Richard II

scowl on gentle Richard; no man cried “God save him!”
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel’d
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow. Duchess Here comes my son Aumerle. York

Aumerle that was;
But that is lost for being Richard’s friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now:
I am in parliament pledge for his truth
And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

Enter Aumerle. Duchess

Welcome, my son: who are the violets now
That strew the green lap of the new come spring?

Aumerle

Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not:
God knows I had as lief be none as one.

York

Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
Lest you be cropp’d before you come to prime.
What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs?

Aumerle For aught I know, my lord, they do. York You will be there, I know. Aumerle If God prevent not, I purpose so. York

What seal is that, that hangs without thy bosom?
Yea, look’st thou pale? let me see the writing.

Aumerle My lord, ’tis nothing. York

No matter, then, who see it:
I will be satisfied; let me see the writing.

Aumerle

I do beseech your grace to pardon me:
It is a matter of small consequence,
Which for some reasons I would not have seen.

York

Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear⁠—

Duchess

What should you fear?
’Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter’d into
For gay apparel ’gainst the triumph day.

York

Bound to himself! what doth he with a bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.
Boy, let me see the writing.

Aumerle I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not show it. York

I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say. He plucks it out of his bosom and reads it.
Treason! foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave!

Duchess What is the matter, my lord? York Ho! who is within there? Enter a Servant.

Saddle my horse.
God for his mercy, what treachery is here!

Duchess Why, what is it, my lord? York

Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse. Exit Servant.
Now, by mine honour, by my life, by my troth,
I will appeach the villain.

Duchess What is the matter? York Peace, foolish woman. Duchess I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle? Aumerle

Good mother, be content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.

Duchess Thy life answer! York Bring me my boots: I will unto the king. Re-enter Servant with boots. Duchess

Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amazed.
Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.

York Give me my boots, I say. Duchess

Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother’s name?
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?

York

Thou fond mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.

Duchess

He shall be none;
We’ll keep him here: then what is that to him?

York

Away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son,
I would appeach him.

Duchess

Hadst thou groan’d for him
As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son:
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me, or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.

York Make way, unruly woman! Exit. Duchess

After, Aumerle! mount thee upon his horse;
Spur post, and get before him to the king,
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
I’ll not be long behind; though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:
And never will I rise up from the ground
Till Bolingbroke have pardon’d thee. Away, be gone! Exeunt.

Scene III

A royal palace.

	Enter Bolingbroke, Percy, and other Lords.
Bolingbroke	Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son? ’Tis full three months since I did see him last: If any plague hang over us, ’tis he. I would to God, my lords, he might be found: Inquire at London, ’mongst the taverns there, For there, they say, he daily doth frequent, With unrestrained loose companions, Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes, And beat our watch, and rob our passengers; Which he, young wanton and effeminate boy, Takes on the point of honour to support So dissolute a crew.
Percy	My lord, some two days since I saw the prince, And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford.
Bolingbroke	And what said the gallant?
Percy	His answer was, he would unto the stews, And from the common’st creature pluck a glove, And wear it as a favour; and with that He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.
Bolingbroke	As dissolute as desperate; yet through both I see some sparks of better hope, which elder years May happily bring forth. But who comes here?
	Enter Aumerle.
Aumerle	Where is the king?
Bolingbroke	What means our cousin, that he stares and looks So wildly?
Aumerle	God save your grace! I do beseech your majesty, To have some conference with your grace alone.
Bolingbroke	Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone. Exeunt Percy and Lords. What is the matter with our cousin now?
Aumerle	For ever may my knees grow to the earth, My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak.
Bolingbroke	Intended or committed