But little vantage fhall I reap thereby; K. Rich. Why, uncle? Thou haft many years to live. Thy word is current with him, for my death, To fmooth his fault I would have been more mild. 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 Το To breathe th' abundant dolour of the heart. Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time. Gaunt. The fullen paffage of thy weary steps Boling. Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious ftride I make Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven vifits, There is no virtue like neceffity. Think not the King did banish thee; But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier fit, The grafs whereon thou tread'ft, the prefence-floor; Or wallow naked in December fuow, By By thinking on fantastic fummer's heat? 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. 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 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: Green. Well, he is gone, and with him go these Now for the rebels, which stand out in Ireland, For our affairs in hand; if they come short, 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? 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; Lafcivious meeters, to whofe venom'd found 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; + 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. |