Rich. Mine Eyes are full of Teares, I cannot see: And yet salt-Water blindes them not so much, But they can see a sort of Traytors here. Nay, if I turne mine Eyes vpon my selfe, I finde my selfe a Traytor with the rest: For I haue giuen here my Soules consent, T' vndeck the pompous Body of a King; Made Glory base; a Soueraigntie, a Slaue; Prowd Maiestie, a Subiect; State, a Pesant

North. My Lord

Rich. No Lord of thine, thou haught-insulting man; No, nor no mans Lord: I haue no Name, no Title; No, not that Name was giuen me at the Font, But 'tis vsurpt: alack the heauie day, That I haue worne so many Winters out, And know not now, what Name to call my selfe. Oh, that I were a Mockerie, King of Snow, Standing before the Sunne of Bullingbrooke, To melt my selfe away in Water-drops. Good King, great King, and yet not greatly good, And if my word be Sterling yet in England, Let it command a Mirror hither straight, That it may shew me what a Face I haue, Since it is Bankrupt of his Maiestie

Bull. Goe some of you, and fetch a Looking-Glasse

North. Read o're this Paper, while y Glasse doth come

Rich. Fiend, thou torments me, ere I come to Hell

Bull. Vrge it no more, my Lord Northumberland

North. The Commons will not then be satisfy'd

Rich. They shall be satisfy'd: Ile reade enough, When I doe see the very Booke indeede, Where all my sinnes are writ, and that's my selfe. Enter one with a Glasse.

Giue me that Glasse, and therein will I reade. No deeper wrinckles yet? hath Sorrow strucke So many Blowes vpon this Face of mine, And made no deeper Wounds? Oh flatt'ring Glasse, Like to my followers in prosperitie, Thou do'st beguile me. Was this Face, the Face That euery day, vnder his House-hold Roofe, Did keepe ten thousand men? Was this the Face, That like the Sunne, did make beholders winke? Is this the Face, which fac'd so many follyes, That was at last out-fac'd by Bullingbrooke? A brittle Glory shineth in this Face, As brittle as the Glory, is the Face, For there it is, crackt in an hundred shiuers. Marke silent King, the Morall of this sport, How soone my Sorrow hath destroy'd my Face

Bull. The shadow of your Sorrow hath destroy'd The shadow of your Face

Rich. Say that againe. The shadow of my Sorrow: ha, let's see, 'Tis very true, my Griefe lyes all within, And these externall manner of Laments, Are meerely shadowes, to the vnseene Griefe, That swells with silence in the tortur'd Soule. There lyes the substance: and I thanke thee King For thy great bountie, that not onely giu'st Me cause to wayle, but teachest me the way How to lament the cause. Ile begge one Boone, And then be gone, and trouble you no more. Shall I obtaine it? Bull. Name it, faire Cousin

Rich. Faire Cousin? I am greater then a King: For when I was a King, my flatterers Were then but subiects; being now a subiect, I haue a King here to my flatterer: Being so great, I haue no neede to begge

Bull. Yet aske

Rich. And shall I haue? Bull. You shall

Rich. Then giue me leaue to goe

Bull. Whither? Rich. Whither you will, so I were from your sights

Bull. Goe some of you, conuey him to the Tower

Rich. Oh good: conuey: Conueyers are you all, That rise thus nimbly by a true Kings fall

Bull. On Wednesday next, we solemnly set downe Our Coronation: Lords, prepare your selues.


Abbot. A wofull Pageant haue we here beheld

Carl. The Woes to come, the Children yet vnborne, Shall feele this day as sharpe to them as Thorne

Aum. You holy Clergie-men, is there no Plot To rid the Realme of this pernicious Blot

Abbot. Before I freely speake my minde herein, You shall not onely take the Sacrament, To bury mine intents, but also to effect What euer I shall happen to deuise. I see your Browes are full of Discontent, Your Heart of Sorrow, and your Eyes of Teares. Come home with me to Supper, Ile lay a Plot Shall shew vs all a merry day.


William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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