Should run thy head from thy unreverend
Gaunt. O, spare me not, my brother Edward's
For that I was his father Edward's son;
That blood already, like the pelican,
Hast thou tapp'd out, and drunkenly carous'd:
My brother Gloster, plain well - meaning soul,
(Whom fair befal in heaven 'mong'st happy
May be a precedent and witness good,
That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood:
Join with the present sickness that I have;
And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
To erop at once a too-long wither'd flower.
Live in thy shame, but die not shame with
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 by his attendants. K. Rich. And let them die, that age and sullens have;
For both hast thou, and both become the grave. York. I do beseech your majesty, impute his
To wayward sickliness and age in him:
He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear!
As Harry duke of Hereford, were he here.
K. Rich. Right; you say true: as Hereford's
As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.
Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.
North. My liege, old Gaunt commends him
to your majesty.
K. Rich. What says he?
North. Nay, nothing; all is said:
His tongue is now a stringless instrument';... Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent. York. Be York the next that must be bankrupt
Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
K. Rich. The ripest fruit first falls, and so
His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be:
So much for that. - Now for our Irish wars:
We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns;
Which live like venom, where no venom else,
But only they, hath privilege to live.
And, for these great affairs do ask some charge,
Towards our assistance, we do seize to us
The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess'd.
York. How long shall I be patient? Ah, how
Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?
Not Gloster's death, nor Hereford's banishment,
Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,
Have ever made me sour my patient cheek,
Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face.-
I am the last of noble Edward's sons,
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 hast, for even so look'd he,
Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours;
But, when he frown'd, it was against the French,
And not against his friends: his noble hand
Did win what he did spend, and spent not that
Which his triumphant father's hand had won.
His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood,
Vol. IV.
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
O, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,
Or else he never would compare between.
K. Rich. Why, uncle, what's the matter?
Yorks O, my liege,
Pardon me, if you please; if not, I pleas'd
Not to be pardon'd, am content withal,
Seek you to seize, and gripe into your hands,
The royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead? and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt just? and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir?
Is not his heir a well-deserving son?
Take Hereford's rights away, and take from time
His charters, and his customary rights;
Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day,
Be not thyself, for how art thou a king,
But by fair sequence and succession?
Now, afore God, (God forbid, I say true!)
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's rights,
Call in the letters patents that he hath
By his attornies-general to sue
His livery, and deny his offer'd homage,
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,
You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.
K. Rich. Think what you will; we seize into our hands
His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands. York. I'll not be by, the while: My liege,
What will ensue hereof, there's none can tell;
But by bad courses may be understood,
That their events can never fall out good. (Exit.]
3. K. Rich. Go, Bushy, to the earl of Wiltshire
Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,
To see this business: To-morrow next
We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow;
And we create, in absence of ourself,
Our uncle York lord governor of England,
For he is just, and always lov'd us well.
Come on, our queen: tomorrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [Flourish.]
(Exeunt King, Queen, Bus. AUM. GRE. and
North. Well, lords, the duke of Lancaster is
Ross. And living too; for now his son is
Willo. Barely in title, not in revenue.
North. Richly in both, if justice had her right.
Rofs. My heart is great; but it must break
Ere't be disburden'd with a liberal tongue.
North. Nay, speak thy mind; and let him
That speaks thy words again, to do thee harm! Willo. Tends that thou'dst speak, to the duke
If it be so, out with it boldly, man;
Quick is mine ear, to hear of good towards him.
Rofs. No good at all, that I can do for him;
Unless you call it good, to pity him,..
Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.
North. Now, afore heaven, 'tis shame, such
In him a royal prince, and many more.
Of noble blood in this declining land.
The king is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers, and what they will inform,
Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us all,
That will the king severely prosecute
'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs,
Rofs. The commons-hath he pill'd with grie
And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fin'd For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.
Willo. And daily new exactions are devis'd; As - blanks, benevolences and I wot not what: But what, o'God's name, doth become of this? North Wars have not wasted it, for warr'd
But basely, yielded upon compromise
That which his ancestors atchiey'd with blows:
More hath he spent in peace, than they in wars.
Rofs. The earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in
Willo. The king's grown bankrupt, like a brokjeen, mang
North. Reproach, and dissolution, hangeth
Rofs. He hath not money for these Irish wars, His burthenous taxations notwithstanding, But by the robbing of the banish'd duke.
North. His noble kinsman.
But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm:
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish..
Rofs. We see the very wreck that we must
And unavoided is the danger now.
For suffering so the causes of our wreck.
North. Notso; even through the hollow eyes
I spy life peering; but I dare not say,
How near the tidings of our comfort is.
Willo. Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou
Rofs. Be confident to speak, Northumberland:
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