While we return thefe Dukes what we decree.

Draw near, and lift

What with our Council we have done.

[Along Flourish.

For that our Kingdom's Earth thould not be foil'd.
With that dear Blood which it hath foftered,

And for our Eyes do hate the dire afpe&

Of civil Wounds plough'd up with Neighbours Swords,
Which fo rouz'd up with boisterous untun'd Drums,
With harsh refounding Trumpets dreadful bray,
And grating shock of wrathful Iron Arms,
Might from our quiet Confines fright fair Peace,
And make us wade even in our Kindreds Blood:
Therefore, we banish you our Territories.
You Coufin Hereford, upon pain of Death,
Till twice five Summers have enrich'd our Fields,
Shall not regreet our fair Dominions,

But tread the ftranger Paths of Banishment,

Bulling. Your will be done: This muft my Comfort be,
That Sun that warms you here, fhall 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 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.

Mob. A heavy Sentence, my moft Soveraign Liege,
And all unlook'd for from your Highness 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 my
Mouth you have engoal'd my Tongue,
Doubly percullis'd with my Teeth and Lips,
And dull, unfeeling, barren Ignorance,
Is made my Goaler to attend on me,
I am too old to frown upon a Nurfe,
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 Shades of endless Night.

K. Rich. Return again, a d 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 banifh with your felves,)
To keep the Oath that we adminifter:

You never fhall, fo help you Truth, and Heav'n,
Embrace each others Love in Banishment,

Nor ever look upon each others Face,
Nor ever write, regreet, or reconcile

This lowring Tempeft of your home-bred Hate,
Nor ever by advifed purpofe meet,

To plot, contrive, or complot any Ill,

'Gainft us, our State, our Subjects, or our Land. Bulling. I fwear.

Mob. And I, to keep all this.

Bulling. Norfolk, fo far, as to mine Enemy,
By this time, had the King permitted us,
One of our Souls had wandred in the Air,
Banish'd this frail S pulchre of our Flesh,
As now our Fleth is banifh'd from this Land,
Confefs thy Treafons, e'er thou fly this Realm,
Since thou haft far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty Soul.

Mowb. No, Bullingbroke; if ever I were Traitor,
My Name be blotted from the Book of Life,
And I from Heav'n banish', as from hence;
But what thou art, Heav'a, thou, and I do know,
And all too foon, I fear, the King fhall

G 4

rue.

Farewel,

Farewel, my Liege; now no way can I ftray,
Save back to England; all the World's my way.

[Exit.
K. Rich. Uncle, even in the Glaffes of thine Eyes
I fee thy grieved Heart; thy fad Aspect,
Hath from the Number of his banish'd Years
Pluck'd four away; fix frozen Winters spent,
Return with welcome home from Banishment.
Bulling. How long a time lyes 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 Son's Exile:
But little vantage fhall I reap thereby;

For e'er the fix Years that he hath to spend,
Can change the Moons, and bring their times about,
My Oil-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 Son,

K. Rich. Why Uncle? Thou haft many Years to live.
Gaunt. But not a Minute, King, that thou canft give;
Shorten my Days thou canft with fudden Sorrow,
And pluck Nights from me, but not lend a Morrow:
Thou canft help Time to furrow me with Age.
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 Son is banish'd upon good advice,
Whereto thy Tongue a party-verdict gave;
Why at our Juftice feem'ft thou then to lowr?

Gaunt. Things sweet to tafte, prove in digeftion fowr: You urg'd me as a Judge, but I had rather You would have bid me argue like a Father. Alas, I look'd when fome of you fhould fay, I was too ftric to make mine own away: But you gave leave to my unwilling Tongue, Against my will, to do my felf this wrong.

K. Rich. Coufin, farewel; and, Uncle, bid him fo:

Six Years we banish him, and he shall go.

[Exit.

Flourish.

Flourish.

Aum. Coufin, farewel, what prefence must not know, From where you do remain, let Paper fhow.

Mar. My Lord, no leave take I, for I will ride As far as Land will let me, by your fide.

Gaunt. Oh to what purpose doft thou hoard thy words,
That thou return'ft no greeting to thy Friends?
Bulling. 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.
Bulling. Joy abfent, Grief is prefent for that time.
Gaunt. What is fix Winters, they are quickly gone?
Bulling. To Men in joy; but grief makes one Hour ten.
Gaunt. Call it a Travel that thou tak'ft for pleasure.
Bulling. 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 Soil, wherein thou art to fet
The precious Jewel of thy home return.
Bulling. 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 Feast?
Or wallow naked in December Snow
By thinking on fantaftick Summer's Heat?
Oh no, the apprehenfion of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worfe;
Fell Sorrow's Tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the fore.

Gaunt. Come, come, my Son, I'll bring thee on thy way; Had I thy Youth, and Caufe, I would not stay.

Bulling. Then England's Ground farewel; fweet Soil adieu, My Mother and my Nurfe, which bears me yet: Where-e'er I wander, boast of this I can,

Though banish'd, yet a true-born Englishman.

[Exeunt.

A

SCENE

Enter King Richard, Aumerle, Green, and Bagot.
K. Rich. We did obferve. Coufin Aumerle,...
How far brought you high Hereford on his way?
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 flore of parting Tears were thed? Aum. Faith none by me; except the North Eaft Wind, Which then grew bitterly againft our Face,

Awak'd the fleepy Rheume, and fo by chance
Did grace our hollow parting with a Tear.

K. Rich. What faid our Coufin when you parted with him? Anm. Farewel; and for my Heart difdained that my Should fo prophane the word, that taught me craft [Tongue To counterfeit Oppreffion of fuch Grief,

That word feem buried in my Sorrow's Grave.
Marry, would the word Farewel had lengthen'd Hours,
And added Years to his fhort Banishment,

He should have had a Volume of Farewels;
But fince it would not, he had one of me.

K. Rich. He is our Coufin, 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 Slaves;
Wooing poor Crafts-men with the craft of Souls,
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 fpced 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 thefe Thoughts.

Now for the Rebels, which fland out in Ireland,

Expedient