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And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look, what thy foul holds dear, imagin it
To lye that way thou go'ft, not whence thou com'ft.
Suppose the singing birds, musicians ;
The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence-floor;
The How'rs, fair ladies ; and thy steps, no more
Than a delightful measure, or a dance.
For gnarling Sorrow hath less Pow'r to bite
The Man, that mocks at it, and sets it light.

Boling. Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite

By bare imagination of a feast"?
Or wallow naked in December (now,
By thinking on fantastick Summer's heat?
Oh, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worfe
Fell forrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but Yanceth not the fore.
Gaunt. Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy

way; Had I thy Youth, and Cause, I would not stay. Boling. Then, England's Ground, farewel; sweet

Toil, adieu,
My mother and my nurse, which bears me yet.
Where-e'er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banish'd ; yet a true-born Englishman.

[Exeunt. S с E N

E VII. Changes to the Court. Enter King Richard, and Bagot, &c. at one door ; and

the Lord Aumerle, at the other. K. Rich. E did, indeed, observe-Cousin

How far brought you high Hereford on his


Aum. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so, But to the next High-way, and there I left him. K. Rich. And say, what store of parting tears were

Thed? Aum. 'Faith, none by me; except the north-caft

wind, (Which then blew bitterly against our faces) Awak’d the fleepy rheume; and so by chance Did grace our hollow Parting with a tear. K. Rich. What said your cousin, when you parted

with him? Aum. Farewel. And, for my heart disdained that my tongue Should fo prophane the word, That taught me craft To counterfeit oppression of such grief, That words seem'd buried in my forrow's Grave. Marry, would the word farewel have lengthen'd hours, And added years to his short Banishment, He should have had a volume of farewels; But, since it would not, he had none of me.

K. Ricb. He is our kinsman, Cousin; but 'tis doubt, When time shall call him home from Banishment, Whether our kinsman come to see his friends. Our self, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green, Observ'd his Courtship to the common people: . How he did seem to dive into their hearts, With humble and familiar courtesie? What reverence he did throw away on Naves; Wooing poor crafts-men with the craft of smiles, And patient under-bearing of his fortune: As 'twere to banish their Affects with him. Of goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench ; A brace of dray-men bid, God speed him well! And had the tribute of his supple knee ; With-Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends ; 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

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 self in person to this war ;
And, for our coffers with too great a Court,
And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,
We are inforc'd to farm our royal Realm,
The Revenue whereof shall furnish us
For our affairs in hand, if they come short,
Dur 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.

Enter Bushy. K. Rich. Bushy, what news?

Busby. Old John of Gaunt is sick, my lord,
Suddenly taken, and hath sent poft-hafte
T'intreat your Majesty to visit him.

K. Rich, Where lyes he?
Bushy. At Ely-house.
K. Rich. Now put it; -heav'n, in his physician's

To help him to his Grave immediately :
The lining of his coffers shall make coats
To deck our soldiers for these Iriß wars.
Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him :
Pray heav'n, we may make haste, and come too late !


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Gaunt brought in, fick; with the Duke of York.

IL L the King come, that I may breathe my


In wholesome counsel to his unstay'd youth? York. Vex not your self, nor strive not with your

breath; For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.

Gaunt. Oh, but, they say, 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. He, that no more must say, is liften'd more Than they, whom youth and ease have taught to

glose; More are men's ends mark'd, than their lives before : The setting Sun, and musick in 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. His ear is stopt with other flatt'ring charms, As praifes of his State; there are, beside, Lascivious meeters, to whose venom'd 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 aukward 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 cheard,
Where Will doth mutiny with wit's regard.
Direct not him, whose way himself will chuse;
'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

Gaunt. Methinks, I am a prophet new-inspir’d,
And, thus expiring, do foretel of him,
His rash, fierce blaze of riot cannot last ;
For violent fires foon burn out themselves.
Small show'rs last long, but sudden storms are short;
He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes ;
With eager feeding, food doth choak the feeder ;
Light vanity, insatiate Cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon it self.
The royal Throne of Kings, this scepter'd Ine,
This Earth of Majesty, this Seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demy Paradise,
This fortress, built by Nature for her self,
Against infection, and the hand of war ;
This happy Breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver fea,
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 nurse, 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 christian service and true chivalry,
As is the Sepulchre in stubborn Jury
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 leas’d out, (I dye, pronouncing it)
Like to a Tenement, or pelting Farm.
England, bound in with the triumphant Sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watry Neptune, is bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment-bonds.


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