Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

I pray God make thee new.

Therefore, be bold.

We will descend

But in this kind to come - in braving arms

Fear not, my lord.

O heinous, strong and bold conspiracy!

NORTHUMBERLAND: Well, lords,

the King shall rue.

Except the Marshal and such officers

York is far too gone with grief,

Sweet soil, adieu

I'll give my jewels for a set of beads,

Nay, all of you that stand and look upon,

Fiend, thou torment'st me ere I come to hell!

It is no more than my poor life must answer.

Of worms and epitaphs.

With fury from his native residence?

Or shall we play the wantons with our woes,

These terms of treason doubled down his throat.

And yet not so.

Sometimes am I king;

I do repent me; read not my name there

What sport shall we devise here in this garden,

To look so poorly and to speak so fair?

Enquire of him.

Your mother well hath prayed,

What is the matter, uncle? Speak.

Thy words are but as thoughts.

A plot shall show us all a merry day.

Landlord of England art thou now, not king.

Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.

Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford?

And for because the world is populous

This royal throne of kings,

In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,

Henry Bolingbroke

And now changed to The Beggar And The King.

Of his fair demands

Against infection and the hand of war,

Cherish rebellion and are rebels all.

And Bolingbroke hath seized the wasteful king.

And here is not a creature but myself,

Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument.

To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken.

Broke the possession of a royal bed

the apprehension of the good

Yet my death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.

For violent fires soon burn out themselves

On both his knees doth kiss King Richard's hand

Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman.

He is our cousin, cousin.

Must he lose the name of king?

Love loving not itself none other can.

With nothing grieved,

Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.

Anointed, crowned, planted many years,

Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,

My gorgeous palace for a hermitage,

Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;

Committ'st thy anointed body to the cure

Then give me leave to go.

That stands upon your royal grandsire's bones,

Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?

And made no deeper wounds?

But when, from over this terrestrial ball,

And we create, in absence of ourself,

O loyal father of a treacherous son!

Thy buried fear

I'll read enough,

They shall be satisfied

Return again, and take an oath with me.

Even through the hollow eyes of Death

Hear me, gentle liege.

This happy breed of men,

And quite lost their hearts.

You told me you would tell the rest?

Of noble Richard!

The rage be his,

All pomp and majesty I do forswear;

Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound;

This earth shall have a feeling,

And with him go these thoughts.

Flatter themselves

The time shall not be many hours of age

Tell thou the lamentable tale of me

Or wallow naked in December snow

God save the king!

Of that proud man that did usurp his back?

That many have and others must sit there;

Complotted and contrived in this land

Your uncle, York, is joined with Bolingbroke,

Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot

And bedew her pastures' grass

Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.

Boy, let me see the writing.

And lands restored again be freely granted.

I'll give thee scope to beat,

To entreat your majesty to visit him.

'Ere further leisure yield them further means

and yet not greatly good,

Me cause to wail but teachest me the way

For us to levy power

To God, my king

And her wholesome herbs Swarming with caterpillars?

As thus, to drop them still upon one place,