To God, his Sovereign, and to him, disloyal:
Courageously, and with a free defire,

Attending but the Signal to begin. [A Charge founded. Mar. Sound, Trumpets; and fet forward, Comba

tants.

-But ftay, the King hath thrown his warder down.
K. Rich. Let them lay by their helmets, and their
fpears,

And Both return back to their chairs again:
Withdraw with us, and let the trumpets found,
While we return thefe Dukes what we decree.

Draw near;

[A long Flourish; after which, the King Speaks to the Combatants.

And lift, what with our Council we have done.
For that our Kingdom's earth fhould not be foil'd
With that dear blood, which it hath fostered;
And, for our eyes do hate the dire afpect
Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbour fwords;
And for we think, the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-afpiring and ambitious thoughts

With rival-hating Envy fet you on,

To wake our Peace, which in our country's cradle
Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle fleep;
(Which thus rouz'd up with boift'rous untun'd drums,
And harfh-refounding trumpets' dreadful Bray,
And grating fhock of wrathful iron arms,
Might from our quiet Confines fright fair Peace,
And make us wade even in our kindred's blood :)
Therefore, we banish you our Territories.
You coufin Hereford, on pain of death,
Till twice fiye Summers have enrich'd our fields,
Shall not re-greet our fair Dominions,

But tread the ftranger paths of Banishment.

Boling. Your will be done: this muft my comfort be, That Sun, that warms you here, shall shine on me : And thofe his golden beams, to you here lent, Shall point on me, and gild my Banishment.

K. Rich. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier Doom, Which I with fome unwillingness pronounce.

The

The fly-flow hours fhall not determinate
The datelefs limit of thy dear exile:
The hopeless word, of never to return,
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

Mowb. A heavy Sentence, my moft fovereign Liege,
And all unlook'd for from your Highnefs' mouth:
A dearer merit, not fo deep a maim,

As to be caft forth in the common air,
Have I deferved at your Highness' hands.
The language I have learn'd thefe forty years,
My native English, now I muft forgo;
And now my tongue's ufe is to me no more,
Than an unftringed viol, or a harp;
Or, like a cunning Inftrument cas'd up,
Or being open, put into his hands

That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
Within mouth you
my

have engoal'd my tongue,
Doubly port-cullis'd with my Teeth and Lips:
And dull, unfeeling, barren Ignorance
Is made my Goaler to attend on me.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a Pupil now:
What is thy Sentence then, but fpeechlefs death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?
K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compaffionate;
After our Sentence, Plaining comes too late.

Mowb. Then thus I turn me from my Country's light, To dwell in folemn fhades of endless night.

K. Rich. Return again, and take an oath with ye.
Lay on our royal Sword your banish'd hands ;
Swear by the duty that you owe to heav'n,
(Our part therein we banish with your felves,)
To keep the oath that we adminifter:

You never fhall, (fo help you truth, and heav'n!)
Embrace each other's love in Banishment;

Nor ever look upon each other's face,
Nor ever write, regreet, or reconcile

This low'ring tempeft of your home-bred hate;
Nor ever by advised purpose meet,

To plot, contrive, or complot any Ill,

'Gainft

"Gainft us, our State, our Subjects, or our Land.

Boling. I fwear.

Mowb. And I, to keep all this.

Boling. Norfolk, fo far, as to mine enemy:
By this time, had the King permitted us,
One of our fouls had wandred in the air,
Banish'd this frail fepulchre of our flesh,
As now our flesh is banish'd from this Land.
Confefs thy treafons, ere thou fly this Realm;
Since thou haft far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty foul.

Exit.

Mowb. No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,
My Name be blotted from the Book of life,
And I from heaven banish'd as from hence!
But what thou art, heav'n, thou, and I do know,
And all too foon, I fear, the King fhall rue.
Farewel, my Liege; now no way can I ftray,
Save back to England; all the world's my way.
K. Rich. Uncle, even in the glaffes of thine eyes
I fee thy grieved heart, thy fad afpect
Hath from the number of his banish'd years
Pluck'd four away; fix frozen winters spent,
Return with Welcome home from Banishment.
Boling. How long a time lies in one little word!
Four lagging Winters, and four wanton Springs,
End in a word; fuch is the Breath of Kings.
Gaunt. I thank my Liege, that in regard of me
He shortens four years of my fon's exile:
But little vantage fhall I reap thereby;
For ere the fix years, that he hath to spend,
Can change their moons, and bring their times abou
My oyl-dry'd lamp, and time-bewafted light,
Shall be extinct with age, and endless night:
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 canst give ; Shorten my days thou canft with fullen forrow, And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow; Thou canst help time to furrow me with age,

But

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'st thou then to low'r?

Gaunt. Things, fweet to tafte, prove in digestion
fow'r :

You urg'd me as a judge; but I had rather,
You would have bid me argue like a father.
O, had it been a ftranger, not my child,

To smooth his Fault, I would have been more mild t
Alas, I look'd, when some of you should say,
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 Sentence my own life deftroy'd.

K. Rich. Coufin, farewel; and, uncle, bid him fo Six years we banish him, and he shall go..

[Flourish. [Exit.

Aum. Coufin, farewel; what prefence must not know, From where you do remain, let paper show. Mar, My lord, no leave take Ì; for I will ride As far as land will let me, by your fide.

Gaunt. Oh, to what purpose dost 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'it for pleasure.
Boling. My heart will figh, when I mifcall it fo,
Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.

Gaunt. The fullen paffage of thy weary steps

Efteem a foil, wherein thou art to fet

The

The precious jewel of thy home-return.

Boling. Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious ftride I make (3). Will but remember me, what a deal of World

I wander from the Jewels that I love.

Muft I not ferve a long Apprentice-hood,
To foreign paffages, and in the End
Having my Freedom, boast of Nothing else

But that I was a Journeyman to Grief?

६

Gaunt. 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.

Think not, the King did banish Thee;

But Thou the King. Woe doth the heavier fit,
Where it perceives It is but faintly borne.
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, imagin it
To lye that way thou go'ft, not whence thou com'st.
Suppofe the finging birds, muficians;

The grafs whereon thou tread'ft, the presence-floor;
The flow'rs, fair ladies; and thy fteps, no more
Than a delightful meafure, 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 snow,

(3) Boling. Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious Stride I make,] This, and the fix Verses which follow, I have ventur'd to supply from the old Quarto. The Allufion, 'tis true, to an Apprentice-fhip, and becoming a Journeyman, is not in the sublime Tate, nor, as Horace has exprefs'd it, fpirat Tragicum fatis: however as there is no Doubt of the Paffage being genuine, the Lines are not so despicable as to deserve being quite loft.

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