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That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a fhameful Conqueft of it felf.
Ah! would the fcandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my enfuing death!

S C E N E II.

Enter King Richard, Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Rofs, and Willoughby.

York. The King is come, deal mildly with his youth; For young hot colts, being rag'd, do rage the more. Queen. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?

K. Rich. What comfort, man? How is't with aged
Gaunt?

Gaunt. Oh, how that Name befits my compofition!
Old Gaunt, indeed, and gaunt in being old:
Within me grief hath kept a tedious faft;

And who abstains from meat, that is not gaunt?
For fleeping England long time have I watch'd,
Watching breeds leannefs, leannefs is all
gaunt:
The pleasure, that fome fathers feed upon,
Is my ftrict faft; I mean, my children's looks;
And, therein fafting, thou haft made me gaunt;
Gaunt am I for the Grave, gaunt as a Grave,
Whofe hollow womb inherits nought but bones.
K. Rich. Can fick-men play fo nicely with their
names?

Gaunt. No, mifery makes fport to mock it felf:
Since thou doft feek to kill my name in me,
I mock my name, great King, to flatter thee.
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'st, 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

Ill in my felf, 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 firft wounded thee:
A thousand flatt'rers fit within thy Crown,
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head,
And yet incaged in fo fmall a verge,

Thy wafte is no whit leffer than thy Land.
Oh, had thy Grandfire, with a prophet's eye,
Seen how his fon's fon fhould destroy his fons;
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy fhame,
Depofing thee before thou wert poffeft;
Who art poffefs'd now, to depofe thy felf.
Why, Coufin, wert thou Regent of the world,
It were a fhame to let this Land by leafe:
But for thy world enjoying but this Land,
Is it not more than fhame, to fhame it fo?
Landlord of England art thou now, not King:
Thy ftate of law is bondflave to the law;
And Thou

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K. Rich. And thou, a lunatick lean-witted fool, Prefuming on an ague's privilege,

Dar'ft with thy frozen admonition

Make pale our cheek; chafing the royal blood
With fury from his native refidence.

Now by my Seat's right-royal Majefty,
Wert thou not Brother to Great Edward's fon,

1 And yet INGAGED in fo fmall a verge,] The Folio of 1623 reads INCAGED, which is right.

2 Thy ftate of law is bondflave to the law;] State of law, i. e. legal for rainty. But the Oxford Editor alters it to flate o'er law, i. e. abfolute fov'rainty. A doctrine, which, if our poet ever learnt at all. he learnt not in the reign when this play was written, Queen Elizabeth's, but in the reign after it, King James's. By bondflave to the law, she poet means his being inilaved to his favorite subjects.

This tongue that runs fo roundly in thy head,

Should run thy head from thy unreverend fhoulders. Gaunt. Oh, fpare 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 Glofter, plain well-meaning foul,
(Whom fair befal in heav'n 'mong'ft happy fouls!)
May be a precedent and witness good,
That thou refpects 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 shame 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.
[Exit, borne out.
K. Rich. And let them die, that Age and Sullens

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 his;

As theirs, fo mine; and all be, as it is.

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North. My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your

Majefty.

K. Rich. What fays old Gaunt?

North.

North. Nay, nothing; all is faid: His tongue is now a ftringlefs 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 so doth he;
His time is fpent, our pilgrimage must be :
So much for that. Now for our Irish wars ;
We muft fupplant thofe rough rug-headed Kerns,
Which live like venom, where no venom elfe,
But only they, have privilege to live.

And, for these great affairs do ask fome charge,
Towards 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 Glofter's death, not Hereford's Banifhment,
Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,
Have ever made me fow'r my patient cheek;
Or bend one wrinkle on my Sovereign's face.
I am the laft 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 againft his friends: His noble hand
Did win what he did fpend; 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,

Oh, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,
Or else he never would compare between.
K. Rich. Why, uncle, what's the matter?
York. O my Liege,

Pardon me, if you pleafe; if not, I, pleas'd
Not to be pardon'd, am content withal.
Seek you to feize, and gripe into your hands,
The Royalties and Rights of banifh'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-morow then enfue to day;
Be not thy felf. 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 well-difpofed 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 enfue hereof, there's none can tell.

But by bad courfes may be understood,

That their events can never fall out good.

[Exit.

K. Rich. Go, Busby, to the Earl of Wiltshire ftraight,

Bid him repair to us to Ely-boufe,

To fee this bufinefs done: To morrow next

We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow.

And we create, in abfence of our felf,

Our

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