YORK No man cried God save him,
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home,
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,
That had not God for some strong purpose steeled
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in these events
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now
Whose state and honour I for aye allow. (5.2.28-40)
No man cried God save him, a bitterly echoing vindication of Richard’s own words in the deposition scene: God save the King! Will no man say ‘amen’? He is greeted perhaps with silence, more likely with jeering. This is no longer his city, and these are no longer his people: no joyful tongue gave him his welcome home. This is a terrible parody of Palm Sunday, of a coronation entry, or a triumph. (Richard left England for the wars in Ireland; he has not returned to London since.) Instead of petals, say, dust was thrown upon his sacred head—York, too, regards Richard’s anointing as undoable, inviolable, sacred—dust is rubbish in general but also the dust of earth, ashes, mortality again, repentance and mortification as well as insult. Yet Richard, apparently, remained serene, shaking it off with gentle sorrow, smiling through his tears, his face still combating with tears and smiles, which were the badges, the signs of his grief and patience. Surely, surely there must have been some divine purpose, some plan in the way in which he was shown such cruelty and indifference by the crowds; had not God for some strong purpose steeled the hearts of men, they must perforce have melted. Even barbarism, barbarians, savages would have pitied him, to see such a sight. But heaven hath a hand in these events—we have to believe that this is the working out of providence—and we must submit ourselves, and our happiness, to God’s purpose. Even if it hurts, and baffles, and offends, and angers. For to Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now whose state and honour I for aye allow. York is a pragmatist: he can regret and even be mortified by what has been done to Richard, but he also concedes that Richard has abdicated and Bolingbroke has been recognised as king. And so, says York (and he says we: does he specifically include his wife, perhaps a little warily, or wearily? or merely speak of the people in general?), that’s that. That’s the way it is now, and so it shall be for aye, for ever.
