BOLINGBROKE My gracious lord, I come but for mine own.
RICHARD Your own is yours and I am yours and all.
BOLINGBROKE So far be mine, my most redoubted lord,
As my true service shall deserve your love.
RICHARD Well you deserve. They well deserve to have
That know the strong’st and surest way to get.
[To York] Uncle, give me your hands. Nay, dry your eyes;
Tears show their love but want their remedies.
[To Bolingbroke] Cousin, I am too young to be your father
Though you are old enough to be my heir.
What you will have, I’ll give, and willing too,
For do we must what force will have us do.
Set on towards London, cousin, is it so?
BOLINGBROKE Yea, my good lord.
RICHARD Then I must not say no.
Flourish. Exeunt. (3.3.194-207)
Bolingbroke says almost nothing to Richard, but Richard can’t seem to stop talking; he dominates the dialogue (which has sonnet-like shapes here), even as his power ebbs away. All Bolingbroke has to do is wait, really, and restate his case in simple terms, not even asking any more, really, just stating: My gracious lord, I come but for my own. (He is still not making any claim to the crown.) And Richard seems to have given up: Your own is yours—you have it—and I am yours too; I am in your hands, in your power; I think you’re claiming everything that I have too. Bolingbroke demurring yet again: so far be mine, my most redoubted, respected, feared lord, as my true service shall deserve your love; he’s still framing this in terms of his rightful inheritance, and proper reward for true, loyal service as Richard’s subject. (But it has to ring hollow, especially if they’re surrounded by armed men, and if Richard’s companions, Aumerle, Scroop, Salisbury, and Carlisle, are the only supporters he has; there might be a few extras, random soldiers, possibly.) Richard’s no fool: oh, you deserve everything alright. You’ll find that those who are strongest and surest, who have the numbers, might is right—oddly enough, they’re always the most deserving too.
After that bitter realism, a greeting for York, who has so failed him: uncle, give me your hands (I forgive you) and dry your eyes (York a weeper, like his son Aumerle). Your tears certainly demonstrate your affection for me, but they’re not doing anyone any good here; tears want their remedies, they lack any means of improving or redressing this situation. And then to Bolingbroke again, in a further reminder of the network of family ties here: cousin, I am too young to be your father, though you are old enough to be my heir. Another reiteration of Richard’s capitulation, naming Bolingbroke as his heir, in effect, even though Bolingbroke has still never made any mention of seeking the crown. What you will have, I’ll give, and willing too. I’ll give you everything you want. Because I have no choice. For do we must what force will have us do.
The final, resigned, practical exchange clinches it: Set on towards London, cousin, is it so? Richard knows that he is now, in effect, a prisoner, under Bolingbroke’s control: I must not say no. London is no longer his own capital. And for all Bolingbroke’s terse courtesy, London means the Tower. Flourish: the trumpets sound at Bolingbroke’s command.
