Gaunt. Methinks I am a prophet new-inspir'd,
And, thus expiring, do foretel of him,
His rafh, fierce blaze of riot cannot last;
For violent fires foon burn out themselves.
Small fhow'rs last long, but fudden ftorms are short.
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 itself.
The royal throne of Kings, this fcepter'd ifle,
This earth of Majefty, this feat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradife,
This fortrefs, built by Nature for herself,
Againft infection, and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious ftone fet in the filver sea,
Which ferves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands;
This nurfe, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd for their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds, as far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
As is the fepulchre in ftubborn Jewry
Of the world's ranfom, bleffed Mary's fon;
This land of fuch dear fouls, 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 fea,
Whose rocky fhore beats back the envious fiege
Of watery Neptune, is bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment bonds.
That England that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a fhameful conquest of itself.
Ah! would the fcandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my enfuing death!
Enter King Richard, Queen, Aumerle, Bufby, Green, Bagot, Rofs, and Willoughby.
Tork. 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. Ill in myself, but feeing thee too, ill.
Thy death-bed is no leffer than the land,
Wherein thou lieft in reputation fick;
And thou, too careless patient as thou art,
Giv'ft thy anointed body to the cure
Of those physicians that firft wounded thee.
A thousand flatt'rers fit within thy crown,
Whofe compafs is no bigger than thy head,
And yet encaged in fo fmall a verge,
Thy wafte is no whit leffer than thy land.
Oh, had thy grandfire, with a prophet's eye,
Seen how his fon's fon fhould destroy his fons,
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy fhame,
Depofing thee before thou wert poffefs'd,
Who art poffefs'd now to depofe thy felf.
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,
Gaunt Oh, how that name befits my compofition!
Old Gaunt, indeed, and gaunt in being old.
Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;
And who abftains from meat that is not gaunt?
For fleeping England long time have I watch'd,
Watching breeds leannefs, leannefs is all gaunt.
The pleafure 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,
Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.
K. Rich. Can fick men play fo nicely with their names?
Gaunt. No, mifery makes fport to mock itself.
Since thou doft feek to kill my name in me,
1 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 dieft, though I 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 myself, &c.
Is it not more than fhame to fhame it fo?
Landlord of England art thou now, not King.
Thy ftate of law is bondslave to the law;
And thou-
K. Rich. And thou, a lunatic lean-witted fool,
Prefuming on an ague's privilege,
Dar'ft with thy frozen admonition
Make pale our cheek; chafing the royal blood
With fury from his native refidence.
Now, by my feat's right-royal majefty,
Wert thou not brother to great Edward's fon.
This tongue that runs fo roundly in thy head,
Should run thy head from thy unreverend shoulders.
Gaunt. Oh, fpare me not, my brother Edward's fon,
For that I was his father Edward's fon.
That blood already, like the pelican,
Haft thou tapt out, and drunkenly carous'd.
My brother Glo'fter, plain well-meaning foul,
(Whom fair befal in heav'n 'mong'ft happy fouls!)
May be a precedent and witnefs good,
That thou refpects not spilling Edward's blood.
Join with the prefent ficknefs 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 die 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.
[Exit, borne out.
K. Rich. And let them die, that age and fullens have;
For both haft thou, and both become the grave.
York. I do befeech your Majefty, impute
His words to wayward ficklinefs, and age;
He loves you, on my life; and holds you dear
As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.
K. Rich. Right, you fay true; as Hereford's love, fo As theirs, fo mine; and all be as it is.
SCENE III.
Enter Northumberland.
North. My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your
K. Rich. What fays old Gaunt?
North. Nay, nothing; all is faid:
His tongue is now a stringlefs inftrument;
Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.
York. Be York the next that must be bankrupt To!
Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
K. Rich. The ripest fruit firft falls, and fo doth he;
His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be:
So much for that.- Now for our Irish wars;
We must 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 afk fome charge,
Towards our affiftance we do feize to us
The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did ftand poffefs'd.
York. How long fhall I be patient! Oh, how long
Shall tender duty make me fuffer wrong!
Not Glo'fter's death, not Hereford's banishment,
Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own difgrace,
Have ever made me four my patient cheek,
Or bend one wrinkle on my Sovereign's face.
1 am the laft of noble Edward's fons,
Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first:
In war, was never lion rag'd more fierce;
In peace, was never gentle lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely gentleman;
His face thou haft, for even fo look'd he,
Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours.
But when he frown'd, it was against the French,
And not against his friends: his noble hand
Did win what he did fpend; and spent not that
Which his triumphant father's hand had won.
His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
Oh, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,
Ör elfe he never would compare between.
K. Rich. Why, uncle, what's the matter?
Seek you to feize, and gripe into your hands,
The royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt juft, and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deferve to have an heir?
Is not his heir a well-deferving fon?
Take Hereford's rights away, and take from time
His charters, and his cuftomary rights.
'Let not to-morrow then enfue to-day;
Be not thyfelf.For how art thou a King,
But by fair fequence and fucceffion?
If you do wrongfully feize Hereford's right,
Call in his letters patents that he hath,
By his attorneys-general, to fue
His livery, and deny his offer'd homage;
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head;
You lofe a thousand well-disposed hearts;
And prick my tender patience to thofe thoughts,
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.
K. Rich. Think what you will; we feize into our hands
His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.
York. I'll not be bye the while; my Liege, farewell: What will enfue hereof there's none can tell.
But by bad courses may be understood,
That their events can never fall out good.
K. Rich. Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire ftraight,
Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,,
To fee this business done: to-morrow next
We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow.
And we create, in absence of ourself.
Our uncle York Lord-Governor of England:
For he is juft, and always lov'd us well.
Come on, our Queen; to-morrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of ftay is fhort.
Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas'd
Not to be pardon'd, am content withal,
Seek you to feize, &c.
|