But, fince it would not, he had none of me.
K. Rich. He is our kinfman, Coufin; but 'tis doubt,
When time shall call him home from Banishment,
Whether our kinsman come to see 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 slaves;
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 oyfter-wench;
A brace of dray men bid, God fpéed 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.
Green. Well, he is gone, and with him go these 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 perfon to this war;
And, for our coffers with too great a Court,
And liberal largess, 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 short,
Our Substitutes at home fhall have blank charters :
Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,
They fhall fubfcribe them for large fums of gold,
And fend them after to fupply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland presently.
K. Rich. Busby, what news?
Busby. Old John of Gaunt is fick, my lord,' Suddenly taken, and hath fent post-haste
T' intreat your Majefty to vifit him.
K. Rich. Where lyes he?
Buby. At Ely-house.
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 these Irish wars.
Come, gentlemen, let's all go vifit him:
Pray heav'n, we may make haste, and come too late!
SCENE, ELY-HOUSE.
Gaunt brought in, fick; with the Duke of York.
ILL the King come, that I may breathe my laft
In wholesome counfel to his unftay'd youth ? York. Vex not your felf, nor ftrive not with your breath;
For all in vain comes counsel 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 muft fay, is liften'd more
Than they, whom youth and cafe 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 last taste of fweets, is fweetest laft;
Writ in remembrance, more than things long past ;
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 praises of his State; there are, befide, Lafcivous 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 all too late comes counsel to be heard,
Where Will doth mutiny with wit's regard.
Direct not him, whofe 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 rafh, fierce blaze of riot cannot last ;
For violent fires foon burn out themselves.
Small show'rs laft long, but fudden ftorms are fhort;
He tires betimes, that fpurs too faft betimes
With eager feeding, food doth choak the feeder;
Light vanity, infatiate Cormorant,
Confuming means, foon preys upon it felf.
This 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 self,
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 defenfive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier Lands;
This nurfe, this teeming womb of royal Kings,
Fear'd for their breed, and famous by their birt',
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 ;
VOL. IV.
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,
Whofe rocky fhore beats back the envious fiege
Of watry Neptune, is bound in with fhame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment-bonds.
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a fhameful Conqueft of it felf.
Ah! would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my enfuing death!
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, Lancafier? K. Rich. What comfort, man? How is't with aged
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 abftains 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, iny 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'ft, thou flatter'ft me.
Gaunt. Oh! no, thou dyeft, though I ficker be.
K. Rich. I am in health, I breathe, I fee thee ill.
Gaunt.
Gaunt. Now he, that made me, knows, I fee thee 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 first wounded thee:
A thousand flatt'rers fit within thy Crown,
Whofe compass is no bigger than thy head,
And yet ingaged 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 lease:
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
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 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, 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 'mongft happy fouls!)
May be a precedent and witness good,
That thou refpect'ft not fpilling Edward's blood.
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