Act VScene II
The same. A room in the Duke of York’s palace
Enter York and his Duchess.
Duchess
My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest,When weeping made you break the story offOf our two cousins’ coming into London.
York
Where did I leave?
Duchess
At that sad stop, my lord,Where rude misgoverned hands from windows’ topsThrew dust and rubbish on King Richard’s head.
York
Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,Which his aspiring rider seemed to know,With slow but stately pace kept on his course,Whilst all tongues cried “God save thee, Bolingbroke!”You would have thought the very windows spake,So many greedy looks of young and oldThrough casements darted their desiring eyesUpon his visage, and that all the wallsWith painted imagery had said at once“Jesu preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke!”Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning,Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed’s neck,Bespake them thus, “I thank you, countrymen.”And thus still doing, thus he passed along.
Duchess
Alack, poor Richard! Where rode he the whilst?
York
As in a theatre the eyes of menAfter a well-graced actor leaves the stage,Are idly bent on him that enters next,Thinking his prattle to be tedious,Even so, or with much more contempt, men’s eyesDid 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, steeledThe 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.
Enter Aumerle.
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 truthAnd lasting fealty to the new-made king.
Duchess
Welcome, my son. Who are the violets nowThat 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 cropped before you come to prime.What news from Oxford? Do these jousts and triumphs hold?
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 entered intoFor gay apparel ’gainst the triumph day.
York
Bound to himself? What doth he with a bondThat 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.
Snatches it 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.Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth,I will appeach the villain.
Exit Servant.
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 moreThan 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.
To Servant.
Hence, villain! Never more come in my sight.
Exit Servant.
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 ageAnd 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 sacramentAnd interchangeably set down their handsTo 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 groaned for himAs I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful.But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspectThat I have been disloyal to thy bedAnd 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 groundTill Bolingbroke have pardoned thee. Away, be gone!
Exeunt.