What sport shall we devise here in this garden
To drive away the heavy thought of care?
What game should we play here in this garden to drive away the heavy weight of worry?
What can we do here to stop thinking about all this terrible stuff?
what game to drive away heavy care
The Queen's ladies-in-waiting have no individual identities — they function as a chorus of practical suggestions that the Queen rejects, one by one. Their job is to exhaust the alternatives before the real scene begins.
Madam, we’ll play at bowls.
Madam, we could play bowls.
We could play bowls, madam.
play bowls
’Twill make me think the world is full of rubs
And that my fortune runs against the bias.
It will make me think the world is full of obstacles and that my fortune runs against the intended direction.
That would just make me think about how the world's against me and my luck is going the wrong way.
rubs fortune against bias world against me
Madam, we’ll dance.
Madam, we could dance.
We could dance, madam.
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.
My body cannot keep rhythm in joy when my poor heart keeps no rhythm in grief. So no dancing, girl; suggest something else.
My legs can't dance happily when my heart is drowning in sadness. No dancing. Something else.
legs can't dance heart won't dance no measure in delight no measure in grief
Madam, we’ll tell tales.
Madam, we could tell stories.
We could tell stories, madam.
tell tales
Of sorrow or of joy?
About sorrow or about joy?
Happy or sad?
happy or sad
Of either, madam.
Either one, madam.
Either, madam.
either
The garden in 3-4 is England. The Gardener's pruning and maintaining is what Richard should have done with his nobles and his kingdom. The metaphor is so comprehensive it becomes the play's clearest political analysis: Richard allowed ambitious men to grow unchecked (like wild branches); he failed to cut away excess ambition (like unpruned trees); he let weeds (his bad advisors) drain fertility from good flowers (his loyal nobles). Bolingbroke is doing what Richard would not—cutting away excess, restoring balance. The Gardener speaks with the clarity of someone outside the court, outside the rhetoric of divine right. He simply observes: the garden works because it's maintained. The kingdom failed because it wasn't. This is the play's most straightforward political diagnosis, and it comes from a common man using the language of his trade.
Of neither, girl.
For if 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.
Neither, girl. If you tell stories of joy, but I have no joy, it makes me remember my sorrow more. And if you tell stories of grief, and I have plenty of it, it only adds more sorrow to my lack of joy. What I have, I don't need to remember by hearing about it. What I don't have, there's no point complaining about it.
Neither one. If you tell happy stories, it's just going to remind me I have nothing to be happy about. If you tell sad stories, it'll just make me sadder. I already have what I have, and I don't have what I don't have. No point.
neither happy stories remind of no joy sad stories add to grief can't escape what i have what i want can't fix either
Madam, I’ll sing.
Madam, I could sing.
I could sing, madam.
sing
’Tis well that thou hast cause;
But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep.
It's good that you have reason to sing, but you would please me better if you wept.
That's nice that you want to sing, but I'd like it better if you cried.
sing is fine weeping better
I could weep, madam, would it do you good.
I would weep, madam, if it would do you good.
I would cry if it would help you, madam.
would weep if help
And I could sing, would weeping do me good,
And never borrow any tear of thee.
But stay, here come the gardeners.
Let’s step into the shadow of these trees.
My wretchedness unto a row of pins,
They will talk of state, for everyone doth so
Against a change; woe is forerun with woe.
And I could sing if weeping would help me, and I would never ask to borrow your tears. But wait, here come the gardeners. Let's step into the shadow of these trees. I'll bet my whole self that they'll talk about politics, because everyone does, especially before a great change. Misery always comes before more misery.
I could sing if crying would fix things, and I'd never take your tears anyway. But wait—the gardeners are coming. Let's hide in the trees. I know they're going to talk about the kingdom because everybody talks about it when things are falling apart. One bad thing always leads to another.
gardeners coming hide will talk of state speaking forerun woe there's always another crisis after one
The Gardener is Shakespeare's most improbable political analyst — a servant who speaks in perfect allegorical parallel, as if the garden and the kingdom are the same text written in two languages. His role is to say clearly what the play's nobles say obliquely. He's not a character so much as a structural device given a human voice: the outside view, the commoner's diagnosis, wisdom that arrives from below.
Go, bind thou up young 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 employed, I will go root away
The noisome weeds which without profit suck
The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers.
Go and tie up the young hanging apricot branches, which like unruly children force their parent to bend under their weight. Give support to the drooping branches. You go, and like an executioner, cut off the heads of branches growing too fast, that look too ambitious in our ordered garden. Everything must be equal in our government. While you do this work, I will go root out the useless weeds that drain fertility from the good flowers without giving anything back.
Go tie up those hanging young apricot branches—they're like spoiled kids weighing down their parent. Give the drooping branches something to lean on. And you go cut off the branches that are growing too high and too fast—cut them like heads off—ones that are too ambitious for our organized garden. Everything has to be balanced. I'm going to pull up all the weeds that just drain the good soil without any benefit.
bind apricots support bending cut off heads of fast branches all must be even root away weeds no profit waste soil fertility
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 unpruned, her hedges ruined,
Her knots disordered, and her wholesome herbs
Swarming with caterpillars?
Why should we keep law and order and perfect balance in this small garden, showing our stable country as if in a model, when our sea-walled garden—the whole kingdom—is full of weeds, her best flowers choked out, her fruit trees unpruned, her hedges broken down, her ordered flower beds in chaos, and her healthy herbs covered with caterpillars?
Why do we keep this little garden perfect with all the rules and balance when the whole kingdom—our bigger garden with the sea walls—is completely overgrown? Weeds everywhere, flowers dying, fruit trees not trimmed, hedges falling apart, the flower beds are a mess, and everything's infested with bugs?
little garden perfect kingdom chaos weeds choke flowers no pruning no order infested why order here when kingdom broken
The Queen's outburst when she hears of Richard's capture is the moment when someone in the play must accept that the event has already happened. She compares the Gardener's news to the Fall of Man, to Adam and Eve and the serpent. She's saying: this is not just political news, this is cosmic catastrophe. And she curses the man who speaks it. Notice that she doesn't curse Bolingbroke or deny that Richard is captured. She curses the Gardener for making the truth audible. This is the play's most interesting moment of denial: not 'it's not true,' but 'how dare you say it out loud?' The Queen would prefer to remain in ignorance, in the garden with her ladies, pretending none of this is happening.
Hold thy peace.
He that hath suffered this disordered spring
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf.
The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter,
That seemed in eating him to hold him up,
Are plucked up, root and all, by Bolingbroke—
I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.
Be quiet. The king, who has allowed this disordered spring, is now facing his own fall. The weeds that his broad leaves protected, that seemed to hold him up by eating from him, are being pulled up, root and all, by Bolingbroke. I mean Wiltshire, Bushy, and Green.
Be quiet. The king let everything get out of control, and now he's falling for it. The weeds—the bad nobles—that he protected with his power, they seemed to help him but they were really just feeding off him. Bolingbroke is pulling them out by the roots. I mean Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.
king allowed disorder now has fall weeds plucked root and all wiltshire bushy green bolingbroke did it
What, are they dead?
Are they dead?
They're dead?
dead
They are. And Bolingbroke
Hath seized the wasteful King. O, what pity is it
That he had not so trimmed and dressed 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 home the crown,
Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.
Yes, they are. And Bolingbroke has seized the wasteful king. What a shame it is that Richard never pruned and maintained his land the way we maintain this garden! We pruned at the right time, damage the bark of our fruit trees to prevent them from growing too proud in their sap and destroying themselves with their own richness. If he had done that with his ambitious nobles, they would have lived to serve him and he to enjoy the benefits of their service. We cut away extra branches so the productive ones can grow. If he had done that, he would have kept the crown, which now has been destroyed by his laziness.
Yeah. And Bolingbroke's captured Richard—the wasteful king. It's so sad that Richard never pruned and fixed his kingdom like we fix this garden. We know how to wound the bark at the right time so trees don't get too proud with their own sap and destroy themselves. If Richard had done that with his big nobles, they'd still be serving him and he'd be enjoying what they produce. We cut off the extra branches so the good ones can grow. If he'd done that, he'd still have the crown. But he was too lazy, and now it's gone.
bolingbroke captured richard wasteful king should've pruned wound the bark prevent too much pride cut off ambitious nobles they'd live he'd have crown laziness destroyed it
What, think you the King shall be deposed?
Do you think King Richard will be deposed?
You think they're going to depose the king?
depose richard
Depressed 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.
He's already depressed and he's probably already deposed. Letters arrived last night for a close friend of the Duke of York with dark news.
He's already beaten down, and he's probably already been deposed. Letters came last night with bad news.
depressed already deposed probably letters last night black tidings
O, I am pressed to death through want of speaking!
I am crushed to death by not being able to speak!
This is killing me—I have to say something!
pressed to death want of speaking can't stay silent
The Gardener's final act is to plant rue where the Queen's tears fell. Rue is a bitter herb, but it's also a pun on 'rue' meaning regret and sorrow. By planting rue, the Gardener turns the Queen's grief into something that will grow, that will be remembered. He transforms her curse into a kind of living memorial. This is the play's quietest moment of grace—from a common man who speaks truly, who accepts the curse without bitterness, and who responds by creating something that preserves memory. In a play of high rhetoric and political maneuvering, the Gardener's small action—planting a herb to remember a weeping queen—might be the most moving thing anyone does.
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 weighed.
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 everyone doth know.
Forgive me, madam. I have little joy in bringing you this news, but what I say is true. King Richard is now in the mighty power of Bolingbroke. Their fortunes are being weighed. In Richard's scale there is nothing but himself and some frivolous things that make him light. But in Bolingbroke's scale are all the English nobles, and with that weight he outweighs King Richard. Go to London and you'll find it true. I speak nothing that everyone doesn't already know.
I'm sorry, madam. I don't want to tell you this, but it's true. Richard's in Bolingbroke's hands now. They're being weighed on a scale—Richard on one side has just himself and some useless things. Bolingbroke's side has all the English lords. That weight crushes Richard. Go to London and you'll see I'm right. Everyone knows this already.
pardon madam sorry true richard in bolingbroke's hold weighed richard has nothing only himself bolingbroke has all peers weight crushes richard
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!
Swift misfortune, you come so quickly, but you bring your message to everyone before me, and am I the last to know? You want to serve me last so I can hold onto your sadness the longest in my breast. Come, ladies, let's go to London to meet Richard in his grief. Was I born for this—so my sad face could grace Bolingbroke's triumph? Gardener, for telling me these sorrowful news, I pray that the plants you graft may never grow.
Misfortune is fast, but you tell everyone else before me—am I the last to find out? You want to hit me last so I'll keep your sadness inside me the longest. Come on, ladies, we're going to London to be sad with Richard. Was I born just to make Bolingbroke look good by being sad next to him? Gardener, for telling me this horrible news, I hope the plants you grow never take root.
misfortune small fast told last to keep sorrow longest london meeting woe grace triumph curse gardener plants never grow
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.
Poor Queen. To prevent your state from getting worse, I wish my skill were subject to your curse. Here she fell a tear. In this place I'll plant rue, bitter herb of grace. People will see rue grown for regret, here in memory of a weeping queen.
Poor Queen. If I could, I'd let your curse work so your situation wouldn't get worse. She dropped a tear here. I'm going to plant rue—a bitter herb—right where she cried. When it grows, people will see it as a reminder of her sadness.
poor queen tear fell here plant rue sorrowful grace remembrance weeping queen
The Reckoning
Thirty-eight chunks, one of the play's most formally elegant scenes. The garden scene is Shakespeare's great structural counterpart to the political action — a scene where servants do what lords cannot: speak clearly about what's happening. The Gardener's diagnosis of Richard's failure is more precise than anything any noble has managed. And Shakespeare stages the Queen's discovery so she hears it second-hand, in a language (horticulture) that frames her husband's collapse as something that could have been prevented by better gardening practice. The final image — rue planted where tears fell — is as beautiful as anything in the play.
If this happened today…
The deposed CEO's wife is staying at the COO's house. She tries to distract herself — tennis? TV? Her assistant suggests things and she rejects them all. The cleaning crew arrives to tend the garden. She steps behind the hedge to give them space. They start talking about the company collapse: the CEO let the weeds grow, didn't prune the fast-growers, let the whole thing go to seed while he spent the budget. 'Could've been fixed,' says the older one. 'Managed it right, he keeps his job.' She steps out from behind the hedge and curses him for saying it. He plants something where her tears fell.