Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch Bishop. Fear not, my lord; that Power, that made you king, Hath power to keep you king, in spite of all. Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss; K. Rich. Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not, The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs, 5 He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,] It is not easy to point out an image more striking and beautiful than this, in any poet whether ancient or modern. STEEVENS. Not able to endure the sight of day, For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd, A glorious angel: then, if angels fight, Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards the right. Enter SALISBURY. Welcome, my lord; How far off lies your power? And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men! O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state; Aum. Comfort, my liege: why looks your grace so pale? K. Rich. But now, the blood of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; And, till so much blood thither come again, Have I not reason to look pale and dead? All souls that will be safe, fly from my side; For time hath set a blot upon my pride. Aum. Comfort, my liege; remember who you are. K. Rich. I had forgot myself: Am I not king? Awake, thou sluggard majesty! thou sleep'st. Is not the king's name forty thousand names? Enter SCROOP. Scroop. More health and happiness betide my liege, Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him. K. Rich. Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar'd; The worst is worldly loss, thou canst unfold. Say, is my kingdom lost? why, 'twas my care; And what loss is it, to be rid of care? Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we? Greater he shall not be; if he serve God, We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so: Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend; They break their faith to God, as well as us: Cry, woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay; The worst is death, and death will have his day. Scroop. Glad am I, that your highness is so arm'd To bear the tidings of calamity. Like an unseasonable stormy day, Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores, So high above his limits swells the rage With hard bright steel, and hearts harder than steel. • Mine ear is open, &c.] It seems to be the design of the poet to raise Richard to esteem in his fall, and consequently to interest the reader in his favour. He gives him only passive fortitude, the virtue of a confessor, rather than of a king. In his prosperity we saw him imperious and oppressive; but in his distress he is wise, patient, and pious. JOHNSON. Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints And all goes worse than I have power to tell. K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'st a tale so ill. Where is the earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot? What is become of Bushy? where is Green? That they have let the dangerous enemy Measure our confines with such peaceful steps? If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it. I warrant, they have made peace with Bolingbroke. Scroop. Peace have they made with him, indeed, my lord. K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption! Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart! Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his property, With heads, and not with hands: those whom you curse, And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground. Aum. Is Bushy, Green, and the earl of Wiltshire, dead? 7 Of double-fatal yew-] From some of the ancient statutes it appears that every Englishman, while archery was practised, was obliged to keep in his house either a bow of yew or some other wood. It should seem therefore that yews were not only planted in church-yards to defend the churches from the wind, but on account of their use in making bows; while by the benefit of being secured in enclosed places, their poisonous quality was kept from doing mischief to cattle. STEEVENS. Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads. Aum. Where is the duke my father with his power? K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills: And yet not so, for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, or lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own, but death; And that small model of the barren earth, Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: How some have been depos'd, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd; Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd; All murder'd: For within the hollow crown, That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Keeps death his court: and there the antick sits, 8 To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks; Bores through his castle wall, and farewell, king! Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence; throw away respect, Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty, 8 there the antick sits,] Here is an allusion to the antick or fool of old farces, whose chief part is to deride and disturb the graver and more splendid personages. JOHNSON. 9 Tradition, This word seems here used for traditional practices: that is, established, or customary homage. |