YORK              O Richard! York is too far gone with grief,

Or else he never would compare between—

RICHARD        Why uncle, what’s the matter?

YORK                                                              O my liege,

Pardon me if you please; if not, I, pleased

Not to be pardoned, am content withal.

Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands

The royalties and rights of banished Hereford?

Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?

Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true?

Did not the one deserve to have an heir?

Is not his heir a well-deserving son? (2.1.184-194)

 

York tries to get a grip on himself, realising what he’s been doing and saying: O Richard, initially at least an appeal to nephew rather than sovereign, forgive me, I’m too far gone with grief, that’s why I’ve made these comparisons, these accusations. The punctuation after between is editorial; the line is metrically complete, but the suggestion with the dash here is that either York breaks down (in grief, or indeed in fear, having realised that what he’s been saying is perilously close to treason) or that Richard interrupts. Either’s possible, and if the latter, there’s scope for Richard to play the line as if he really hasn’t been listening, as if he’s amazed at this great outpouring of emotion: what are you going on about and getting all worked up over? (There’s a quibble, what’s the matter, in the sense of, what’s wrong, but also, what’s the matter, the substance, the issue of your concern?) Or it could be played more sympathetically: dear uncle, what are you worrying about, why are you so upset? York retreats a little into formality, O my liege, pardon me—and he’s really asking for pardon, to be excused and forgiven, it’s not merely a polite formula. But—anxious again—only pardon me if you please; if you don’t, that’s absolutely fine, I’ll be quite happy with that too.

 

But then he returns to his matter, his central concern: do you really intend to seize and gripe, grasp into your hands the royalties and rights of banished Hereford? That’s the really big deal, in effect stealing Bolingbroke’s rightful inheritance. That’s a scandal, a complete disregard of law and custom. Not allowing Bolingbroke to inherit suggests that Gaunt was a traitor, and that Bolingbroke is a traitor too—but no, Gaunt was just and Harry Hereford, Bolingbroke is true. Does not the one deserve to have an heir? Is not his heir a well-deserving son? The father is dead, his son is alive; the natural order is that the son should inherit. And this part of York’s anguished intervention makes sense of his careful setting up of father-son relationships, and the degree to which Richard is (or is not) the worthy, well-deserving heir of his father and grandfather in his previous speech.

 

There’s so much fine-grained detail and ambiguity here; it seems dry and factual, even formulaic, and it is quite repetitive: but Richard (and York) have to make so many choices as to how this is to be played, not least because the stage is crowded with other interested parties, including Richard’s wife and favourites, and York’s own son Aumerle.