Boling. Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.
K. Rich. They shall be satisfied: I'll read enough
When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.
Enter one with a Glass.
Give me that glass, and therein will I read. 276
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine
And made no deeper wounds? O, flattering glass!
Like to my followers in prosperity, 280
Thou dost me. Was this face the face
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face
That like the sun did make beholders ? 284
Was this the face that fac'd so many follies,
And was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face:
As brittle as the glory is the face; 288
[Dashes the glass against the ground.]
For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,
How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.
Boling. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd 292
The shadow of your face.
K. Rich. Say that again.
The shadow of my sorrow! Ha! let's see:
'Tis very true, my grief lies all within;
And these external manners of laments 296
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
272 Cf. n. on 154 above
281 beguile: flatter
284 wink: close their eyes