QUEEN

How fares our noble uncle Lancaster? To please the king I did, to please my self I cannot do it; yet I know no cause Why I should welcome such a guest as Grief, Save bidding farewell to so suum to a guest, As my sweet Richard: yet again me thinks Some unborn sorrow ripe in Fortune's womb. Is command ng towards me and my inward soul, With nothing trembles, at something it grieves, More then with parting from my Lord the King. It may be so; but yet my inward soul Persuades me it is otherwise: how ere it be, I cannot but be sad: so heavy sad, As thought on thinking on no thought I think, Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink. 'Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriude, From some forefather grief, m ne is not so, For nothing hath begotten my something grief, Or something hath the nothing that I grieve, 'Tis in reversion that I do possess, But what it is that is not yet known what, I cannot name, 'tis n melesse woe I wot. Why hopest thou so? 'tis better hope he is, For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope: Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipped? Now God in heaven forbid. So Green, thou art the midwife to my woe, And Bullingbrook my sorrows dismal heir, Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy, And I a gasping new deliue worser mother, Have woe to woe, sorrow to so owe joined Who hinder me? I will despair and be at enmity With cosening Hope, he is a flatterer, A parasite, a keeper back of Death, Who gently would dissolve the bans of life, Which false Hope lingers in extremity. With signs of war about his aged neck, O full of careful business are his looks! Uncle, for Gods sake speak comfortable words. O I am pressed to death through want of speaking Thou old Adam's likeness set to dress this garden, How dares thy harsh rude tonge found this unpleasing news? What Eve? what serpent hath suggested thee To make a second fallen of cursed man? Why dost thou say king Richard is deposed? Darest How thou little better thing than earth Divine his down fallen? say, where, when, and how, Canst thou by this ill tidings speak thou wretch? Nimble Mischance that a e so light of foot, Does not thy embassage belong to me, And am I last that knows it? O thou thinkest To see we me last that I may longest keep Thy sorrow in my breast: come, Ladies go To meet at London Londons king in woe: What, was I born to this that my sad look Should grace the triumph of g eat Bullingbrook? Gardener for telling me these news of woe, Pray God the plants thou graftst may never grow. And must we be divided? must we partly? Banish us both, and send the King with me. Then whither he goes, thither let me go. So longest way shall have the longest moans. Give me mine own again, it no good partly To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart: So now I have mine own again, be gone, That I may strive to kill it with a groan. What sport shall we deum j he e in this garden, To driven away the heavy thought of care? 'Twill make me think the world is full of rubs, And that my fortune runs against the b as. My legs can keep no measure in delight, When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief: The before no dancing girl, some other sport. Of sorrow or of grief. Of neither girl: For if of joy, being altogether wanting, It does remember me the more of sorrow: Or if of grief, being altogether had, It adds more sorrow to my want of joy: For what I have I needs not to repeat, And what I want it boots not to complain. 'Tis well that thou hast cause, But thou shouldst please me better, wouldst thou weep. And I could sing would weeping do me good, And never borrow any tear of thee. But stay, here come the guard ers, Lets step into the shadow of these trees, My wretch dnes unto a row of pines, They will talk of state for every one does so, Against a change woe is forerun with woe. This way the King will come, this is the way, To Julius Caesars ill erected Tower, To whose flint bosom, my condemned Lord, Is doomde a prisoner by proud Bullingbrook Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth, Have any resting for her true Kings Queen. But soft, but see, or rather do not see, My fair Rose wither, yet look up, behold, That you in pity may dissolve to de w And wash him fresh again with true love ears. Ah thou the modle where old Troy did stand! Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb, And not King Richard: thou most beauteous Inn, Why should hard favoured grief be Iodged in thee, When triumph is become and alehouse guest? what is my Richard both in shape and mind Transformed and weakened? hath Bullingbrook, Deposed thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart? The Lion dying thrusts forth his paw, And wounds the ear h if nothing else with rage, To be overpowered, and wilt thou pupil-like Take the correction, mildly kiss the rod, And fawn on Rage with base humility, Which art a Lion and the king of beasts.