| |
Duchess.—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. | |
| York.—Where did I leave? | |
| Duch.—At that sad stop, my lord, | 5 |
| Where rude misgoverned hands, from windows’ tops, | |
| Threw 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,— | 10 |
| With slow but stately pace, kept on his course, | |
| While 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 | 15 |
| Upon his visage, and that all the walls, | |
| With painted imagery, had said at once,— | |
| “Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!” | |
| Whilst he, from one side to the other turning, | |
| Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed’s neck, | 20 |
| Bespake them thus,—“I thank you, countrymen:” | |
| And thus still doing, thus he passed along. | |
| Duch.—Alas, poor Richard, where rides he the while? | |
| York.—As in a theatre, the eyes of men, | |
| After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, | 25 |
| 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 Richard; no man cried, God save him! | |
| No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home: | 30 |
| 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, steeled | 35 |
| The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, | |
| And barbarism itself have pitied him. | |
| |
