My inch of taper will be burnt, and done,
And blindfold death not let me fee my fon.

K. Rich. Why, uncle? thou haft many years to live.
Gaunt. But not a minute, King, that thou canft give i
Shorten my days thou canst with fullen forrow,
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow:
Thou canst help time to furrow me with age,
But ftop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage :

Thy word is currant with him for my death;
But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.
K. Rich. Thy fon is banish'd upon good advice,
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave;
Why at our juftice feem'ft thou then to low'r?
Gaunt. Things sweet to tafte prove in digeftion fow'r
You urg'd me as a judge, but I had rather
You would have bid me argue like a father.
Alas, I look'd when fome of you should say,
I was too ftrict to make mine own away :

But

you gave leave to my unwilling tongue, Against my will, to do my felf this wrong. A partial flander fought I to avoid,

And in the fentence my own life destroy'd.

K. Rich. Coufin, farewel! and, uncle, bid him fo: Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [Flourish.] [Exit, SCENE

VI.

Aum. Coufin, farewel! what prefence must not know, From where you do remain let

paper fhow.

Mar. My Lord, no leave take I, for I will ride As far as land will let me, by your fide.

Gaunt. Oh, to what purpose doft thou hoard thy words, That thou return'ft no greeting to thy friends?

Boling. I have too few to take my leave of you, When the tongue's office fhould be prodigal, To breathe th' abundant dolour of the heart. Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy abfence for a time. Boling. Joy abfent, grief is prefent for that time. Gaunt. What is fix winters? they are quickly gone. Boling. To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten, Gaunt. Call it a travel that thou tak'ft for pleasure. Boling. My heart will figh, when I mifcall it fo, VOL. IV.

A a

Which

Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.
Gaunt. The fullen paffage of thy weary Ateps
Efteem a foil, wherein thou art to fet
The precious jewel of thy home return.
All places that the eye of heaven vifits
Are to a wife man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy neceffity to reafon thus:
There is no virtue like neceffity.

Go fay, I fent thee forth to purchase honour,
And not, the King exil'd thee.

Or fuppofe

Devouring peftilence hangs in our air,

And thou art flying to a frefher clime.

Look what thy foul holds dear, imagine it

To lye that way thou go'ft, not whence thou com'ft.
Suppofe the finging birds musicians;

The grafs whereon thou tread'ft, the presence-floor;
The flow'rs fair ladies; and thy steps, no more
Than a delightful measure or a dance.

Boling. Oh, 'who can hold a fire in his hand
By thinking on the frofty Caucafus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
By bare imagination of a feaft?
Or wallow naked in December fnow
By thinking on fantastick fummer's heat?
Oh no, the apprehenfion of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse;
Fell forrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the fore.

Gaunt. Come, come, my fon, I'll bring thee on thy way; Had I thy youth, and caufe, I would not stay.

Boling. Then, England's ground, farewel! sweet soil, adieu! My mother and my nurfe, which bears me yet. Where-e'er I wander, boaft of this I can, Though banish'd, yet a true-born Englishman. SCENE VII. The Court.

[Exeunt.

Enter King Richard, Bagot and Green as one door, and the
Lord Aumerle at the other.

K. Rich. We did indeed obferve-Coufin Aumerle,
How far brought you high Hereford on his way?
Aum. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,

But

But to the next high-way, and there I left him..

K. Rich. And fay, what ftore of parting tears were fhed? Aum. 'Faith, none by me; except the north-eaft wind (Which then blew bitterly against our faces).

Awak'd the fleepy rheum, and fo by chance
Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

K.Rich. What faid your coufin when you parted with him?
Aum. Farewel!

And for my heart difdained 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.
But 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 banishment,
Whether our kinfman come to fee his friends.
Our felf, and Bushy, 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 courtefie!
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 affections with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-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 these thoughts & Now for the rebels, which stand 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 our felf in perfon to this war;
And, for our coffers with too great a court

A 1a 2

And

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 short,
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 prefently.

Enter Bushy.

K. Rich. What news?

Busby. 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 lyes he?

Busby. At Ely-bouse.

K. Rich, Now put it, heav'n, in his physician's mind, To help him to his grave immediately! The lining of his coffers fhall make coats To deck our foldiers for these Irish wars. Come, gentlemen, let's all go vifit him:

Pray heav'n we may make hafte, and come too late! [Ext.

Gaunt.

ELY-HOUSE.

Enter Gaunt fick, with the Duke of York.
ILL the King come, that I may breathe my
laft

WILL

In wholefome counsel to his unftay'd youth?

York. Vex not your felf, and ftrive 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 feldom spent in vain;
For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain.

their words in pain.

He that no more muit fay, is liften'd more

Than they whom youth and eafe have taught to glofe; More are mens ends mark'd than their lives before:

The fetting fun, and mufick in the close.

York. His ear is ftopt with other flatt'ring charms,
As praises of his ftate; 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 apifh nation
Limps after, in bafe aukward imitation.
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
(So it be new, there's no refpect how vile,)
That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?
Then all too late comes counfel to be heard,
Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard. t
Gaunt. Methinks I am a prophet new infpir'd,
And thus expiring do foretel of him,
His rafh, fierce blaze of riot cannot last ;
For violent fires foon burn out themselves.

Small fhow'rs laft long, but fudden ftorms are fhort;
He tires betimes, that fpurs too faft betimes;
With eager feeding, food doth choak the feeder ;
Light vanity, infatiate cormorant,

Confuming means, foon preys upon

it felf.
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 her felf,
Against infection, and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious ftone fet in the filver fea,
Which ferves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defenfive to a house,
Against the envy of lefs happy lands;
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal Kings,

As the last tafte of fweets is fweetest last,

Writ in remembrance, more than things long paft;
Though Richard my life's counfel would not hear,
My death's iad tale may yet undeaf his ear.

York. His car --

with wits regard.

Direct not him, whofe way himself will chufe;

'Tis breath thou lack it, and that breath wilt thou lofe.

Gaunt, Methinks I am