And, for my heart disdained that my tongue 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 banishment, A brace of draymen bid-God speed him well, As were our England in reversion his, Green. Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts. Now for the rebels, which stand out in Ireland ;- K. Rich. We will ourself in person to this war. For our affairs in hand: If that come short, Bushy, what news? Enter Bushy. Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord; Suddenly taken; and hath sent post-haste, K. Rich. Where lies he? Bushy. At Ely-house. K. Rich. Now put it, heaven, in his physician's mind, To help him to his grave immediately! The lining of his coffers shall make coats To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.- Pray God, we may make haste, and come too late! [Exeunt. ACT 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 his ear. Gaunt. O, but they say, the tongues of dying men Enforce attention, like deep harmony: Where words are scarce, they are seldom 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 men's ends mark'd, than their lives before: As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last; York. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds, 1 As, praises of his state: then, there are found Whose manners still our tardy apish nation Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity 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; * Flatter. He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes; Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. This fortress, built by nature for herself, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, • 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. O, 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 mock 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, now a dying, say'st-thou flatter'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. |