THE DEPOSING OF RICHARD II. AND HIS MURDER IN POMFRET CASTLE.

"O Pomfret, Pomfret, O thou bloody prison! Fatal and ominous to noble Peers! Within the guilty closure of thy walls, Richard the Second here was hack'd to death." Shakspeare's Richard III.

When Richard the Second in England was king, And reign'd with honour and state, Six uncles he had, his grandfather's sons, King Edward that ruled of late; All counsellors noble and sage; Yet would he not hear Their precepts dear, So wilful he was, in this his young age. A sort of brave gallants he kept in his court, That train'd him to wanton delights, Which parasites pleased him better in mind, Than all his best nobles and knights: Ambition and avarice grew So great in this land, That still from his hand A mass of rich treasure his parasites drew. His peers and his barons dishonoured were; And upstarts thus mounted on high; His commons sore tax'd, his cities oppress'd, Good subjects were nothing set by; And what to his coffers did come, He wantonly spent, To please with content His flattering upstarts, still sporting at home. When thus unto ruin this kingdom began, To fall from the highest estate, The nobles of England their prince's amiss, By parliament soon did rebate; And likewise those flatterers all, They banish'd the court, That made but a sport To see this so famous a kingdom to fall. But after these gallants degraded were thus, King Richard himself was put down, And Bullinbrook, Lancaster's noble-born duke By policy purchased his crown. Thus civil wars here begun, That could have no end, By foe nor by friend, Till seven kings' reigns, with their lives were out-run. But Richard, the breeder of all these same broils, In prison was wofully cast, Where long he complain'd, in sorrowful sort, Of kingly authority past: No lords nor no subjects had he, No glory, no state, That early and late Upon him attending had wont for to be. His robes were converted to garments so old, That beggars would hardly them wear; His diet no comfort at all to him brought, For he fed upon sorrow and care. And from prison to prison was sent, Each day, and each night, To work him despight, That, wearied with sorrows, he still might lament. Poor king, thus abused, he was at the last To Pomfret in Yorkshire convey'd, And there in a dungeon, full low in the ground, Unpitied, he nightly was laid: Not one for his misery grieved, That late was in place Of royallest grace, Where still the distress'd he kindly relieved. King Henry usurping then all his estate, Could never in heart be content, Till some of his friends in secresy sought To kill him by cruel consent; Who soon to Pomfret hied, Whereas the fear, That touch'd him so near, They finish'd as soon as king Richard there died. There dy'd this good king, for murther'd he was, That might well have lived full long, Had not ill counsel betray'd his best good, And done his high fortunes this wrong: But blood for blood still calls, No bloody-stain'd hand Can long in this land Stand surely, but soon into misery falls. Lancaster thus the diadem gain'd, And won his title by blood, Which afterwards by heaven's high power, Not three generations stood, But yielded to York again: Thus fortune shows Their proud overthrows, That cunningly climb an imperial reign.