To counterfeit oppression of such grief,

That word seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave. Marry, would the word farewell have lengthen’d hours,

And added years to his short banishment,
He should have had a volume of farewells;
But, since it would not, he had none of me.

K. Ri. He is our cousin, cousin; but 'tis doubt,
When time shall call him home from banishment,
Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.
Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green,
Observed his courtship to the common people :-
How he did seem to dive into their hearts
With humble and familiar courtesy ;

What reverence he did throw away on slaves,
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles,
And patient underbearing of his fortune,

As 'twere to banish their affects with him.

Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
A brace of draymen bid-God speed him well,
And had the tribute of his supple knee,

As were our England in reversion his,

And he our subjects' next degree in hope.

Green. Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts.

Now for the rebels, which stand out in Ireland ;-
Expedient1 manage must be made, my liege,

1 Expeditious.

Ere farther leisure yield them farther means,
For their advantage, and your highness' loss.

K. Ri. We will ourself in person to this war:
And, for1 our coffers,-with too great a court,
And liberal largess,-are grown somewhat light,
We are enforced to farm our royal realm;
The revenue whereof shall furnish us

For our affairs in hand: if that come short,

Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters; Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,

They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold,
And send them after to supply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland presently.

Bushy, what news?

Enter BUSHY.

Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my

lord;

Suddenly taken; and hath sent post-haste,

To entreat your majesty to visit him.

K. Ri. Where lies he?

Bushy. At Ely-house.

K. Ri. Now put it, Heaven, in his physician's mind,

To help him to his grave immediately!

The lining of his coffers shall make coats

1 Because.

To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.
Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him.

Pray God, we may make haste, and come too late!

ACT II.

[Exeunt.

London.

SCENE I.

A room in Ely-house.

GAUNT on a couch; the DUKE OF YORK, and others standing by him.

Gaunt. Will the king come, that I may breathe my last

In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?

York. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;

For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.

Gaunt. O, but, they say, the tongues of dying

men

Enforce attention like deep harmony.

Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in

vain ;

For they breathe truth that breathe their words in

pain.

He, that no more must say, is listen'd more,

Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose: 1

1 Flatter.

More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before :
The setting sun, and music at the close,
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last;
Writ in remembrance more than things long past:
Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,
My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.

York. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds,

As, praises of his state: then, there are found
Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound
The open ear of youth doth always listen;
Report of fashions in proud Italy,

Whose manners still our tardy apish nation
Limps after, in base imitation.

Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
(So it be new, there's no respect how vile)
That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?
Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,
Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard.1
Direct not him, whose way himself will choose :
'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou

lose.

Gaunt. Methinks, I am a prophet new inspired; And thus, expiring, do foretell of him :

:

His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last;

For violent fires soon burn out themselves :

Small showers last long, but sudden storms are

short;

Where the will rebels against the dictates of the und er. standing.

He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder;
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,

Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise;

This fortress, built by Nature for herself,
Against infestion,1 and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world;
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands;

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,

This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
(For Christian service, and true chivalry)
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,

Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's son ;-
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,

Is now leased out, (I die pronouncing it)

2

Like to a tenement or pelting farm.

England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege