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What more remains?

King Richard
What more remains?
Northumberland, offering Richard a paper
No more, but that you read
These accusations and these grievous crimes
Committed by your person and your followers
Against the state and profit of this land;
That, by confessing them, the souls of men
May deem that you are worthily deposed.

Alack the heavy day,
That I have worn so many winters out
And know not now what name to call myself.

King Richard
Must I do so? And must I ravel out
My weaved-up follies? Gentle Northumberland,
If thy offenses were upon record,
Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop
To read a lecture of them? If thou wouldst,
There shouldst thou find one heinous article
Containing the deposing of a king
And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,
Marked with a blot, damned in the book of heaven.—
Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me
Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,
Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands,
Showing an outward pity, yet you Pilates
Have here delivered me to my sour cross,
And water cannot wash away your sin.
My lord, dispatch. Read o’er these articles.
King Richard
Mine eyes are full of tears; I cannot see.
And yet salt water blinds them not so much
But they can see a sort of traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,
I find myself a traitor with the rest,
For I have given here my soul’s consent
T’ undeck the pompous body of a king,
Made glory base and sovereignty a slave,
Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant.
My lord—
King Richard
No lord of thine, thou haught insulting man,
Nor no man’s lord. I have no name, no title,
No, not that name was given me at the font,
But ’tis usurped. Alack the heavy day,
That I have worn so many winters out
And know not now what name to call myself.
O, that I were a mockery king of snow
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt myself away in water drops.—
Good king, great king, and yet not greatly good,
An if my word be sterling yet in England,
Let it command a mirror hither straight,
That it may show me what a face I have
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.
Go, some of you, and fetch a looking-glass.
 An Attendant exits.
Read o’er this paper while the glass doth come.
King Richard
Fiend, thou torments me ere I come to hell!
Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.
The commons will not then be satisfied.
King Richard
They shall be satisfied. I’ll read enough
When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ, and that’s myself.
 Enter one with a glass.
Give me that glass, and therein will I read.
 He takes the mirror.
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine
And made no deeper wounds? O flatt’ring glass,
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me. Was this face the face
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face
That like the sun did make beholders wink?
Is this the face which faced so many follies,
That was at last outfaced by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face.
As brittle as the glory is the face,
 He breaks the mirror.
For there it is, cracked in an hundred shivers.—
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport:
How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face.
The shadow of your sorrow hath destroyed
The shadow of your face.
King Richard
Say that again.
The shadow of my sorrow? Ha, let’s see.
’Tis very true. My grief lies all within;
And these external manners of laments
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in the tortured soul.
There lies the substance. And I thank thee, king,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv’st
Me cause to wail but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. I’ll beg one boon
And then be gone and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?
Name it, fair cousin.
King Richard
“Fair cousin”? I am greater than a king,
For when I was a king, my flatterers
Were then but subjects. Being now a subject,
I have a king here to my flatterer.
Being so great, I have no need to beg.
Yet ask.
King Richard
And shall I have?
You shall.
King Richard
Then give me leave to go.
King Richard
Whither you will, so I were from your sights.
Go, some of you, convey him to the Tower.
King Richard
O, good! “Convey”? Conveyers are you all,
That rise thus nimbly by a true king’s fall.
 Richard exits with Guards.

Act 4
Scene 1
Line 231

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