Come, Gentlemen, let's all go vifit him.
Pray heav'n we may make hafte, and come too late!
Gaunt brought in, fick; with the Duke of York.
WILL the King come, that I may breathe
In wholfome counsel to his unftay'd youth? York. Vex not yourself, nor ftrive not with your For all in vain comes counfel to his ear. [breath; Gaunt. Oh but, they fay, the tongues of dying men Inforce attention, like deep harmony.
Where words are fcarce, they're feldom spent in vain; For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.* York. His ear is ftopt with other flatt'ring charms, As praises of his ftate; there are, befide, Lafcivious meeters, to whofe venom'd found The open ear of youth doth always listen; Report of fashions in proud Italy, Whofe manners ftill our tardy, apish nation Limps after, in base aukward imitation. Where doth the world thruft forth a vanity (So it be new, there's no respect 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 f.
He that no more muft fay, is liften'd more
Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glofe, More ale mens' ends mark'd, than their lives before; The fetting fun,- --and mufic in their clofe..
As the last tafte of fweets is fweeteft laft ;
Writ in remembrance, more than things long paft; Though Richard my life's counfel would not hear, My death's fad ale may yet undeaf his ear.
Direct not him, whofe way himself will chufe;
"Tis breath thou lack'ft. and that breath wilt thou lofe.
Gaunt. Methinks I am a prophet new-infpir'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 storms are short, He tires betimes, that fpurs too fast betimes; With eager feeding, food doth choke the feeder; Light vanity, infatiate coromant,
Confuming means, foon preys upon itself. The royal throne of Kings, this scepter'd ifle, This earth of Majefty, this feat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradife,
This fortrefs, built by Nature for herself, 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 lefs happier lands;
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Fear'd for their breed, and famous by their birth, Renowned for their deeds, as far from home, For Christian service and true chivalry,
As in the fepulchre in ftubborn Jury
Of the world's ranfom, bleffed Mary's fon; This land of fuch dear fouls, this dear dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now leas'd out, (I die pronouncing it), Like to a tenement, or pelting farm. England, bound in with the triumphant fea, Whofe rocky fhore beats back the envicus 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 conquest of itself. Ah! would the fcandal vanifh with my life, How happy then were my ensuing death!
Enter King Richard, Queen, Aumerle, Bufhy, Green, Bagot, Rofs, and Willoughby.
York. The King is come, deal mildly with his youth;
young hot colts, being rage'd, do rage Queen. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster? K. Rich. What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt? *
Gaunt. I in myself, but fecing thee too, ill. Thy deathbed is no leffer than the land, Wherein thou lieft in reputation fick ; And thou, too carelefs patient as thou art, Giv'ft thy anointed body to the cure Of thofe phyficians that first wounded thee. A thousand flatt'rers fit within thy crown, Whofe compafs is no bigger than thy head, And yet incaged 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 deftroy his fons, From forth thy reach he would have laid thy fhame, Depofing thee before thou wert poffefs'd, Who art poffefs'd now to depofe thyfelf. Why, coufin, wert thou regent of the world, It were a fhame to let this land by leafe. But for thy world enjoying but this land,
Gaunt. Oh, how that name befits my compofition! Old Gaunt, indeed, and gaunt in being old. Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast; And who abitains 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, my childrens' looks And, therein fafting, thou haft made me gaunt. Gaunt ami 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 sport to mock itself.
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 thofe that live? Gaunt. No, no; men living flatter thofe that die. K. Rich. Thou, now a dying, fay'ft,
Gaunt. Oh! no; thou dieft, though I ficker be. K. Rich. I am in health, I breathe, I fee thee ill. Gaunt. Now, he that made me knows I fee thee ill. Ell in myself, &c,
Is it not more than fhame to shame it fo? Landlord of England art thou now, not King. Thy ftate of law is bondslave to the law; And thou
K. Rich. And thou, a lunatic 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 residence. Now, by my feat's right royal majefty,
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 Glo'fter, plain well-meaning foul, (Whom fair befal in heav'n 'mongft happy fouls!). May be a precedent and witnefs good,
That thou refpects not spilling Edward's blood. Join with the prefent fickness that I have, And thy unkindnefs be like crooked age, To crop at once a too long wither'd flower. Live in thy fhame, but die not shame with thee ! Thefe 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. K. Rich. And let them die, that age and fullens have; For both haft thou, and both become the grave. York. I do befeech your Majefty, impute His words to wayward ficklinefs, and age; 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 love, so As theirs, fo mine; and all be as it is.
North. My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your
K. Rich. What fays old Gaunt ? North. Nay, nothing; all is faid:
His tongue is now a stringlefs inftrument; Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.
York. Be York the next that must be bankrupt fo! Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
K. Rich. The ripest fruit first falls, and fo doth he; His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be : So much for that. -Now for our Irish wars; We must fupplant thofe rough rug-headed kerns, Which live like venom, where no venom else, But only they, have privilege to live;
And, for thefe great affairs do afsk some charge, Towards 'our affiftance we do feize to us The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables, Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand poffefs'd. York. How long shall I be patient! Oh, how long Shall tender duty make me fuffer wrong!
Not Glo'fter's death, not Hereford's banishment, Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs, Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke About his marriage, nor my own disgrace, Have ever made me fow'r my patient cheek, Or bend one wrinkle on my Sovereign's face. I am the last of noble Edward's fons,
Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first: In war, was never lion rage'd more fierce; In peace, was never gentle lamb more mild, Than was that young and princely gentleman; His face thou haft, for even fo look'd he, Accomplish'd with the number of th, hours. But when he frown'd it was against the French, And not against his friends: his noble hand Did win what he did fpend; and spent not that Which his triumphant father's hand had won. His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood, But bloody with the enemies of his kin. Oh, Richard! York is too far gone with grief, Or elfe he never would compare between. K. Rich. Why, uncle, what's the matter?
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