« 前へ次へ »
Lay on our Royal fword your banilh'd hands;
Swear by the duty that you owe to Heav'n,
(Our part therein we banish with yourselves),
To keep the oath that we administer :
You never shall (so 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 tempest of your home-bred hate ;
Nor ever by advised purpose meet,
To plot, contrive, or complot any, ill,
'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.
Boling. I swear.
Mowb. And. I, to keep all this.
Boling. Norfolk, so far, as to mine enemy:
By this time, had the King permitted us, [ In salutation.
One of our souls had wander'd in the air,
Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our fleih,
As now our flesh is banish'd from this land.
Confess thy treasons, ere thou Ay this realm;
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty soul.
Mowb. No, Bolingbroke ; if ever I were traitor, My name be blotted from the book of life, And I from heav'n banish'd as from hence ! But what thou art, heav'n, thou, and I do know, And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue. Farewel, my Liege ; now no way can I stray, Save back to England; all the world's my way.
Exii. S CE N E K. Rich. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes I see thy grieved heart, thy fad aspect Hath from the number of his banish'd
years Pluck'd four away; six 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; such is the breath of kings.
Gaunt. I thank my Liege, that in regard uf me
Hc Thortens four years of my son's exile:
But little vantage shall I reap thereby;
For ere the six years that he hath to spend,
Can change their 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 see my son.
K. Rich. Why, uncle? thou hast many years to live.
Gaunt. But not a minute, King, that thou canst give;
Shorten my days thou canst with fullen forrow,
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;
Thou canst help Time to furrow me with age,
But stop 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,
Wherêto thy tongue a party-verdict gave;
Why at our justice seem'lt thou then to low'r ?
Gaunt. Things sweet to taste, prove in digestion sour,
You urge'd me as a judge ; but I had rather
You would have bid me argue like a father.
O, had it been a stranger, not my child,
To smooth his fault I would have been more mild.
Alas, I look'd when some of you
I was too strid to make my own away.
But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue,
Against my will, to do myself this wrong.
A partial flander fought I to avoid,
And in the sentence my own life destroy’d.
K. Rich. Cousin, farewel ; and, uncle, bid him fo. Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [Flourish.
Exit. S CE N E VI. Aum. Cousin, farewel; what presence must not know, From where you do remain let paper
show. Mar. My Lord, no leave take I ; for I will ride As far as land will let me, by your side.
Gaunt. Oh, to what purpofe dost thou hoard thy That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends ? [words. Boling. I have too few to take
When the tongue's office should be prodigal,
To breathe th' abundant dolour of the heart.
Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time. Boling. Joy absent; grief is present 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'st for pleasure.
Boling. My heart will figh when I miscall it To,
Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.
Gaunt. The fullen paffage of thy weary steps
Eseem a foil, wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home-return.
Boling. Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious stride I make
Will but remember me, what a deal of world
I wander from the jewels that I love.
Must I not ferve a long apprenticehood
To foreign passages, and in the end
Having my freedom, boast of nothing else
But that I was a journeyman to grief?
Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven visits,
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus :
There is no virtue like necessity.
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 say, I sent thee forth to purchase honour;
And not, the King exil'd thee. Or suppose,
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air,
And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'fi.
Suppose the finging birds, musicians ;
The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence-floor ;
The Aow'rs, fair ladies; and thy steps, no more
Than a delightful measure, or a dance.
For gnarling Sorrow hath less pow'r to bite
The man that mocks at it, and sets it light.
Boling. Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastic fummer's heat?
Oh, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse ;
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. Had I thy youth, and cause, I would not stay. [way. Boling. Then, England's ground, farewel; Tweet
My mother and my nurse, which bears me yet.
Where-e'er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banish'd, yet a true-born Englishman.
SCENE VII. Changes to the court. Enter King Richard, and Bagot, cc. at one door; and
the Lord Aumerle, at the other. K. Rich. We did, indeed, obferve-Cousin 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 say, what store of parting tears were
shed ? Aum. 'Faith, none by me; except the north-east (Which then blew bitterly against our faces) (wind Awak’d the sleepy rheum; and so by chance Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.
K. Rich. What said your cousin when you parted Aum. Farewel.
( with him? And, for my heart disdained that my tongue Should fo profane the word, that taught me craft To counterfeit oppreflion of such grief, That words feem buried in
grave. Marry, would the word farewel have lengthen'd hours, And added years to his short banishment, He should have had a volume of farewels; But, since it would not, he had none of me.
K. Rich. He is our kinsman, cousin; but ’tis doubt, When time shall call him home from banishment, Whether our kinsman come to see his friends. Ourself, and Bufhy, Bagot here, and Green,
Observ'd his courtship to the common people :
How he did seem to dive into their hearts,
With humble and familiar courtesy;
What reverence he did throw away on slaves ;
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles,
And patient under-bearing of his fortune;
As 'twere to banish their affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
A brace of dray-men bid, God speed him well!
And had the tribute of his supple knee ;
With,—Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends ;
As were our England in reversion his,
And he our subjects' next degree in hope.
Green. Well, he is gone, and with him
Now for the rebels, which stand out in Ireland,
Expedient manage must be made, my Liege,
Ere further leisure yield them further means'
For their advantage, and your Highness loss.
K. Rich. We will ourself in person to this war;
And, for our coffers with too great a court,
And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,
We are inforced to farm our royal realm,
The revenue whereof shall furnith us
For our affairs in hand; if they come short,
Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters
Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,
They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold.
And send them after to supply our wants;.
For we will make for Ireland presently.
K. Rich. Bushy, what news?
Bumy. Old John of Gaunt is sick, my Lord,
Suddenly taken, and hath fent post-haste
T intreat your Majesty to visit him.
K. Rich. Where lies he ?
Bufy. At Ely-house.
K. Rich. Now put it heav'n, in his physician's mind,
To help him to his grave immediately.
The lining of his coffers shall make coats
To deck our foldiers for these Irish wars.