Aum. I brought high Hereford, if you call him fo, But to the next high way, and there I left him.
K. Rich. And fay, what ftore of parting tears were shed? Aum. 'Faith, none by me; except the north-east wind, (Wich then blew bitterly againft our faces)
Awak'd the fleepy rheum; and so by chance
Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.
K. Rich. What faid your coufin, when you parted with
Aum. Farewel
And for my heart dildained that my tongue
Should fo prophane the word, that taught me craft
To counterfeit oppreffion of fuch grief,
That words feem'd buried in my forrow's grave.
Marry, would the word farewel have lengthen'd hours,
And added years to his fhort banishment,
He should have had a volume of farewels;
But fince it would not, he had none of me.
K. Rich. He is our kinfman, coufin; but 'tis doubt,
When time fhall call him home from banifhment,
Whether our kinfman come to fee his friends.
Ourself, and Busby, Bagot here, and Green,
Obferv'd his courtship to the common people:
How he did feem to dive into their hearts,
With humble and familiar courtesy;
What reverence he did throw away on flaves;
Wooing poor crafts-men with the craft of fmiles,
And patient under-bearing of his fortune,
As 'twere to banish their affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyfter-wench;
A brace of dray-men bid, God fpeed him well!
And had the tribute of his fupple knee;
With,-Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends;
As were our England in reverfion his,
And he our fubjects next degree in hope.
Green. Well, he is gone, and with him go thefe thoughts.-Now for the rebels, which ftand out in Ireland, Expedient manage must be made, my Liege; Ere further leifure yield them further means For their advantage, and your Highness' lofs. K. Rich. We will ourself in perfon to this war;
And, for our coffers with too great a court
And liberal largefs, are grown fomewhat light,
We are inforc'd to farm our royal realm,
The revenue whereof fhall furnish us
For our affairs in hand; if they come fhort,
Our fubftitutes at home fhall have blank charters:
Whereto, when they fhall know what men are rich,
They fhall fubfcribe them for large fums of gold,
And fend them after to fupply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland presently.
K. Rich. Busby, what news?
Bufby. Old John of Gaunt is fick, my Lord, Suddenly taken. and hath fent poft-hafte
'T' intreat your Majefty to vifit him.
K. Rich. Where lies he?
Bufhy. At Ely-house.
K. Rich. Now put it, heav'n, in his phyfician's mind, To help him to his grave immediately: The lining of his coffers fhall make coats To deck our foldiers for thefe Irish wars. Come, gentlemen, let's all go vifit him:
Pray heav'n, we may make haste, and come too late! [Exe.
ACT II.
SCENE, Ely-house.
Gaunt brought in, fick; with the Duke of York.
ILL the King come, that I may breathe
In wholefome counsel to his unflay'd youth? York. Vex not yourfelf, nor firive not with your breath; For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.
Gaunt. Oh, but, they fay, the tongues of dying men Inforce attention, like deep harmony:
Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent in vain; For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain. He, that no more muft fay, is liften'd more
Than they, whom youth and eafe have taught to glofe; More are men's ends mark'd, than their lives before: The fetting fun, and mufick in the close.
As the laft tafte of fweets, is sweetest laft;
Writ in remembrance, more than things long paft;
Though Richard
my life's counfel would not hear,
My death's fad tale may yet undeaf his ear.
York. His ear is ftopt with other flatt'ring charms,
As praises of his state; there are, befide,
Lafcivious meeters, to whofe venom'd found
The open ear of youth doth always liften:
Report of fashions in proud Italy,
Whofe manners ftill our tardy, apish, nation
Limps after, in bafe aukward imitation.
Where doth the world thruft forth a vanity,
(So it be new, there's no refpect how vile,)
That is not quickly buz'd into his ears?
Then all too late comes counfel to be heard,
Where will doth mutiny with wits regard.
Direct not him, whofe way himself will chufe;
'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.
Gaunt. Methinks, I am a prophet new-infpir'd,
And thus expiring, do foretel of him,
His rafh, fierce blaze of riot cannot laft;
For violent fires foon burn out themselves.
Small fhow'rs laft long, but fudden ftorms are short;
He tires betimes, that fpurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding, food doth choak the feeder ;
Light vanity, infatiate cormorant,
Confuming means, foon prays upon itself.
This royal throne of Kings, this fcepter'd ifle,
This earth of Majefty, this feat of Mars,
This other Eden, demy Paradife,
This fortrefs, built by nature for herself,
Against infection, and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious ftone fet in the filver fea,
VOL. IV.
Which ferves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defenfive to a house,
Against the envy of lefs happier lands;
This nurfe, this teeming womb of royal Kings,
Fear'd for their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds, as far from home,
For chriftian fervice and true chivalry,
As is the fepulchre in ftubborn Jury
Of the world's ranfom, bleffed Mary's fon;
This land of fuch dear fouls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leas'd out, (I'dye, pronouncing it)
Like to a tenement, or pelting farm.
England, bound in with the triumphant fea,
Whofe rocky fhore beats back the envious fiege
Of watry Neptune, is bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment-bonds.
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a fhameful conquest of itself.
Ah! would the fcandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my enfuing death!
Enter King Richard, Queen, Aumerle, Bufhy, Green,
Bagot, Rofs, and Willoughby.
York. The King is come, deal mildly with his youth; For young hot colts, being rag'd, do rage the more. Queen. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?
K. Rich. Whatcomfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt?
Gaunt. Oh, how that name befits my compofition!
Old Gaunt, indeed, and gaunt in being old:
Within me grief hath kept a tedious faft;
And who abitains from meat, that is not gaunt?
For fleeping England long time have I watch'd,
Watching breeds leannefs, leannefs is all gaunt:
The pleafure, that fome fathers feed upon,
Is my ftrict faft; I mean, my children's looks;
And, therein fasting, thou haft made me gaunt;
Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,
Whofe hollow womb inherits nought but bones.
K. Rich. Can fick men play fo nicely with their names ?
Gaunt.
Gaunt. No, mifery makes fport to mock itfelf:
Since thou doft feek to kill my name in me,
I mock my name, great King, to flatter thee.
K. Rich. Should dying men flatter thofe that live?
Gaunt. No, no, men living flatter thofe that die.
K. Rich. Thou, now a dying, fay'ft, thou flatter'ft me.
Gaunt. Oh! no, thou dy'ft, though I the ficker be.
K. Rich. I am in health, I breathe, I fee thee ill.
Gaunt. Now he, that made me, knows, I fee thee ill;
Ill in myself, but feeing thee too, ill.
Thy death-bed is no leffer than the land,
Wherein thou lieft in reputation fick ;
And thou, too carele's patient as thou art,
Giv'ft thy anointed body to the cure
Of those physicians, that first wounded thee:
A thousand flatt'rers fit within thy crown.
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head,
And yet ingaged in fo fmall a verge,
Thy wafte is no whit leffer than thy land.
Oh, had thy grandfire, with a prophet's eye,
Seen how his fon's fon fhould destroy his fons;
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy fhame,
Depofing thee before thou wert possest;
Who art poffefs'd now, to depofe thyself.
Why, coufin, wert thou regent of the world,
It were a shame to let this land by leafe:
But for thy world enjoying but this land,
Is it not more than fhame, to fhame it fo?
Landlord of England art thou now, not King:
Thy state of law is bondflave to the law;
And thou-
K. Rich, And thou, a lunatick lean witted fool,
Prefuming on an ague's privilege,
Dar'ft with thy frozen admonition
Make pale our cheek; chafing the royal blood
With fury from his native refidence.
Now by my feat's right-royal Majefty,
Wert thou not brother to great Edward's fon,
This tongue, that runs fo roundly in thy head,
Should run thy head from thy unreverend shoulders.
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