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 finging birds, muficians;

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

For gnarling Sorrow hath lefs Pow'r to bite
The Man, that mocks at it, and fets it light.
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 fantaftick Summer's heat?
Oh, no! the apprehenfion of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worfe;
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; fweet
foil, adieu,

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

S CE E N E

Changes to the Court.

[Exeunt.

VII.

Enter King Richard, and Bagot, &c. at one door; and the Lord Aumerle, at the other.

K. Rich. WE

E did, indeed, obferve Coufin
Aumerle,

How far brought you high Hereford on his

way?

Aum.

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 fhed?

Aum. 'Faith, none by me; except the north-east wind,

(Which then blew bitterly against our faces)

Awak'd the fleepy rheume; 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.
Marry, would the word farewel have lengthen'd hours,
And added years to his fhort Banishment,

He fhould 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.
Our felf, 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 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 Affects 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 Subjects' next degree in hope.
C 4

Green.

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 our felf in person 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 Subftitutes 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 supply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland prefently.

Enter Bushy.

K. Rich. Bufhy, what news?

Busby. Old John of Gaunt is fick, my lord, Suddenly taken, and hath fent poft-haste

T'intreat your Majefty to vifit him.

K. Rich. Where lyes he?

Bufby. At Ely-boufe.

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 hafte, and come too late!

[Exeunt.

ACT

ACT II SCENE I.

ELY-HOUSE..

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

GAUNT.

ILL the King come, that I may breathe my

WILL läft

In wholesome counsel to his unftay'd youth? York. Vex not your felf, nor strive not with your breath;

For all in vain comes counfel 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. He, that no more must say, is liften'd more Than they, whom youth and ease have taught to glofe;

More are men's ends mark'd, than their lives before:
The fetting Sun,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 praifes of his State; there are, beside,
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

Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,
Where Will doth mutiny with wit's regard.
Direct not him, whofe way himself will chufe;
'Tis breath thou lack'ft, 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 storms are short;
He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding, food doth choak the feeder;
Light vanity, infatiate Cormorant,

Confuming means, foon preys upon it self.
The royal Throne of Kings, this fcepter'd Ifle,
This Earth of Majefty, this Seat 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 defensive to a house,
Against the envy of lefs 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 ftubborn Jury
Of the world's Ranfom, bleffed Mary's Son;
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 Sea,
Whose rocky fhore beats back the envious fiege
Of watry Neptune, is bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment-bonds.

That