K. RICH. Should dying men flatter those that live?
GAUNT. No, no, men living flatter those that die.
K. RICH. Thou, now a dying, fay'ft, thou flatter'st me.
GAUNT. Oh no, thou dyeft, though I 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 careless 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 incaged in so small a verge,
Thy waste is no whit leffer than thy land.
Oh, had thy grandfire, with a prophet's eye,
Seen how his fon's fon fhould deftroy his fons ;
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy fhame,
Deposing thee before thou wert poffeft;
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 lând,
Is it not more than fhame to shame 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,
Presuming on an ague's privilege,
Dar'ft with thy frozen admonition
Make pale our cheek; chafing the royal blood
With fury from his native residence.
Now by my feat's right-royal majesty,
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.
GAUNT. Oh, spare me not, my brother Edward's fon,
For that I was his father Edward's fon.
That blood already, like the pelican,
Haft thou tapt out, and drunkenly carows'd.
My brother Glo'fter, plain well meaning foul
(Whom fair befal in heav'n 'mong'st happy fouls!)
May be a precedent and witness good,
That thou refpect'st not spilling Edward's blood.
Join with the present sickness that I have,
And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too-long wither'd flower.
Live in thy fhame, but die not fhame with thee!
These words hereafter thy tormentors be!
Convey me to my bed, then to my grave:
Love they to live, that love and honour have.
K. RICH. And let them die, that age and fullens have;
For both haft thou, and both become the grave.
YORK. I do befeech your majefty, impute
His words to wayward ficklinefs, and age.
He loves you, on my life; and holds you dear
As Harry duke of Hereford were he here.
K. RICH. Right, you fay true; as Hereford's love, fo As theirs, fo mine; and all be, as it is.
SCENE III. Enter Northumberland.
NORTH. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majefty.
K. RICH. What fays old Gaunt?
NORTH. Nay, nothing; all is faid.
His tongue is now a stringless inftrument,
Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent,
YORK. Be York the next, that must be bankrupt fo!
Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
K. RICH. The ripest fruit first falls, and o doth he;
His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be.
So much for that.. -Now for our Irish wars;
We muft fupplant those rough rug-headed kerns,
Which live like venom, where no venom else,
But only they, have privilege to live.
And, for these great affairs do afk fome charge,
To'rds our affiftance we do feize to us,
The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did ftand poffeft,
YORK. How long fhall I be patient? Oh, how long
Shall tender duty make me fuffer wrong?
Not Glo'ster's death, not Hereford's banishment,
Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his mariage, nor my own disgrace,
Have ever made me fow'r my patient cheek;
Or bend one wrinkle on my fovereign's face.
I am the last of noble Edward's fons,
Of whom thy father, prince of Wales, was first;
In war, was never lion rag'd more fierce,
In peace, was never gentle lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely gentleman;
His face thou haft, for even fo look'd he,
Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours.
But when he frown'd, it was against the French,
And not against his friends; his noble hand
Did win what he did spend; and spent not that,
Which his triumphant father's hand had won.
His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
Oh, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,
Or elfe he never would compare between.
K. RICH. Why, uncle, what's the matter?
YORK. O my liege,
Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas'd
Not, to be pardon'd, am content withal.
Seek you to seize, and gripe into your hands,
The royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt juft, and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deferve to have an heir?
Is not his heir a well-deferving fon?
Take Hereford's rights away, and take from time
His charters, and his cuftomary rights;
Let not to-morrow then enfue to-day;
Be not thyfelf; for how art thou a king,
But by fair fequence and fucceffion;
If you do wrongfully feize Hereford's right,
Call in his letters patents that he hath,
By his attorneys-general to fue
His livery. and deny his offer'd homage;
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head;
You lose a thousand we l-disposed hearts;
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts,
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.
K. RICH. Think what you will, we feize into our hands His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.
YORK. I'll not be by, the while; my liege, farewel; What will ensue hereof, there's none can tell. But by bad courses may be understood,
That their events can never fall out good.
K. RICH. Go, Bufhy, to the earl of Wiltshire straight, Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,
To fee this bufine's done. To-morrow next
We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow.
And we create, in abfence of ourself,
Our uncle York lord-governour of England,
For he is juft, and always lov'd us well.
Come on, our queen; to-morrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of stay is fhort,
SCENE IV. Manent Northumberland, Willoughby,
NORTH. Well, lords, the duke of Lancaster is dead.
Ross. And living too, for now his fon is duke.
WILLO. Barely in title, not in revenue.
NORTH. Richly in both, if justice had her right.
Ross. My heart is great; but it must break with silence, Ere't be difburden'd with a lib'ral tongue.
NORTH. Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak That speaks thy words again to do thee harm.
WILLO. Tends, what you'd fpeak, to the duke of Here
If it be fo, cut with it boldly, man:
Quick is mine ear to hear of good tow'rds him.
Ross. No good at all that I can do for him,
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