SCENE II. The DUKE OF YORK's palace. The Life and Death of Richard the Second  Shakespeare homepage  |  Richard II  | Act 5, Scene 2 

 Previous scene  |  Next scene  SCENE II. The DUKE OF YORK's palace. 

 Enter DUKE OF YORK and DUCHESS OF YORK  DUCHESS OF YORK  My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, 

 When weeping made you break the story off, 

 of our two cousins coming into London. 

 DUKE OF YORK  Where did I leave? 

 DUCHESS OF YORK  At that sad stop, my lord, 

 Where rude misgovern'd hands from windows' tops 

 Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head. 

 DUKE OF YORK  Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, 

 Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed 

 Which his aspiring rider seem'd 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 old 

 Through casements darted their desiring eyes 

 Upon his visage, and that all the walls 

 With 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 pass'd along. 

 DUCHESS OF YORK  Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst? 

 DUKE OF YORK  As in a theatre, the eyes of men, 

 After 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 eyes 

 Did 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, steel'd 

 The 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. 

 DUCHESS OF YORK  Here comes my son Aumerle. 

 DUKE OF 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 truth 

 And lasting fealty to the new-made king. 



 Enter DUKE OF AUMERLE  DUCHESS OF YORK  Welcome, my son: who are the violets now 

 That strew the green lap of the new come spring? 

 DUKE OF AUMERLE  Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not: 

 God knows I had as lief be none as one. 

 DUKE OF YORK  Well, bear you well in this new spring of time, 

 Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime. 

 What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs? 

 DUKE OF AUMERLE  For aught I know, my lord, they do. 

 DUKE OF YORK  You will be there, I know. 

 DUKE OF AUMERLE  If God prevent not, I purpose so. 

 DUKE OF YORK  What seal is that, that hangs without thy bosom? 

 Yea, look'st thou pale? let me see the writing. 

 DUKE OF AUMERLE  My lord, 'tis nothing. 

 DUKE OF YORK  No matter, then, who see it; 

 I will be satisfied; let me see the writing. 

 DUKE OF 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. 

 DUKE OF YORK  Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see. 

 I fear, I fear,-- 

 DUCHESS OF YORK  What should you fear? 

 'Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter'd into 

 For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day. 

 DUKE OF YORK  Bound to himself! what doth he with a bond 

 That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool. 

 Boy, let me see the writing. 

 DUKE OF AUMERLE  I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not show it. 

 DUKE OF YORK  I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say. 



 He plucks it out of his bosom and reads it  Treason! foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave! 

 DUCHESS OF YORK  What is the matter, my lord? 

 DUKE OF YORK  Ho! who is within there? 



 Enter a Servant  Saddle my horse. 

 God for his mercy, what treachery is here! 

 DUCHESS OF YORK  Why, what is it, my lord? 

 DUKE OF YORK  Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse. 

 Now, by mine honour, by my life, by my troth, 

 I will appeach the villain. 

 DUCHESS OF YORK  What is the matter? 

 DUKE OF YORK  Peace, foolish woman. 

 DUCHESS OF YORK  I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle. 

 DUKE OF AUMERLE  Good mother, be content; it is no more 

 Than my poor life must answer. 

 DUCHESS OF YORK  Thy life answer! 

 DUKE OF YORK  Bring me my boots: I will unto the king. 



 Re-enter Servant with boots  DUCHESS OF YORK  Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amazed. 

 Hence, villain! never more come in my sight. 

 DUKE OF YORK  Give me my boots, I say. 

 DUCHESS OF YORK  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 age, 

 And rob me of a happy mother's name? 

 Is he not like thee? is he not thine own? 

 DUKE OF YORK  Thou fond mad woman, 

 Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy? 

 A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament, 

 And interchangeably set down their hands, 

 To kill the king at Oxford. 

 DUCHESS OF YORK  He shall be none; 

 We'll keep him here: then what is that to him? 

 DUKE OF YORK  Away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son, 

 I would appeach him. 

 DUCHESS OF YORK  Hadst thou groan'd for him 

 As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful. 

 But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect 

 That I have been disloyal to thy bed, 

 And 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. 

 DUKE OF YORK  Make way, unruly woman! 



 Exit  DUCHESS OF YORK  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 ground 

 Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away, be gone! 



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