AUMERLE My father hath a power: inquire of him,
And learn to make a body of a limb.
RICHARD Thou chid’st me well. Proud Bolingbroke, I come
To change blows with thee for our day of doom.
This ague fit of fear is over-blown,
An easy task it is to win our own.
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power?
Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour. (3.2.186-193)
First Aumerle and then Richard pick up Carlisle’s final couplet, and the scene switches, albeit briefly (as it will swiftly transpire) into consolation and confidence-building, in a little run of couplets. Aumerle finally has some comfort to offer, or so he thinks: my father (the duke of York) hath a power, an army: inquire of him, find out what he’s up to, where he is. Learn to make a body of a limb: it might not be the army you were hoping for, but it will do, the part will become the whole.
Thou chid’st me well, a complete reversal from Richard’s earlier rejection of Aumerle’s repeated attempts to find the silver lining. I’ve accepted your implicit rebuke and correction, and I’m ready, emboldened, defiant: Proud Bolingbroke, I come to change blows with thee for our day of doom. Changehere is exchange, as if they’re going to meet in single combat, like the abortive contest between Bolingbroke and Mowbray; this is given added emphasis by day of doom, judgement day. Such a combat would prove whose side is in the right, whose claim is most just. And Richard remains convinced that he is the rightful king. This ague fit of fear is over-blown; like a fever it’s broken, blown over, disappeared, and also, perhaps, overblown like a flower, exaggerated, or something too much inflated. I’ve over-reacted, Richard’s saying, in my desperate talk of death. It is an easy task to win our own, to take back control of what is rightfully ours, the land, the people, the crown. (The royal plural reappears.) So, Scroop, tell us: where’s York, and where’s his army? At least speak sweetly, give us good news, even though you’re not looking at all happy (with the additional joke, perhaps, that Scroop is no oil-painting, frankly).
