The Duchess of York (not to be confused with the Duchess of Gloucester from 1-2) is the play's most energetic fighter — she argues with her husband, hides his boots, and races to Windsor to out-kneel him before the king. Her love for her son is unconditional and tactical simultaneously. She will succeed.
My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest,
When weeping made you break the story off
Of our two cousins’ coming into London.
My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest,
When weeping made you break the story off
Of our two cousins’ coming into London.
my lord, you told me you would tell the rest,
when weeping made you break the story off
of our two cousins’ coming into london.
My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When
Where did I leave?
Where did I leave?
where did i leave?
Where did I leave?
At that sad stop, my lord,
Where rude misgoverned hands from windows’ tops
Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard’s head.
At that sad stop, my lord,
Where rude misgoverned hands from windows’ tops
Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard’s head.
at that sad stop, my lord,
where rude misgoverned hands from windows’ tops
threw dust and rubbish on king richard’s head.
At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgoverned
Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seemed to know,
With slow but stately pace kept on his course,
Whilst all tongues cried “God save thee, Bolingbroke!”
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage, and that all the walls
With painted imagery had said at once
“Jesu preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke!”
Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning,
Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed’s neck,
Bespake them thus, “I thank you, countrymen.”
And thus still doing, thus he passed along.
Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seemed to know,
With slow but stately pace kept on his course,
Whilst all tongues cried “God save thee, Bolingbroke!”
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage, and that all the walls
With painted imagery had said at once
“Jesu preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke!”
Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning,
Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed’s neck,
Bespake them thus, “I thank you, countrymen.”
And thus still doing, thus he passed along.
then, as i said, the duke, great bolingbroke,
mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
which his aspiring rider seemed to know,
with slow but stately pace kept on his course,
whilst all tongues cried “god save thee, bolingbroke!”
you would have thought the very windows spake,
so many greedy looks of young and old
through casements darted their desiring eyes
upon his visage, and that all the walls
with painted imagery had said at once
“jesu preserve thee! welcome, bolingbroke!”
whilst he, from the one side to the other turning,
bareheaded, lower than his proud steed’s neck,
bespake them thus, “i thank you, countrymen.”
and thus still doing, thus he passed along.
Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke, Moun
Alack, poor Richard! Where rode he the whilst?
Alack, poor Richard! Where rode he the whilst?
alack, poor richard! where rode he the whilst?
Alack, poor Richard! Where rode he the whilst?
As in a theatre the eyes of men
After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious,
Even so, or with much more contempt, men’s eyes
Did scowl on gentle Richard. No man cried “God save him!”
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home,
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,
That had not God for some strong purpose, steeled
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow.
As in a theatre the eyes of men
After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious,
Even so, or with much more contempt, men’s eyes
Did scowl on gentle Richard. No man cried “God save him!”
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home,
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,
That had not God for some strong purpose, steeled
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow.
as in a theatre the eyes of men
after a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
are idly bent on him that enters next,
thinking his prattle to be tedious,
even so, or with much more contempt, men’s eyes
did scowl on gentle richard. no man cried “god save him!”
no joyful tongue gave him his welcome home,
but dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
his face still combating with tears and smiles,
the badges of his grief and patience,
that had not god for some strong purpose, steeled
the hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
and barbarism itself have pitied him.
but heaven hath a hand in these events,
to whose high will we bound our calm contents.
to bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
whose state and honour i for aye allow.
As in a theatre the eyes of men After a well-grace
Here comes my son Aumerle.
Here comes my son Aumerle.
here comes my son aumerle.
Here comes my son Aumerle.
Aumerle that was;
But that is lost for being Richard’s friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.
I am in Parliament pledge for his truth
And lasting fealty to the new-made king.
Aumerle that was;
But that is lost for being Richard’s friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.
I am in Parliament pledge for his truth
And lasting fealty to the new-made king.
aumerle that was;
but that is lost for being richard’s friend,
and, madam, you must call him rutland now.
i am in parliament pledge for his truth
and lasting fealty to the new-made king.
Aumerle that was; But that is lost for being Richa
Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?
Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?
welcome, my son. who are the violets now
that strew the green lap of the new-come spring?
Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now That stre
Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not.
God knows I had as lief be none as one.
Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not.
God knows I had as lief be none as one.
madam, i know not, nor i greatly care not.
god knows i had as lief be none as one.
Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not. God kno
Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
Lest you be cropped before you come to prime.
What news from Oxford? Do these jousts and triumphs hold?
Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
Lest you be cropped before you come to prime.
What news from Oxford? Do these jousts and triumphs hold?
well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
lest you be cropped before you come to prime.
what news from oxford? do these jousts and triumphs hold?
Well, bear you well in this new spring of time, Le
For aught I know, my lord, they do.
For aught I know, my lord, they do.
for aught i know, my lord, they do.
For aught I know, my lord, they do.
You will be there, I know.
You will be there, I know.
you will be there, i know.
You will be there, I know.
If God prevent not, I purpose so.
If God prevent not, I purpose so.
if god prevent not, i purpose so.
If God prevent not, I purpose so.
What seal is that that hangs without thy bosom?
Yea, look’st thou pale? Let me see the writing.
What seal is that that hangs without thy bosom?
Yea, look’st thou pale? Let me see the writing.
what seal is that that hangs without thy bosom?
yea, look’st thou pale? let me see the writing.
What seal is that that hangs without thy bosom? Ye
My lord, ’tis nothing.
My lord, ’tis nothing.
my lord, ’tis nothing.
My lord, ’tis nothing.
York's decision to report his own son to the king is the play's most ruthless act of principle, and Shakespeare doesn't make it heroic or easy. The scene surrounding it is almost farcical — the Duchess hiding the boots, York calling for them anyway, the absurdity of a father and mother arguing over a treasonous document while the son stands there. But the comedy is the medium through which a genuinely terrible moral choice is presented. York has pledged his loyalty to Henry IV in Parliament. He has made his peace with the new regime, told himself heaven has a hand in it, and sworn himself to the new king. Now his son's life is in the balance, and York chooses the oath over the son. The argument the Duchess makes — that he suspects the boy is a bastard, which is why he won't protect him — is the cruelest thing she can say, and it doesn't work. York is not a cold man; he wept describing Richard's humiliation. His choosing duty over family is the act of a man who has decided that public order and personal loyalty cannot coexist when they conflict, and has chosen public order. That choice will define his legacy in the Henry IV plays.
No matter, then, who see it.
I will be satisfied. Let me see the writing.
No matter, then, who see it.
I will be satisfied. Let me see the writing.
no matter, then, who see it.
i will be satisfied. let me see the writing.
No matter, then, who see it. I will be satisfied.
I do beseech your Grace to pardon me.
It is a matter of small consequence,
Which for some reasons I would not have seen.
I do beseech your Grace to pardon me.
It is a matter of small consequence,
Which for some reasons I would not have seen.
i do beseech your grace to pardon me.
it is a matter of small consequence,
which for some reasons i would not have seen.
I do beseech your Grace to pardon me. It is a matt
Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear—
Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear—
which for some reasons, sir, i mean to see.
i fear, i fear—
Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see. I fear
What should you fear?
’Tis nothing but some bond that he is entered into
For gay apparel ’gainst the triumph day.
What should you fear?
’Tis nothing but some bond that he is entered into
For gay apparel ’gainst the triumph day.
what should you fear?
’tis nothing but some bond that he is entered into
for gay apparel ’gainst the triumph day.
What should you fear? ’Tis nothing but some bond t
Bound to himself? What doth he with a bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.
Boy, let me see the writing.
Bound to himself? What doth he with a bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.
Boy, let me see the writing.
bound to himself? what doth he with a bond
that he is bound to? wife, thou art a fool.
boy, let me see the writing.
Bound to himself? What doth he with a bond That he
I do beseech you, pardon me. I may not show it.
I do beseech you, pardon me. I may not show it.
i do beseech you, pardon me. i may not show it.
I do beseech you, pardon me. I may not show it.
I will be satisfied. Let me see it, I say.
I will be satisfied. Let me see it, I say.
i will be satisfied. let me see it, i say.
I will be satisfied. Let me see it, I say.
What is the matter, my lord?
What is the matter, my lord?
what is the matter, my lord?
What is the matter, my lord?
Ho! who is within there?
Ho! who is within there?
ho! who is within there?
Ho! who is within there?
Why, what is it, my lord?
Why, what is it, my lord?
why, what is it, my lord?
Why, what is it, my lord?
Give me my boots, I say. Saddle my horse.
Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth,
I will appeach the villain.
Give me my boots, I say. Saddle my horse.
Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth,
I will appeach the villain.
give me my boots, i say. saddle my horse.
now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth,
i will appeach the villain.
Give me my boots, I say. Saddle my horse. Now, by
What is the matter?
What is the matter?
what is the matter?
What is the matter?
York's description of the London procession contains one of the most self-aware moments in Shakespeare: 'As in a theatre the eyes of men / After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, / Are idly bent on him that enters next.' The 'well-graced actor' is Richard — the man who just left — and the audience's quick indifference to whoever comes next mirrors the crowd's behavior. But York is also describing his own audience: the people at the Globe watching Richard II. Shakespeare is writing about the experience of watching his own play. The metaphor has another layer: Richard has throughout the play been the most theatrical character, the one who stages his own grief and his own deposition. He was a 'well-graced actor' in the deepest sense. And the crowd's indifference to him in York's account — turning to Bolingbroke with 'greedy looks' — is precisely what made him a bad king: he performed for an audience that could transfer its attention to the next performer.
Peace, foolish woman.
Peace, foolish woman.
peace, foolish woman.
Peace, foolish woman.
I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?
I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?
i will not peace. what is the matter, aumerle?
I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?
Good mother, be content. It is no more
Than my poor life must answer.
Good mother, be content. It is no more
Than my poor life must answer.
good mother, be content. it is no more
than my poor life must answer.
Good mother, be content. It is no more Than my poo
Thy life answer?
Thy life answer?
thy life answer?
Thy life answer?
Bring me my boots. I will unto the King.
Bring me my boots. I will unto the King.
bring me my boots. i will unto the king.
Bring me my boots. I will unto the King.
Strike him, Aumerle! Poor boy, thou art amazed.
Strike him, Aumerle! Poor boy, thou art amazed.
strike him, aumerle! poor boy, thou art amazed.
Strike him, Aumerle! Poor boy, thou art amazed.
Give me my boots, I say.
Give me my boots, I say.
give me my boots, i say.
Give me my boots, I say.
Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? Or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age
And rob me of a happy mother’s name?
Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own?
Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? Or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age
And rob me of a happy mother’s name?
Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own?
why, york, what wilt thou do?
wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
have we more sons? or are we like to have?
is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
and wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age
and rob me of a happy mother’s name?
is he not like thee? is he not thine own?
Why, York, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou not hide t
Thou fond mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament
And interchangeably set down their hands
To kill the King at Oxford.
Thou fond mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament
And interchangeably set down their hands
To kill the King at Oxford.
thou fond mad woman,
wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
a dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament
and interchangeably set down their hands
to kill the king at oxford.
Thou fond mad woman, Wilt thou conceal this dark c
He shall be none;
We’ll keep him here. Then what is that to him?
He shall be none;
We’ll keep him here. Then what is that to him?
he shall be none;
we’ll keep him here. then what is that to him?
He shall be none; We’ll keep him here. Then what i
Away, fond woman! Were he twenty times my son,
I would appeach him.
Away, fond woman! Were he twenty times my son,
I would appeach him.
away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son,
i would appeach him.
Away, fond woman! Were he twenty times my son, I w
Hadst thou groaned for him
As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect
That I have been disloyal to thy bed
And that he is a bastard, not thy son.
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind.
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me, or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.
Hadst thou groaned for him
As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect
That I have been disloyal to thy bed
And that he is a bastard, not thy son.
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind.
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me, or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.
hadst thou groaned for him
as i have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful.
but now i know thy mind: thou dost suspect
that i have been disloyal to thy bed
and that he is a bastard, not thy son.
sweet york, sweet husband, be not of that mind.
he is as like thee as a man may be,
not like to me, or any of my kin,
and yet i love him.
Hadst thou groaned for him As I have done, thou wo
Make way, unruly woman!
Make way, unruly woman!
make way, unruly woman!
Make way, unruly woman!
After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse!
Spur post, and get before him to the King,
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
I’ll not be long behind. Though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York.
And never will I rise up from the ground
Till Bolingbroke have pardoned thee. Away, be gone!
After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse!
Spur post, and get before him to the King,
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
I’ll not be long behind. Though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York.
And never will I rise up from the ground
Till Bolingbroke have pardoned thee. Away, be gone!
after, aumerle! mount thee upon his horse!
spur post, and get before him to the king,
and beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
i’ll not be long behind. though i be old,
i doubt not but to ride as fast as york.
and never will i rise up from the ground
till bolingbroke have pardoned thee. away, be gone!
After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse! Spur po
The Reckoning
Fifty-six chunks, and the tonal contrast with everything around it is deliberate. After 5-1's unbearable quiet farewell, Shakespeare gives us something almost farcical: York demanding his boots, the Duchess trying to hide the boots, the two of them arguing across their son's head about whether to report him. The comedy is real, but it's also serious — a father about to denounce his own son to the king, a mother willing to shelter a traitor. York's choice embodies one of the play's central arguments about what duty requires.
If this happened today…
The deposed CEO's father-in-law gives his wife a debrief on the corporate handover: Bolingbroke rode up Fifth Avenue like a conquering hero, and the old CEO got garbage thrown at him through car windows, shaking it off with this gentle sad smile. Their son comes home — he's been formally demoted. The father-in-law notices a folder visible inside the son's jacket, grabs it, reads it: a signed agreement for a murder plot. He calls for his car keys to drive to the new CEO immediately. The mother-in-law hides the keys. They argue. She tells the son: beat your father there, get the pardon before he can report you.