Mine eyes are full of tears; I cannot see:And yet salt water blinds them not so much
But they can see a sort of traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,
I find myself a traitor with the rest;
For I have given here my soul’s consent
T’undeck the pompous body of a king;
Made glory base, and sovereignty a slave,
Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
My lord,—
KING RICHARD.
No lord of thine, thou haught insulting man,
Nor no man’s lord; I have no name, no title,
No, not that name was given me at the font,
But ‘tis usurp’d: alack the heavy day!
That I have worn so many winters out,
And know not now what name to call myself!
O! that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke
To melt myself away in waterdrops!
Good king, great king,—and yet not greatly good,
An if my word be sterling yet in England,
Let it command a mirror hither straight,
That it may show me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.
BOLINGBROKE.
Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass.
[Exit an Attendant.]
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Read o’er this paper while the glass doth come.
KING RICHARD.
Fiend! thou torments me ere I come to hell.
BOLINGBROKE.
Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
The Commons will not then be satisfied.
KING RICHARD.
They shall be satisfied; I’ll read enough,
When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ, and that’s myself.
[Re-enter Attendant, with glass.]
Give me that glass, and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine
And made no deeper wounds? O flatt’ring glass!
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me. Was this face the face
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face
That like the sun did make beholders wink?
Is this the face which fac’d so many follies
That was at last out-fac’d by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face:
As brittle as the glory is the face;
[Dashes the glass against the ground.]
For there it is, crack’d in a hundred shivers.
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,
How soon my sorrow hath destroy’d my face.
BOLINGBROKE.
The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy’d
The shadow of your face.
KING RICHARD.
Say that again.
The shadow of my sorrow! Ha! let’s see:
‘Tis very true: my grief lies all within;
And these external manner of laments
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in the tortur’d soul.
There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,
For thy great bounty, that not only givest
Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. I’ll beg one boon,
And then be gone and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?
BOLINGBROKE.
Name it, fair cousin.
KING RICHARD.
‘Fair cousin’! I am greater than a king;
For when I was a king, my flatterers
Were then but subjects; being now a subject,
I have a king here to my flatterer.
Being so great, I have no need to beg.
BOLINGBROKE.
Yet ask.
KING RICHARD.
And shall I have?
BOLINGBROKE.
You shall.
KING RICHARD.
Then give me leave to go.
BOLINGBROKE.
Whither?
KING RICHARD.
Whither you will, so I were from your sights.
BOLINGBROKE.
Go, some of you convey him to the Tower.
KING RICHARD.
O, good! convey? conveyers are you all,
