GARDENER.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.SERVANT.What,are they dead?GARDENER.They are;and Bolingbroke Hath seiz'd 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 Ev'd 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 home the crown,Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.SERVANT.What,think you the King shall be deposed?GARDENER.Depress'd he is already,and depos'd 'Tis doubt he will be.Letters came last night To a dear friend of the good Duke of York's That tell black tidings.QUEEN.O,I am press'd to death through want of speaking![Coming forward]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 the To make a second fall of cursed man?Why dost thou say King Richard is depos'd?Dar'st thou,thou little better thing than earth,Divine his downfall?Say,where,when,and how,Cam'st thou by this ill tidings?Speak,thou wretch.GARDENER.Pardon me,madam;little joy have 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.QUEEN.Nimble mischance,that art so light of foot,Doth not thy embassage belong to me,And am I last that knows it?O,thou thinkest 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?
Gard'ner,for telling me these news of woe,Pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow!Exeunt QUEEN and LADIES GARDENER.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.Exeunt
