RICHARD [To Aumerle] Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth
Of that sweet way I was in to despair.
What say you now, what comfort have we now?
By heaven, I’ll hate him everlastingly
That bids me be of comfort any more.
Go to Flint Castle, there I’ll pine away—
A king, woe’s slave, shall kingly woe obey.
That power I have, discharge, and let them go
To ear the land that hath some hope to grow,
For I have none. Let no man speak again
To alter this, for counsel is but vain.
AUMERLE My liege, one word.
RICHARD He does me double wrong
That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.
Discharge my followers, let them hence away
From Richard’s night to Bolingbroke’s fair day. Exeunt. (3.2.204-218)
Aumerle, probably unfairly, bears the brunt of Richard’s anger and despair; he too must be shocked by the news of his own father’s defection, and perhaps anxious to protest his own loyalty to Richard. But Richard’s had enough, and there’s no time (or will) any longer for eloquent meditations on mortality and monarchy. Curse you, cousin, for your attempts to console and distract me, leading me out of that sweet way I was in to despair. (It’s ironically sweet, but is also, perhaps, a reminder that despair is the worst of sins, and that ‘wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction’, Matthew 7.13; there’s an anticipation here in sweet, often associated with flowers, of the ‘primrose path of dalliance’ which Ophelia mockingly warns Laertes of in Hamlet1.3. Basically, paths that are pleasant and easy to follow lead all too readily to hell.) I’ll hate him everlastingly that bids me be of comfort any more. And now to Flint Castle: historically it was Conwy, but there’s an ambiguous marginal note in Holinshed, and Flint, in its uncompromising, monosyllabic hardness, suits the mood—and immediately recalls the brass impregnable of the crown, the fortress, the head so recently evoked by Richard. (The point there was, of course, that even that impregnable fortress could not keep out death.) For the rest of the scene Richard retreats not only into despair, but into twisty couplets: he will pine away at Flint, a slave to woe although a king, with no choice but to obey the woe, the suffering and sorrow which inheres in the fact of kingship itself. (The repeated woe perhaps—just—recalls the O of the hollow crown, especially if it’s been gesturally prominent in performance.) Let my power, my soldiers, my followers disperse; they too can go over to Bolingbroke, to join the rising man, ear (that is till) the land that hath some hope to grow. (In effect Richard is the sinking ship telling the rats to get out; the idiom may have just about been current, looking at the OED.) For I have none: all hope is gone, reinforced with that mid-line caesura. Don’t say anything. Just don’t. I’ve made my mind up: counsel is but vain, pointless, empty.
Aumerle is relentless, pleading—but Richard turns on him, again. You’re just making it worse, wounding me with the flatteries of your tongue, here implying that Aumerle is like a snake (the conjunction of double, tongue, and wound) and that he too, by continuing to speak at all is showing disloyalty, even treachery. Again, discharge my followers. And then in that final couplet—let them hence away from Richard’s night to Bolingbroke’s fair day—this extraordinary scene, which has brought together earth and heaven, land and sky, sovereignty and death, and the potent figure of the hollow crown, circles around and flips. Richard is no longer the sun. He has set; it’s Bolingbroke’s time now. This conceit is going to come back again and again.
What an astonishing scene.
