Let us on, And publish the occasion of our arms. The commonwealth is sick of their own choice; Their over-greedy love hath surfeited: An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart. O thou fond many, with what loud applause Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke, Before he was what thou wouldst have him be! And being now trimm’d in thine own desires, Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him, That thou provokest thyself to cast him up. So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard; And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up, And howl’st to find it. What trust is in these times? They that, when Richard lived, would have him die, Are now become enamour’d on his grave: Thou, that threw’st dust upon his goodly head When through proud London he came sighing on After the admired heels of Bolingbroke, Criest now ’O earth, yield us that king again, And take thou this!’ O thoughts of men accursed! Past and to come seems best; things present worst.
Let’s move forward, And announce the reason for our war. The country is sick of the choices it made; Their greedy love has overfed itself: Whoever builds on the common people’s heart Will find their foundation unstable and shaky. Oh, you foolish crowd, with what loud cheers Did you praise heaven for Bolingbroke, Before he became what you wanted him to be! And now, having shaped him to fit your desires, You, mindless fools, are so full of him, That you’re about to throw him up. So, so, you common dog, you threw up The royal Richard from your greedy chest; And now you want to eat your own vomit again, And howl when you find it. What trust is there In these times? Those who, when Richard was alive, wanted him dead, Now fall in love with his grave: You, who threw dust on his noble head When he was walking through proud London, Sighing after the admired Bolingbroke, Now cry, ’Oh earth, give us that king again, And take this one instead!’ Oh cursed thoughts of men! What’s past and what’s to come seems better; what’s present is the worst.
Archbishop of York · Act 1, Scene 3
The Archbishop is preparing to march against the king, and he opens by declaring the commonwealth is sick—diseased by the people's own poor choices. This speech survives because it captures the play's central horror: a fickle nation that cheered Bolingbroke's overthrow of Richard, then mourned Richard once he was dead, and now will turn on Bolingbroke too. The Archbishop articulates what the play keeps circling back to—that power built on popular favor is built on quicksand, and the mob's loyalty is no loyalty at all.
