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HO's there?

ADAM. What! my young mafter? Oh

my gentle mafter,

Oh, my fweet mafter, O you memory



Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what makes you here?
Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?
And wherefore are you gentle, ftrong, and valiant?
Why would you be fo fond to overcome
The bony prifer of the humourous Duke?

Your praife is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, mafter, to fome kind of men
Their graces ferve them but as enemies?

Nor more do your's; your virtues, gentle mafter,
Are fanctified and holy traitors to you.

Oh, what a world is this, when what is comely
Invenoms him that bears it!

ORLA. Why, what's the matter?

ADAM. O unhappy youth,

Come not within thefe doors; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives:

Your brother(no; no brother; yet the fon,-
Yet not the fon; I will not call him fon

Of him I was about to call his father,)
Hath heard your praises, and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you use to lie,

And you within it; if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off;
I overheard him, and his practices:

This is no palace, this houfe is but a butchery;
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

ORLA. Why, whither, Adam, wouldft thou have me go? ADAM. No matter whither, fo you come not here. ORLA. What would'st thou have me go and beg my food? Or with a base and boisterous fword enforce

A thievish living on the common road?

This must I do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can ;
I rather will fubject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother.

ADAM. But do not fo; I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I fav'd under your father,
Which I did store, to be my fofter-nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown:
Take that; and he that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the fparrow,
Be comfort to my age! here is the gold,
All this I give you, let me be your fervant;
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lufty;
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;
Nor did I with unbafhful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lufty winter,
Frofty, but kindly; let me go with you;

I'll do the fervice of a younger man

In all your bufinefs and neceffities.

ORLA. Oh! good old man, how well in the appears

The conftant fervice of the antique world;
When fervice fweat for duty, not for meed!


Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion;
And having that do choak their service up
Even with the having; it is not fo with thee;
But, poor
old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot fo much as a bloffom yield,
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.

But come thy ways, we'll go along together;
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon fome settled low content.

ADAM. Master, go on; and I will follow thee
To the laft gafp, with truth and loyalty;
From feventeen years till now, almost fourscore,
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At feventeen years, many their fortunes feek,
But at fourfcore, it is too late a week;
Yet fortune cannot recompenfe me better
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.





ORE 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 lofs thou canft unfold.

Say, is my kingdom loft? Why, 'twas my care;
And what lofs is it, to be rid of care?


Strives Boli gbroke to be as great as we ?
Greater he fhall not be; if he serve God,
We'll ferve him too, and be his fellow fo.

B b


Revolt our fubjects? That we cannot mend ;
They break their faith to God, as well as us.
Cry woe, deftruction, rain, lofs, 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 unfeasonable ftormy day,

Which makes the filver rivers drown their shores,
As if the world were all diffolv'd to tears;

So high above his limits fwells the rage

Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring your fearful land

With hard bright fteel, and hearts more hard than steel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairlefs fcalps
Against thy Majefty; boys, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clafp their female joints
In ftiff unwieldy arms, against thy crown.
The very beadfmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal yew, against thy ftate:
Yea, diftaff-women manage rusty bills.
Against thy feat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have pow'r to tell.

K. RICH. Too well, too well, thou tell'ft a tale fo ill.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
What is become of Bufhy? Where is Green?

No matter where; of comfort no man speak.
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,
Make duft our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write forrow on the bofom of the earth!
Let's chufe executors, and talk of wills;
And yet not fofor what can we bequeath,
Save our depofed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all, are Bolingbroke's,


And nothing can we call our own, but death:
And that fmall model of the barren earth,
Which ferves as pafte and cover to our bones.
For heav'n's fake, let us fit upon the ground,
And tell fad ftories of the death of Kings;
How fome have been depos'd, fome flain in war;
Some haunted by the ghoft they difpoffefs'd;
Some poifon'd by their wives, fome fleeping 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 antic fits,
Scoffing his ftate, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene

To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks:
Infufing him with felf and vain conceit,

As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brafs impregnable; and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the laft, and with a little pin
Bores through his caftle walls, and farewel King!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With folemn rev'rence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while.

I live on bread like you, feel want like you;
Tafte grief, need friends, like you: fubjected thus,
How can you fay to me I am a King?

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