And, for my heart disdained that my tougue
Should so profane the word, that taught me craft
To counterfeit oppression of such grief,
That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave.
Marry, would the word farewell have lengthen'd

hours,
And added years to his short bapishment,
He should have had a volume of farewells ;
But, since it would not, he had none of me.

K. Rich. He is our cousin, cousin; but'tis doubt,
When time shall call him home from banishment,
Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.
Ourself, and Bushy, 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 underbearing of his fortune,
As 'twere, to banish their affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
A brace of draymen bid-God speed him well,
And had the tribute of his supple knee,
With- Thanks, my countrymen, my loving

friendsAs were our England in reversion his, And be our subjects' next degree in hope. Green. Well, he is gone; and with him go these

thoughts. 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. Aad, fort our coffers-with too great a court, And liberal largess,-are grown somewhat light, We are enforc'd to farm our royal realm ; The revenue whereof shall furnish us

For our affairs in hand: If that come short,
Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters;
Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,
They shall subscribe then for large sums of gold,
And send them after to supply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland presently.

Enter Bushy. Bashy, what news? Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my

lord;
Suddenly taken; and hath sent post-haste,
To entreat your majesty to visit him.

K. Rich. Where lies he?
Bushy. At Ely-house.
K. Rich. Now put it, heaven, in his physician's

mind,
To help him to bis grave immediately!
The lining of his coffers shall make coats
To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.-
Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him:
Pray God, we may make haste, and come too late!

(Ereunt.

АСТ II.

SCENE I. London. A room in Ely-house.

Gaunt on a couch; the Duke of York, and others

standing by him. Gaunt. Will the king come? that I may breathe

my last, In wholesome counsel to his unstaied youth. York. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your

breath; For all in vain comes counsel to bis ear.

Gaunt. 0, but they say, the tongues of dying

men Enforce attention, like deep harmony: Where words are scarce, they are seldorn spent in

vain; For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in

pain. . He, that no more must say, is listen'd more Than they whom youth and ease have taught to

glose*; More are meu's ends mark'd, than their lives before:

The setting sun, and musick at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last; Writ in remembrance, more than things long past: Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear, My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear. York. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering

sounds, As, praises of his state: then, there are found Lascivious metres; to whose vepom sound The open ear of youth doth always listen : Report of fashions in proud Italy; Whose manners still our tardy apish nation Limps after, in base imitation. Where doth the world thrust 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. Direct not him, whose way himself will choose; Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou

lose, Gaunt. Methinks, I am a prophet new inspir'd : And thus, expiring, do foretell of him : His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last; For violent fires soon burn out themselves : Small showers last long, but sudden storms are

short;

ears?

s

counsel

doth m

Direct

* Flatter.

He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding, food doth choke the feeder:
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise ;
This fortress, built by nature for herself,
Against infection, and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world;
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Eng-

land,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home
(For Christian service, and true chivalry),
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's son:
This land of such dear souls, 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 sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious sicge
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment bonds;
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself:
O, would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!

• Paltry,

Enter King Richard, and Queen; Aumerle, Bushy,

Green, Bagot, Ross, 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. Lancaster?
K. Rich. What comfort, man? How is't with

aged Gaunt?
Gaunt. 0, how that name befits my composition !
Old Gaunt, indeed ; and gaunt* in being old:
Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;
And who abstains from meat, that is not gaunt?
For sleeping England long time have I watch'd ;
Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt:
The pleasure, that some fathers feed upon,
Is my strict fast, I mean-my children's looks;
And, therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt:
Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,
Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.
K. Rich. Can sick men play so nicely with their

names ? Gaunt. No, misery makes sport to nuock itself: Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me, I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee. K. Rich. Should dying men flatter with those

that live? Gaunt. No, no; men living flatter those that die. K. Rich. Thou, pow a dying, say'st-thou flat

ter'st me. Gaunt. Oh! no; thou diest, though I the sicker

be. K. Rich. I am in health, I breathe, and see thee

ill. Gaunt. Now, He that made me, knows I see

thee ill; Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill.

• Lean, thin.