepe Law and Forme, and due Proportion, Shewing as in a Modell our firme Estate? When our Sea-walled Garden, the whole Land, Is full of Weedes, her fairest Flowers choakt vp, Her Fruit-trees all vnpruin'd, her Hedges ruin'd, Her Knots disorder'd, and her wholesome Hearbes Swarming with Caterpillers
Gard. Hold thy peace. He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd Spring, Hath now himselfe met with the Fall of Leafe. The Weeds that his broad-spreading Leaues did shelter, That seem'd, in eating him, to hold him vp, Are pull'd vp, Root and all, by Bullingbrooke: I meane, the Earle of Wiltshire, Bushie, Greene
Ser. What are they dead? Gard. They are, And Bullingbrooke hath seiz'd the wastefull King. Oh, what pitty is it, that he had not so trim'd And drest his Land, as we this Garden, at time of yeare, And wound the Barke, the skin of our Fruit-trees, Least being ouer-proud with Sap and Blood, With too much riches it confound it selfe? Had he done so, to great and growing men, They might haue liu'd to beare, and he to taste Their fruites of dutie. Superfluous branches We lop away, that bearing boughes may liue: Had he done so, himselfe had borne the Crowne, Which waste and idle houres, hath quite thrown downe
Ser. What thinke you the King shall be depos'd? Gar. Deprest he is already, and depos'd 'Tis doubted he will be. Letters came last night To a deere Friend of the Duke of Yorkes, That tell blacke tydings
Qu. Oh I am prest to death through want of speaking: Thou old Adams likenesse, set to dresse this Garden: How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this vnpleasing newes What Eue? what Serpent hath suggested thee, To make a second fall of cursed man? Why do'st thou say, King Richard is depos'd, Dar'st thou, thou little better thing then earth, Diuine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how Cam'st thou by this ill-tydings? Speake thou wretch
Gard. Pardon me Madam. Little ioy haue I To breath these newes; yet what I say, is true; King Richard, he is in the mighty hold Of Bullingbrooke, their Fortunes both are weigh'd: In your Lords Scale, is nothing but himselfe, And some few Vanities, that make him light: But in the Ballance of great Bullingbrooke, Besides himselfe, are all the English Peeres, And with that oddes he weighes King Richard downe. Poste you to London, and you'l finde it so, I speake no more, then euery one doth know
Qu. Nimble mischance, that art so light of foote, Doth not thy Embassage belong to me? And am I last that knowes it? Oh thou think'st To serue me last, that I may longest keepe Thy sorrow in my breast. Come Ladies goe, To meet at London, Londons King in woe. What was I borne to this: that my sad looke, Should grace the Triumph of great Bullingbrooke. Gard'ner, for telling me this newes of woe, I would the Plants thou graft'st, may neuer grow. Enter.
G. Poore Queen, so that thy State might be no worse, I would my skill were subiect to thy curse: Heere did she drop a teare, heere in this place Ile set a Banke of Rew, sowre Herbe of Grace: Rue, eu'n for ruth, heere shortly shall be seene, In the remembrance of a Weeping Queene. Enter.