Page:Richard II (1921) Yale.djvu/94

82

Boling. Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

North. The commons will not then be satisfied.

K. Rich. 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.

Give me that glass, and therein will I read.

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck

So many blows upon this face of mine

And made no deeper wounds? O, flattering 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?

Was this the face that fac'd so many follies,

And was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?

A brittle glory shineth in this face:

As brittle as the glory is the face;

For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.

Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,

How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.

Boling. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd

The shadow of your face.

K. Rich. 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

 272 Cf. n. on 154 above

281 beguile: flatter

284 wink: close their eyes

