But little vantage fhall I reap thereby;
For ere the fix 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 fee my fon..

K. Rich. Why, uncle? Thou haft 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 ftop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;

Thy word is current with him, for my death,
But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.
K. Rich. Thy fon is banish'd upon good advice,
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave;
Why at our juftice feem'ft thou then to low'r?
Gaunt.. Things fweet to tafte, prove in digestion four,
You urg'd me as a judge; but I had rather
You would have bid me argue like a father.
O, had it been a ftranger, not my child,

To fmooth his fault I would have been more mild.
Alas, I look'd when fome of you should say,

I was too ftrict to make mine own away.

But

you gave leave to my unwilling tongue, Against my will to do myfelf this wrong. A partial flander sought I to avoid,

And in the fentence my own life destroy'd.

K. Rich. Coufin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him fo.

Six years we banish him, and he shall go.

SCENE VI.

[Flourish.

[Exit.

Aum. Coufin, farewell; what prefence muft not know, From where you do remain let paper show.

Mar. My Lord, no leave take 1; for I will ride

As far as land will let me, by your fide.

Gaunt. Oh, to what purpose doft thou hoard thy words, That thou return'ft no greeting to thy friends?

leave of you,

Boling. I have too few to take my
When the tongue's office fhould be prodigal,
B 2

Το

To breathe th' abundant dolour of the heart.

Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.
Boling Joy abfent, grief is prefent 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'ft for pleasure.
Boling. My heart will figh when I mifcall it fo,
Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.

Gaunt. The fullen paffage of thy weary steps
Efteem a foil, wherein thou art to fet
The precious jewel of my home-return.

Boling. Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious ftride I make
Will but remember me, what a deal of world
I wander from the jewels that I love.
Muft I not ferve a long apprenticehood
To foreign paffages, 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 vifits,
Are to a wife man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy neceffity to reafon thus:

There is no virtue like neceffity.

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 fay, I fent thee forth to purchase honour;
And not, the King exil'd thee. Or fuppofe,
Devouring peftilence hangs in our air,
And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look what thy foul holds dear, imagine it
To lie that way thou go'ft, not whence thou com'ft.
Suppofe the finging birds, muficians;

The grafs whereon thou tread'ft, the prefence-floor;
The flow'rs, fair ladies; and thy fteps, no more
Than a delightful measure, or a dance.
For gnarling Sorrow hath lefs pow'r to bite
The man that mocks at it, and fets it light.
Boling. Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frofty Caucafus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feaft?

Or wallow naked in December fuow,

By

By thinking on fantastic fummer's heat?
Oh, no! the apprehenfion of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worfe;
Fell Sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the fore.

Gaunt. Come, come, my fon, I'll bring thee on thy Had I thy youth, and cause, I would not stay. [way. Boling. Then, England's ground, farewell; fweet foil,

adieu,

My mother and my nurse, which bears me yet.
Where-e'er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banifh'd, yet a true-born Englishman.

SCENE VII. Changes to the court.

[Exeunt.

Enter King Richard, and Bagot, Sc. at one door; and the Lord Aumerle, at the other.

K. Rich. We did, indeed, obferve-Coufin Aumerle, How far brought you high Hereford on his way? Aum. I brought high Hereford, if you call him fo, But to the next highway, and there I left him.

K. Rich. And fay, what store of parting tears were fhed?

Aum. 'Faith, none by me; except the north-east wind (Which then blew bitterly againft our faces) Awak'd the fleepy rheum; and fo by chance ·Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

K. Rich. What faid your coufin when you parted with
Aum. Farewell.

And, for

my heart difdained that my tongue Should fo profane the word, that taught me craft

To counterfeit oppreffion of fuch grief,

That words feem buried in my forrow's grave.

[him?

Marry, would the word farewell have lengthen'd hours," And added years to his short banishment,

He fhould have had a volume of farewells;

But, fince it would not, he had none of me.

K. Rich. He is our kinfman, coufin; but 'tis doubt,: When time fhall call him home from banishment, Whether our kinfman come to fee his friends. Ourfelf, and Bufhy, Bagot here, and Green,

B 3

Obferv'd

Obferv'd his courtship to the common people:
How he did feem to dive into their hearts,
With humble and familiar courtefy;
What reverence he did throw away on flaves;
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles,
And patient under-bearing of his fortune;
As 'twere to bauifh their affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
A brace of dray-men bid, God fpeed him well!
And had the tribute of his fupple knee;
With,Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends;
As were our England in reverfion his,
And he our fubjects' 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 leifure yield them further means
For their advantage, and your Highness' loss.
K. Rich. We will ourself in perfon to this war;
And, for our coffers with too great a court,
And liberal largefs, are grown fomewhat light,
We are inforc'd to farm our royal realm,
The revenue whereof fhall furnith us

For our affairs in hand; if they come short,
Our fubftitutes at home fhall have blank charters:
. Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,
They fhall fubfcribe them for large fums of gold,
And fend them after to fupply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland prefently.

Enter Busby.

K. Rich. Bufhy, what news?

Busby. Old John of Gaunt is fick, my Lord, Suddenly taken, and hath fent poft hafte

T'intreat your Majefty to vifit him.

K. Rich. Where lies he?

Busby. At Ely-houfe.

K. Rich. Now put it, heav'n, in his physician's mind,

To help him to his grave immediately.

The lining of his coffers fhall make coats

To deck our foldiers for these Irish wars.

Come,

Come, Gentlemen, let's all go vifit him,

Pray Heav'n we may make hatte, and come too late!

ACT II. SCENE I.

Ely-houfe.

[Exeunt.

Gaunt brought in fick, with the Duke of York.

Gaunt.

WILL the King come, that I may breathe

my laft

In wholesome counfel 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 scarce, they're seldom spent in vain;
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
York. His ear is ftopt with other flatt'ring charms,
As praifes of his ftate; there are, befide,

Lafcivious meeters, to whofe venom'd found
The open ear of youth doth always liften;
Report of fashions in proud Italy,
Whose manners ftill our tardy, apifh nation
Limps after, in bafe aukward imitation.
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity
(So be it new, there's no refpect 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 †.

words in pain.

He that no more must say, is listen'd more

i

Gaunt.

Than they whom youth and cafe have taught to glose, t More are mens' ends mark'd, than their lives before; r The fetting fun.--and mufic in the clofe

As the last tafle of fweets is fweetest last;

Writ in remembrance, more than things long paft;
Though Richard my life's counfel would not hear,
My death's fad tale may yet undeaf his ear.

+

York. His ear is flopt, &c.

with wit's regard.

Direct not him, whofe way himself will chufe;

'Tis breath thou lack'ft, and that breath wilt thou lose." Gaunt. Methinks, &c.