Enter Aumerle
DUCHESS Here comes my son Aumerle.
YORK Aumerle that was,
But that is lost for being Richard’s friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.
I am in Parliament pledge for his truth
And lasting fealty to the new-made King.
DUCHESS Welcome my son. Who are the violets now
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?
AUMERLE Madam I know not, nor I greatly care not.
God knows I had as lief be none as one.
YORK Well, bear you well in this new spring of time
Lest you be cropped before you come to prime. (5.2.41-51)
Ah, Aumerle, in a scene with both his parents—an interesting dynamic. Immediately York, ever the stickler for protocol and due process, reminds the Duchess (if indeed she’s known previously) that Aumerle has lost his title (as duke of Aumerle); he’s just the plain earl of Rutland now. It’s a reminder of the way in which many identities, ranks, and relationships have shifted in this new regime, not simply Richard’s and Bolingbroke’s. Aumerle too has lost his identity, his name; he has been punished for being Richard’s friend but, implicitly, he’s being given the benefit of the doubt. Which means that he’s being watched, and he can’t afford to put a foot wrong. His father York has been pledge for his truth in Parliament; he’s acted as a guarantor of Aumerle’s loyalty to Bolingbroke as the new-made King. There may be a warning, encouraging glance from father to son.
The Duchess wants the news, and new is the word that resonates here. Who are the violets now that strew the green lap of the new-come spring? Who are the men who’ve been advanced, sprung up to greet the sun of this new-made King? Who’s he looking on with favour? This is a return to the play’s characteristic conceit of the garden, and it also establishes the Duchess as politically astute: who are the new favourites, who’s being rewarded? who’s in, if you’re out? (And violets are not long-lived; they fade; elsewhere—Ophelia’s withered violets—they are a sign of transience.) Aumerle sounding a bit like a sulky teen: Madam I know not, nor I greatly care not. Dunno, don’t care. God knows I had as lief be none as one: I’d rather not be anywhere, have any status or recognition of that kind than be one of those swiftly advanced men, jostling for favour, making myself available, anxious to be seen. Aumerle’s monosyllables and general, slightly elliptical shortness—as lief be none as one—prevents him from sounding openly rebellious or discontented, just a bit pissed off and sulky. Don’t care. Watch yourself, warns York, more experienced and more calculating: bear you well in this new spring of time. You have to play along. Lest you be cropped before you come to prime—and there’s a flash back to the gardeners, their weeding and pruning, as they like executioners cut off the heads of too-fast-growing sprays (3.4).
