This way the King will come. This is the way
To Julius Caesar’s ill-erected tower,
To whose flint bosom my condemned lord
Is doomed a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke.
Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth
Have any resting for her true king’s queen.
The King will come this way. This is the road To Julius Caesar's badly-built tower, To whose hard interior my condemned lord Is doomed as a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke. Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth Can offer any resting place for her true king's queen.
Richard will come through here. This is the path to the Tower of London—Caesar's old tower that's falling apart. My husband, the condemned king, is locked up in there because of Bolingbroke. Let me sit down here if this earth will let the queen of a real king have any rest.
richard's coming this way to that old tower where bolingbroke locked him up i need to rest
But soft, but see, or rather do not see
My fair rose wither; yet look up, behold,
That you in pity may dissolve to dew
And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.
Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand,
Thou map of honour, thou King Richard’s tomb,
And not King Richard! Thou most beauteous inn,
Why should hard-favoured grief be lodged in thee,
When triumph is become an alehouse guest?
Wait, but look—or rather don't look—at my fair rose withering. Yet look up and behold, so that you might feel such pity that you dissolve into dew and wash him clean again with your true-love tears. Oh, you who were the model where Troy once stood, you map of honor, you've become Richard's tomb rather than Richard himself! You beautiful inn, why should grim grief lodge in you when triumph has gone to common taverns?
Wait—look or don't look, my beautiful rose is dying. But do look so you feel enough pity to cry your eyes out and wash him clean with your genuine tears. You were like the great Troy standing proud, the picture of honor, but now you're Richard's tomb instead of Richard. You're such a beautiful place, so why does grim grief get to live in you while triumph hangs around in bars?
my beautiful rose is wilting look at him feel enough pity to cry you were like troy the picture of honor now richard's tomb a beautiful place with grief
Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,
To make my end too sudden. Learn, good soul,
To think our former state a happy dream,
From which awaked, the truth of what we are
Shows us but this. I am sworn brother, sweet,
To grim Necessity, and he and I
Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France,
And cloister thee in some religious house.
Our holy lives must win a new world’s crown,
Which our profane hours here have thrown down.
Do not join your grief to mine, beautiful woman, do not do this, To make my ending come too quickly. Learn, good soul, To think of our former position as a happy dream, From which upon waking, the truth of what we are Shows us only this. I am sworn brother, sweet, To grim Necessity, and he and I Will stay united until death. Go quickly to France, And shut yourself away in some religious house. Our holy lives here must earn a new world's crown, Which our sinful hours here have already thrown away.
Don't cry with me—that'll make me break down too fast. Listen, you have to understand: think of our life as a king and queen as just a beautiful dream. Now we're awake and this is reality—we're nothing now. I've made a pact with hard necessity itself, and we're stuck together until I die. You need to go to France and hide in a monastery. We have to live holy lives now to earn heaven's crown, since we threw away the earthly crown through our sinful choices.
dont cry w me our life was a dream now its over im stuck w necessity go to france and a monastery
What, is my Richard both in shape and mind
Transformed and weakened! Hath Bolingbroke
Deposed thine intellect? Hath he been in thy heart?
The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw
And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o’erpowered; and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take the correction mildly, kiss the rod,
And fawn on rage with base humility,
Which art a lion and the king of beasts?
What, is my Richard completely changed both in body and in mind And weakened! Has Bolingbroke Taken away your intelligence? Has he invaded your heart? The dying lion pushes out his paw And wounds the ground, if nothing else, with rage Because of being overcome; and will you, like a student, Accept the punishment meekly, kiss the rod, And be submissive with base humility, You who are a lion and the king of beasts?
What is this? My Richard—has he completely transformed? Both his body and his mind are broken! Did Bolingbroke destroy your intelligence? Did he get into your heart? A dying lion still scratches the earth with rage at being overpowered. But you—the lion, the king of beasts—you're taking punishment like a submissive student, kissing the rod that beats you, groveling in humility?
ur not u anymore ar u seriously just taking this a lion would fight back why r u groveling
A king of beasts, indeed! If aught but beasts,
I had been still a happy king of men.
Good sometimes queen, prepare thee hence for France.
Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak’st,
As from my death-bed, thy last living leave.
In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire
With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales
Of woeful ages long ago betid;
And ere thou bid good night, to quit their griefs,
Tell thou the lamentable tale of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds.
For why, the senseless brands will sympathize
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,
And in compassion weep the fire out;
And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,
For the deposing of a rightful king.
A king of beasts, yes! If I were anything besides beasts, I would still be a happy king of men. Good woman, my sometime queen, prepare to leave for France. Think of me as dead, and receive here what you are taking, As if from my deathbed, your last living goodbye from me. During the long tedious nights of winter sit by the fire With good old people, and let them tell you stories Of sorrowful events that happened long ago; And before you go to bed, to help ease their pain, Tell them the sad tale of my downfall, And send your listeners weeping to their beds. Because, the unthinking logs of fire will connect with The deep emotional tone of your moving voice, And in sympathy the fire will weep itself out; And some mourners will grieve in ashes, some in black coal, Because of the removal of a rightful king.
King of beasts? Sure, but I'd rather be just a regular king of men who could be happy. Listen, my queen—even though it hurts—you need to get ready to go to France. Think of this as me dying right now. During those long winter nights, sit by the fireplace with old people and have them tell you stories about sad things that happened in the past. And before you go to sleep, tell them my story—my terrible downfall. Make them cry. The fire will weep with you, and people will mourn in ashes, all because a true king was forced off his throne.
yeah king of beasts not king of happy men go to france tell ppl my sad story by the fire theyll cry thinking of me
The Queen and Richard have opposite needs in this scene. She needs to fight — she wants him to rage, to resist, to refuse resignation. He needs to protect her by being calm. The result is a farewell in which neither person gets what they need, which is a more truthful version of most painful goodbyes than the romantic ones. Richard's gentleness is real and devastating: he tells her to go to a convent, to think of their life together as a dream, to sit by winter fires and tell his story. He is already composing his own legend in the act of saying goodbye. She pushes back — 'the lion dying thrusteth forth his paw' — and he accepts the truth of it: yes, he was a king of beasts, and when his subjects turned out to be beasts, the kingdom was already lost. What's remarkable is how little bitterness there is. The scene is in mourning, not in anger.
My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is changed.
You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.
And, madam, there is order ta’en for you:
With all swift speed you must away to France.
My lord, the plans of Bolingbroke have changed. You must go to Pomfret castle, not the Tower. And, madam, orders have been arranged for you too: With all speed you must depart to France.
My lord, Bolingbroke's changed where you're going. You're going to Pomfret Castle instead of the Tower. And madam, they've arranged for you to leave immediately for France.
ur going to pomfret not the tower and u gotta leave for france now
Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,
The time shall not be many hours of age
More than it is ere foul sin, gathering head,
Shall break into corruption. Thou shalt think,
Though he divide the realm and give thee half
It is too little, helping him to all.
And he shall think that thou, which knowst the way
To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,
Being ne’er so little urged, another way
To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.
The love of wicked men converts to fear,
That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both
To worthy danger and deserved death.
Northumberland, you are the ladder by which The ambitious Bolingbroke climbs onto my throne, The time shall not be many hours old More than it is before serious sin, gathering strength, Shall break into total corruption. You will think, Though he divides the kingdom and gives you half, It is too little, knowing you helped him to everything. And he will think that you, who knows the method To place unrightful kings, will know once more, Being even slightly urged, another method To throw him violently down from the stolen throne. The love of bad men turns into fear, That fear becomes hate, and hate turns one or both Into serious danger and deserved death.
Northumberland, you're the ladder that Bolingbroke climbed up to steal my throne. And soon—probably just hours from now—all that corruption will explode. You'll realize that even if he gives you half the kingdom as a reward, it's not enough payment for helping him get everything. And he'll figure out that since you already know how to make an unfit king take the throne, you'll probably learn how to knock him right off it again too. When bad men love each other, it always turns into fear, then hate, then both of them end up dead.
ur the ladder he climbed this corruption will blow up soon u both gonna regret this end up dead
My guilt be on my head, and there an end.
Take leave and part, for you must part forthwith.
Let my guilt stay on my head, and let this end it. Say goodbye and leave now, because you must go right away.
I'll take the blame for this and that's the end of it. Now say goodbye and go—you have to leave right now.
ill take the blame go now
Doubly divorced! Bad men, you violate
A twofold marriage, ’twixt my crown and me,
And then betwixt me and my married wife.
Let me unkiss the oath ’twixt thee and me;
And yet not so, for with a kiss ’twas made.
Part us, Northumberland: I towards the north,
Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime;
My wife to France, from whence set forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither like sweet May,
Sent back like Hallowmas or short’st of day.
Separated in two ways! Evil men, you violate A double marriage, first between my crown and me, And then between me and my married wife. Let me undo the oath between you and me; And yet I cannot, because with a kiss that oath was made. Separate us, Northumberland: I go toward the north, Where freezing cold and disease punish the land; My wife to France, from which she set out in glory, She came adorned here like sweet May blooming, Sent back like winter's end or the shortest day.
Separated twice over! You evil men are breaking two bonds at once—first between me and my crown, and then between me and my wife. You're trying to undo an oath we made with a kiss, which can't really be undone. So send us apart, Northumberland: I'll go north to the freezing, sickly cold; and my wife goes to France. She came here in spring, adorned like May flowers, and now you're sending her back like it's the dead of winter.
ur ripping apart two marriages me and the crown me and my wife im going north shes going to france cruel
And must we be divided? Must we part?
Do we have to be divided? Do we have to separate?
Do we really have to split up like this?
do we gotta separate tho
Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.
Yes, your hand from my hand, my love, and your heart from my heart.
Yes—I have to let go of your hand and you have to let go of my heart.
yeah hand from hand heart from heart
Banish us both, and send the King with me.
If you must exile anyone, exile us together, and let Richard come with me.
Then banish both of us together and let me go with the King.
banish us both together
That were some love, but little policy.
That would show some love, but poor political sense.
That would be romantic, but it's not smart politics.
thats sweet but bad politics
Northumberland's announcement that Richard is going to Pomfret rather than the Tower is one of the most chilling moments in the play, precisely because it's delivered so flatly. The Tower of London was a prison, but it was a visible one — in London, near the court, near the Queen, near everyone. Pomfret Castle (Pontefract, in Yorkshire) was remote, northern, cold — the kind of place you sent someone when you wanted them to disappear. The historical association mattered: Edward II had been murdered in a remote castle. Richard III's supposed murder of the princes had begun with the Tower. Audiences in 1595 would have recognized the geography of disappearance. And Richard recognizes it too — his description of the north as 'where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime' is not poetry; it's an assessment of what's waiting for him. The change of destination is the death sentence, delivered as logistics.
Then whither he goes, thither let me go.
Then wherever he goes, let me go there as well.
Then send me wherever he's going—I'll follow him.
im going where he goes
So two, together weeping, make one woe.
Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here;
Better far off than near, be ne’er the near.
Go, count thy way with sighs, I mine with groans.
So if two of us together weep, we make one shared sorrow. Weep for me in France, I will weep for you here; It is better we be far apart rather than close, bringing no closeness. Go, count your journey with sighs, I will count mine with groans.
If we both cry together, it just doubles the pain. You cry for me from France, and I'll cry for you here. We'll be better off far apart. Count the miles with sighs, and I'll count them with groans.
better we cry apart u in france me here share the pain that way
So longest way shall have the longest moans.
So the longer journey will bring the longer mourning.
So the longer the distance, the longer the grief.
longer trip more tears
Twice for one step I’ll groan, the way being short,
And piece the way out with a heavy heart.
Come, come, in wooing sorrow let’s be brief,
Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief.
One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part;
Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart.
For each single step I will groan twice, since the journey is short, And fill out the distance with a heavy heart. Come, come, in this sad farewell let us be quick, Because in this marriage to sorrow, the grief is so long. One kiss will silence our words, and we will part quietly; Thus I give you my kiss, and thus I take your heart.
I'll groan twice for every step—my journey to Pomfret is short, but my heart's heavy. Come on, let's make this goodbye quick because sorrow is long enough without drawing it out. One kiss to say everything, and then we part silent. Here's my kiss—and I'm taking your heart with me.
ill groan every step lets make this quick one kiss then im taking ur heart
Give me mine own again; ’twere no good part
To take on me to keep and kill thy heart.
Give me my own heart back; it would be wrong for me To keep your heart and destroy it by holding it.
Give my heart back to me—I can't take yours and then kill it by keeping it locked up.
give me my heart back ill kill urs holding it
So, now I have mine own again, be gone,
That I may strive to kill it with a groan.
So now I have my own heart back, go away so that I can try to kill it with my sighs.
Okay, I've got my heart back now. Get away from me so I can destroy it with my grief.
now i have my heart back get gone so i can kill it with grief
We make woe wanton with this fond delay:
Once more, adieu. The rest let sorrow say.
We are making sorrow into entertainment with this drawn-out goodbye: Once more, farewell. Let grief say the rest.
We're just playing with our pain by dragging this out. Let me say goodbye again. Let sorrow tell the rest.
stop playing w the pain one more bye lets grieve now
The Reckoning
Thirty-five chunks, the play's most intimate scene. After the spectacle of 4-1 — the deposition, the mirror, the packed court — Shakespeare strips everything away: two people on a street, saying goodbye without being allowed to. The Queen has not been seen since 3-4 (the garden); Richard has not spoken privately since his abdication. Their goodbye is cut short by Northumberland. Richard's prophecy about Northumberland is precise and cold, delivered to the man who is standing there. And the farewell itself — two kisses, a separation enforced by guards — is one of the most restrained, devastating partings in Shakespeare.
If this happened today…
The ousted CEO is being escorted to his car by security when his wife intercepts the convoy. She waited on the sidewalk to see him. They have maybe five minutes. He tells her: go to Paris, think of this as waking up from a dream. She says: fight back, you're still a lion. He says: I was a king of beasts, and men turned out to be the beasts. The head of security arrives: change of plan — he's not going home, he's going to a facility in the north. The CEO looks at the head of security and says, quietly: you built your career by helping him take me down. He will never trust you. She says: let me come. Security says: that's love talking, not policy. One last kiss. Two last kisses. He goes north. She goes to the airport.