Richard came back from Ireland and kissed the ground of England. He had not worried on the crossing over. One name of a king, he believed, was worth twenty thousand soldiers.
The news came in three deliveries. First, that the soldiers waiting in Wales had dispersed. Then, that his favourites had been taken and put to death. Last, that York too had gone over to Bolingbroke’s side.
Richard sits down on the ground. And he says they should tell sad stories of the death of kings. Inside the crown, he says, death sits and lets a man play at being king a while.