|ACT III SCENE IV
|LANGLEY. The DUKE OF YORK's garden.
|[Enter the QUEEN and two Ladies]
|What sport shall we devise here in this garden,
|To drive away the heavy thought of care?
|Madam, we'll play at bowls.
|'Twill make me think the world is full of rubs,
|And that my fortune rubs against the bias.
|Madam, we'll dance.
|My legs can keep no measure in delight,
|When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief:
|Therefore, no dancing, girl; some other sport.
|Madam, we'll tell tales.
|Of sorrow or of joy?
|Of either, madam.
|Of neither, girl:
|For of joy, being altogether wanting,
|It doth 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 need not to repeat;
|And what I want it boots not to complain.
|Madam, I'll sing.
|'Tis well that thou hast cause
|But thou shouldst please me better, wouldst thou weep.
|I could weep, madam, would it do you good.
|And I could sing, would weeping do me good,
|And never borrow any tear of thee.
|[Enter a Gardener, and two Servants]
|But stay, here come the gardeners:
|Let's step into the shadow of these trees.
|My wretchedness unto a row of pins,
|They'll talk of state; for every one doth so
|Against a change; woe is forerun with woe.
|[QUEEN and Ladies retire]
|Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks,
|Which, like unruly children, make their sire
|Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight:
|Give some supportance to the bending twigs.
|Go thou, and like an executioner,
|Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays,
|That look too lofty in our commonwealth:
|All must be even in our government.
|You thus employ'd, I will go root away
|The noisome weeds, which without profit suck
|The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers.
|Why should we in the compass of a pale
|Keep law and form and due proportion,
|Showing, as in a model, our firm estate,
|When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,
|Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers choked up,
|Her fruit-trees all upturned, her hedges ruin'd,
|Her knots disorder'd and her wholesome herbs
|Swarming with caterpillars?
|Hold thy peace:
|He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring
|Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf:
|The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter,
|That seem'd in eating him to hold him up,
|Are pluck'd up root and all by Bolingbroke,
|I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.
|What, are they dead?
|They are; and Bolingbroke
|Hath seized the wasteful king. O, what pity is it
|That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land
|As we this garden! We at time of year
|Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees,
|Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood,
|With too much riches it confound itself:
|Had he done so to great and growing men,
|They might have lived to bear and he to taste
|Their fruits of duty: superfluous branches
|We lop away, that bearing boughs may live:
|Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,
|Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.
|What, think you then the king shall be deposed?
|Depress'd he is already, and deposed
|'Tis doubt he will be: letters came last night
|To a dear friend of the good Duke of York's,
|That tell black tidings.
|O, I am press'd to death through want of speaking!
|Thou, old Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden,
|How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news?
|What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested thee
|To make a second fall of cursed man?
|Why dost thou say King Richard is deposed?
|Darest thou, thou little better thing than earth,
|Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how,
|Camest thou by this ill tidings? speak, thou wretch.
|Pardon me, madam: little joy have I
|To breathe this news; yet what I say is true.
|King Richard, he is in the mighty hold
|Of Bolingbroke: their fortunes both are weigh'd:
|In your lord's scale is nothing but himself,
|And some few vanities that make him light;
|But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,
|Besides himself, are all the English peers,
|And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.
|Post you to London, and you will find it so;
|I speak no more than every one doth know.
|Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot,
|Doth not thy embassage belong to me,
|And am I last that knows it? O, thou think'st
|To serve me last, that I may longest keep
|Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go,
|To meet at London London's king in woe.
|What, was I born to this, that my sad look
|Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?
|Gardener, for telling me these news of woe,
|Pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow.
|[Exeunt QUEEN and Ladies]
|Poor queen! so that thy state might be no worse,
|I would my skill were subject to thy curse.
|Here did she fall a tear; here in this place
|I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace:
|Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,
|In the remembrance of a weeping queen.