ROSS The commons hath he pilled with grievous taxes
And quite lost their hearts. The nobles hath he fined
For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.
WILLOUGHBY And daily, new exactions are devised,
As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what.
But what in God’s name doth become of this?
NORTHUMBERLAND Wars hath not wasted it, for warred he hath not,
But basely yielded upon compromise
That which his noble ancestors achieved with blows.
More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.
ROSS The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.
WILLOUGHBY The King’s grown bankrupt like a broken man.
NORTHUMBERLAND Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him. (2.1.246-258)
These doughty, crafty noblemen are brilliantly written. It’s easy to be lulled by the suppleness, the cleverness of Richard’s blank verse (or Gaunt’s), its regular, always pointed slide into rhyming couplets. And here, of course, they’re still speaking in blank verse—but it sounds older. This exchange, here and as it continues, sounds more like the first tetralogy, the world of the Wars of the Roses, where scenes of ritual grievance-airing and lamentation punctuate the battles. (The sporadic alliteration here also makes it sound almost genuinely medieval.) Ross goes first, citing the grievances of the commons, pilled, wasted, bled dry, with grievous taxes: the King has quite lost their hearts. And the nobles he has fined for ancient quarrels, digging up old offences for which they must make reparations: he has quite lost their hearts too. (Nobles and commons, both houses of parliament; the implication is that, perhaps setting aside the Church, Richard has alienated the entire country.) Willoughby sounds more impatient, helped by the alliteration: there’s new taxes and fines and fees being devised all the time, things like blanks and benevolences, he spits out, whatever the hell they are, I wot not what (a blank is a blank charter, a pre-written and authorized form enabling Richard’s agents to seize unspecified amounts of money from wealthy men, a blank cheque of sorts; a benevolence is a forced loan). What in God’s name doth become of this? What’s going to happen next? What can be done? What are we going to do? Northumberland, sounding like a bit of Beowulf: Wars hath not wasted it, for warred he hath not—well, he hasn’t been spending the money on going to war, because he’s negotiated shameful treaties instead. And (sounding a bit like York, and his reminiscences about Richard’s brother and father, warriors and leaders, as well as being prudent with money) Richard has given up things hard won by his ancestors, pretty much without a fight. (This is probably a specific allusion to Richard’s surrendering the town of Brest in Brittany in 1397.) Richard’s spent more in peace, implicitly on his favourites and on his dissolute lifestyle and extravagance, than his grandfather Edward III and his father Prince Edward ever spent in wars. The entire country’s effectively mortgaged to the earl of Wiltshire! (another royal favourite). The King is bankrupt and broken! And reproach and dissolution, ruin, hang over him. It’s only a matter of time. Everyone hates him.
The use of three line units of blank verse here gives it a nervy, urgent quality: not the balance of a four-square quatrain or the closure of a couplet, however fleeting, but instead the sense of these three powerful men, talking fast, letting it all spill out, all thinking the same thing and relieved finally to be putting it into words. ‘When shall we three meet again?’ Not quite, but there’s certainly an ominous quality to this exchange, and they’re only getting started.
