Imatges de pÓgina

Expedient manage muft be made, my Liege,
E'er further leifure yield the further means
For their Advantage, and your Highness lofs.
K. Rich. We will our felf in Perfon to this War,
And for our Coffers, with two great a Court,
And liberal Largefs, are grown fomewhat light,
We are inforc'd to farm our Royal Realm,
The Revenue whereof fhall furnish us

For our Affairs in hand; if they come fhort,
Our Substitutes at home shall have blank Charters:
Whereto, when they fhall know what Men are rich,
They shall subscribe them for large Sums of Gold,
And fend them after to fupply our Wants:
For we will make for Ireland prefently.

Enter Bushy.

K, Rich. What News?

Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is very fick, my Lord, Suddenly taken, and bath fent poft hafte

To intreat your Majefty to vifit him.

K. Rich. Where lyes he?

Busby. At Ely-house.

K. Rich. Now put it, Heav'n, in his Phyfician's Mind, To help him to his Grave immediately: The lining of his Coffers fhall make Coats To deck our Soldiers for thefe Irifh Wars. Come, Gentlemen, let's all go vifit him:

Pray Heav'n we may make hafte, and come too late. [Exe.




Enter Gaunt fick, with the Duke of York.


7ILL the King come, that I may breathe my laft In wholefom Counsel to his unftaid Youth? York. Vex not your felf, nor ftrive not with your Breath, For all in vain comes Counfel to his Ear.

Gaunt. Oh but, they fay, the Tongues of dying Men Inforce Attention like deep Harmony:

Where words are fcarce, they are feldom spent in vain,


For they breath Truth, that breath their Words in pain.
He that no more must say, is liften'd more,

Than they whom Youth and Eafe have taught to glofe ;
More are Mens ends markt than their lives before,
The fetting Sun, and Mufick in the clofe;
As the laft tafte of fweets, is sweetest laft,
Writ in remembrance, more than things long paft;
Though Richard my life's Counsel would not hear,
My Death's fad Tale may yet undeaf his Ear.

Tork. No, it is ftopt with other flatt'ring Sounds,
As praises of his State; then there are found
Lafcivious Meeters, to whofe venom found
The open Ears of Youth doth always liften.
Report of Fashions in proud Italy,
Whofe Manners ftill our tardy apifh Nation
Limps after in base Imitation.

Where doth the World thruft forth a Vanity,
So it be new, there's no refpe&t how vile,
That is not quickly buz'd into their Ears?
That all too late comes Counfel to be heard,
Where Will doth n.utiny with Wits regard:
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 laft;
For violent Fires foon burn out themselves.

Small Showers laft long, but fudden Storms are fhort;
He tires betimes, that fpurs too faft betimes;
With eager feeding, food doth choke the Feeder;
Light Vanity, infatiate Cormorant,
Confuming means, foon preys upon it self.
This Royal Throne of Kings, this fcepter'd Ifle,
This Earth of Majefty, this Seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demy Paradife,
This Fortress built by Nature for her felf,
Against Infection, and the Hand of War;
This happy Breed of Men, this little World,
This precious Stone fet in the Silver Sea,
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 bleffed Plot, this Earth, this Realm, this England,
This Nurse, this teeming Womb of Royal Kings,
Fear'd for their Breed, and famous for their Birth,
Renowned for their Deeds, as far from home,
For Chriftian Service, and true Chivalry,
As is the Sepulchre in ftubborn Jury

Of the World's Ranfom, bleffed Mary's Son;
This Land of fuch dear Souls, this dear dear Land,
Dear for her Reputation through the World,
Is now Leas'd out, I dye pronouncing it,
Like to a Tenement or pelting Farm;
England bound in with the triumphant Sea,
Whole rocky Shore beats back the envious Siege
Of watry Neptune, is now bound in with fhame,
With Inky Blots, and rotten Parchment Bonds.
That England that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a fhameful Conqueft of it felf.
Ah! would the Scandal vanish with my Life,
How happy then were my enfuing Death!

Enter King Richard, Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot,
Rofs, 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. Oh how that Name befits my Compofition! Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old: Within me Grief hath kept a tedious Faft, And who abftains from Meat, that is not gaunt; For fleeping England long time have I watcht, Watching breeds leaneís, leanefs 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 am I 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 fport to mock it felf: 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 thou flatter ft me.
Gaunt. Oh no, thou dy'st, though I the 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::
Ill in my self to fee, and in thee feeing ill.
Thy Death-bed is no leffer than the Land,
Wherein thou lieft in Reputation fick;
And thou, too careless Patient as thou art,
Committ'ft thy anointed Body to the cure
Of thofe Phyficians that firft wounded thee:
A thoufand Flatterers fit within thy Crown,
Whofe compass is no bigger than thy Hand,
And yet ingaged in fo fmall a Verge,
The wafte is no whit leffer than thy Land.
Oh had thy Grandfire with a Prophet's Eye,
Seen how his Son's Son fhould deftroy his Sons,
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy fhame,
Depofing thee before thou wert possest,
Which art poffeft now to depofe thy self.
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,
Is it not more than fhame, to fhame it fo?
Landlord of England art thou, and not King:
Thy ftate of Law, is bondflave to the Law,

K. Rich. And thou, a lunatick lean-witted Fool,
Prefuming on an Agues privilege,

Dar'ft with thy frozen Admonition

Make pale our Cheek, chafing the Royal Blood
With fury, from his Native Refidence:
Now by my Seat's right Royal Majefty

Wert thou not Brother to great Edward's Son,
This Tongue that runs fo roundly in thy Head,
Should run thy Head from thy unreverent Shoulders.
Gaunt. Ch fpare me not, my Brother Edward's Son,
For that I was his Father Edward's Son:

That Blood already, like the Pelican,


Thou haft tapt out, and diurkenly carows'd.
My Brother Glofter, plain well meaning Soul,
Whom fair befal in Heav'n 'mongst happy Souls,
May be a Prefident and Witnefs good,

That thou refpect not fpiling Edward's Blood;
Join with the prefent Sickness that I have,
And thy unkindness be like crooked Age,
To crop at once a too long wither'd Flower.
Live in thy fhame, but dye not fhame 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.


K. Rich. And let them die, that Age and Sullens have
For both haft thou, and both become the Grave.
Tork. I do befeech your Majefty impure his words
To wayward ficklinefs, and age in him:

He loves you on my Life, and holds


dear As Henry Duke of Hereford, were he here.

K. Rich. Right, you lay true; as Hereford's love, fo his; As theirs, fo mine; and all be as it is.

Enter Northumberland

North. My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty. K. Rich. What fay's he?

North. Nay nothing, all is faid:

His Tongue is now a ftringlefs Inftrument,

Words, Life, and all, old Lancaster bath spent.

Tork. Be York the next, that must be Bankrupt fo. Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal wo.

K. Rich. The ripeft Fruit firft falls, and so doth he,
His time is spent, our Pilgrimage muft be:

So much for that. Now for our Irish Wars,
We muft fupplant thofe rough rug-headed Kerns,
Which live like Venom, where no Venom elfe
But only they, have privilege to live.
And for thefe great Affairs do ask fome charge,
Towards our Affiftance, we do feize to us
The Plate, Coin, and Revenues, and Moveables,
Whereof our Uncle Gaunt did ftand poffeft.
Tork. How long fhall I be patient? Oh how long
Shall tender Duty make me fuffer wrong?
Not Glofter's Death, not Hereford's Banifhment,


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