BOLINGBROKE.
Whither?
KING RICHARD.
Whither you will, so I were from your sights.
BOLINGBROKE.
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.
[Exeunt King Richard and Guard.]
BOLINGBROKE.
On Wednesday next we solemnly set down
Our coronation. Lords, prepare yourselves.
[Exeunt all but the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster and Aumerle.]
ABBOT.
A woeful pageant have we here beheld.
CARLISLE.
The woe’s to come. The children yet unborn
Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.
AUMERLE.
You holy clergymen, is there no plot
To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?