Bul. What shrill-voic"d Suppliant, makes this eager cry?
Dut. A woman, and thine Aunt (great King) "tis I.
Speake with me, pitty me, open the dore, A Begger begs, that neuer begg"d before
Bul. Our Scene is alter"d from a serious thing, And now chang"d to the Begger, and the King.
My dangerous Cosin, let your Mother in, I know she"s come, to pray for your foule sin
Yorke. If thou do pardon, whosoeuer pray, More sinnes for this forgiuenesse, prosper may.
This fester"d ioynt cut off, the rest rests sound, This let alone, will all the rest confound.
Enter Dutchesse.
Dut. O King, beleeue not this hard-hearted man, Loue, louing not it selfe, none other can
Yor. Thou franticke woman, what dost y make here, Shall thy old dugges, once more a Traitor reare?
Dut. Sweet Yorke be patient, heare me gentle Liege
Bul. Rise vp good Aunt
Dut. Not yet, I thee beseech.
For euer will I kneele vpon my knees, And neuer see day, that the happy sees, Till thou giue ioy: vntill thou bid me ioy, By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing Boy
Aum. Vnto my mothers prayres, I bend my knee
Yorke. Against them both, my true ioynts bended be
Dut. Pleades he in earnest? Looke vpon his Face, His eyes do drop no teares: his prayres are in iest: His words come from his mouth, ours from our brest.
He prayes but faintly, and would be denide, We pray with heart, and soule, and all beside: His weary ioynts would gladly rise, I know, Our knees shall kneele, till to the ground they grow: His prayers are full of false hypocrisie, Ours of true zeale, and deepe integritie: Our prayers do out-pray his, then let them haue That mercy, which true prayers ought to haue
Bul. Good Aunt stand vp
Dut. Nay, do not say stand vp.
But Pardon first, and afterwards stand vp.
And if I were thy Nurse, thy tongue to teach, Pardon should be the first word of thy speach.
I neuer long"d to heare a word till now: Say Pardon (King,) let pitty teach thee how.
The word is short: but not so short as sweet, No word like Pardon, for Kings mouth"s so meet
Yorke. Speake it in French (King) say Pardon"ne moy
Dut. Dost thou teach pardon, Pardon to destroy?
Ah my sowre husband, my hard-hearted Lord, That set"s the word it selfe, against the word.
Speake Pardon, as "tis currant in our Land, The chopping French we do not vnderstand.
Thine eye begins to speake, set thy tongue there, Or in thy pitteous heart, plant thou thine eare, That hearing how our plaints and prayres do pearce, Pitty may moue thee, Pardon to rehea.r.s.e
Bul. Good Aunt, stand vp
Dut. I do not sue to stand, Pardon is all the suite I haue in hand
Bul. I pardon him, as heauen shall pardon mee
Dut. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee?
Yet am I sicke for feare: Speake it againe, Twice saying Pardon, doth not pardon twaine, But makes one pardon strong
Bul. I pardon him with all my hart
Dut. A G.o.d on earth thou art
Bul. But for our trusty brother-in-Law, the Abbot, With all the rest of that consorted crew, Destruction straight shall dogge them at the heeles: Good Vnckle helpe to order seuerall powres To Oxford, or where ere these Traitors are: They shall not liue within this world I sweare, But I will haue them, if I once know where.
Vnckle farewell, and Cosin adieu: Your mother well hath praid, and proue you true
Dut. Come my old son, I pray heauen make thee new.
Exeunt.
Enter Exton and Seruants.
Ext. Didst thou not marke the King what words hee spake?
Haue I no friend will rid me of this liuing feare: Was it not so?
Ser. Those were his very words.
Ex.
Haue I no Friend? (quoth he:) he spake it twice, And vrg"d it twice together, did he not?
Ser. He did.
Ex.
And speaking it, he wistly look"d on me, As who should say, I would thou wer"t the man That would diuorce this terror from my heart, Meaning the King at Pomfret: Come, let"s goe; I am the Kings Friend, and will rid his Foe.
Enter.
Scaena Quarta.
Enter Richard.
Rich. I haue bin studying, how to compare This Prison where I liue, vnto the World: And for because the world is populous, And heere is not a Creature, but my selfe, I cannot do it: yet Ile hammer"t out.
My Braine, Ile proue the Female to my Soule, My Soule, the Father: and these two beget A generation of still breeding Thoughts; And these same Thoughts, people this Little World In humors, like the people of this world, For no thought is contented. The better sort, As thoughts of things Diuine, are intermixt With scruples, and do set the Faith it selfe Against the Faith: as thus: Come litle ones: & then again, It is as hard to come, as for a Camell To thred the posterne of a Needles eye.
Thoughts tending to Ambition, they do plot Vnlikely wonders; how these vaine weake nailes May teare a pa.s.sage through the Flinty ribbes Of this hard world, my ragged prison walles: And for they cannot, dye in their owne pride.
Thoughts tending to Content, flatter themselues, That they are not the first of Fortunes slaues, Nor shall not be the last. Like silly Beggars, Who sitting in the Stockes, refuge their shame That many haue, and others must sit there; And in this Thought, they finde a kind of ease, Bearing their owne misfortune on the backe Of such as haue before indur"d the like.
Thus play I in one Prison, many people, And none contented. Sometimes am I King; Then Treason makes me wish my selfe a Beggar, And so I am. Then crushing penurie, Perswades me, I was better when a King: Then am I king"d againe: and by and by, Thinke that I am vn-king"d by Bullingbrooke, And straight am nothing. But what ere I am,
Musick
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is, With nothing shall be pleas"d, till he be eas"d With being nothing. Musicke do I heare?
Ha, ha? keepe time: How sowre sweet Musicke is, When Time is broke, and no Proportion kept?
So is it in the Musicke of mens liues: And heere haue I the daintinesse of eare, To heare time broke in a disorder"d string: But for the Concord of my State and Time, Had not an eare to heare my true Time broke.
I wasted Time, and now doth Time waste me: For now hath Time made me his numbring clocke; My Thoughts, are minutes; and with Sighes they iarre, Their watches on vnto mine eyes, the outward Watch, Whereto my finger, like a Dialls point, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from teares.
Now sir, the sound that tels what houre it is, Are clamorous groanes, that strike vpon my heart, Which is the bell: so Sighes, and Teares, and Grones, Shew Minutes, Houres, and Times: but my Time Runs poasting on, in Bullingbrookes proud ioy, While I stand fooling heere, his iacke o"th" Clocke.
This Musicke mads me, let it sound no more, For though it haue holpe madmen to their wits, In me it seemes, it will make wise-men mad: Yet blessing on his heart that giues it me; For "tis a signe of loue, and loue to Richard, Is a strange Brooch, in this all-hating world.
Enter Groome.