Gaunt.
Will the King come, that I may breathe my last
In wholesome counsel to his unstay'd youth?

York.
Vex not your self, nor strive not with your breath;
For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.

Gaunt.
Oh, but, they say, 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.
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:
The setting Sun,—and musick in the close.—
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last;
Writ in remembrance, more than things long past;
Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,
My death's sad Tale may yet undeaf his ear.

York.
His ear is stopt with other flatt'ring charms,
As praises of his State; there are, beside,
Lascivious meeters, to whose venom'd sound
The open ear of youth doth always listen:
Report of Fashions in proud Italy,
Whose manners still our tardy, apish, Nation
Limps after, in base aukward imitation.
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
(So it be new, there's no respect how vile,)
That is not quickly buz'd into his ears?
Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,

Where Will doth mutiny with wits regard.
Direct not him, whose way himself will chuse;
'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

Gaunt.
Methinks, I am a prophet new-inspir'd,
And thus expiring, do foretel of him,
His rash, fierce blaze of riot cannot last;
For violent fires soon burn out themselves.
Small show'rs last long, but sudden storms are short;
He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding, food doth choak the feeder;
Light vanity, insatiate Cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon it self.
This royal Throne of Kings, this scepter'd Isle,
This Earth of Majesty, this Seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demy Paradise,
This fortress, built by Nature for her self,
Against infection, and the hand of war;
This happy Breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier Lands;
This nurse, 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 Sepulchre in stubborn Jury
Of the world's Ransom, blessed Mary's Son;
This Land of such 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,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watry Neptune, is bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment-bonds.
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful Conquest of it self.
Ah! would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!

Enter King Richard, 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.
Oh, 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, thou hast 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 it self:
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 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 dy'st, though I the sicker be.

K. Rich.
I am in health, I breathe, I see thee ill.

Gaunt.
Now he, that made me, knows, I see thee ill;
Ill in my self, but seeing thee too, ill.
Thy death-bed is no lesser than the Land,
Wherein thou liest in Reputation sick;
And thou, too careless Patient as thou art,
Giv'st thy anointed body to the cure
Of those physicians, that first wounded thee:
A thousand flatt'rers sit within thy Crown,
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head,
And yet ingaged in so small a verge,
Thy waste is no whit lesser than thy Land.
Oh, had thy Grandsire, with a prophet's eye,

Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons;
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,
Deposing thee before thou wert possest;
Who art possess'd now, to depose thy self.
Why, Cousin, wert thou Regent of the world,
It were a shame to let this Land by lease:
But for thy world enjoying but this Land,
Is it not more than shame, to shame it so?
Landlord of England art thou now, not King:
Thy state of law is bondslave to the law;
And Thou—

K. Rich.
And thou, a lunatick lean-witted fool,
Presuming on an ague's privilege,
Dar'st with thy frozen admonition
Make pale our cheek; chasing the royal blood
With fury from his native residence.
Now by my Seat's right-royal Majesty,
Wert thou not Brother to Great Edward's son,
This tongue, that runs so roundly in thy head,
Should run thy head from thy unreverend shoulders.

Gaunt.
Oh, spare me not, my brother Edward's son,
For that I was his father Edward's son.
That blood already, like the Pelican,
Hast thou tapt out, and drunkenly carows'd.
My brother Glo'ster, plain well-meaning soul,
(Whom fair befal in heav'n 'mongst happy souls!)
May be a precedent and witness good,
That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood.
Join with the present Sickness that I have,
And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too-long-wither'd flower.
Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!
These 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 Sullens have;
For both hast thou, and both become the Grave.

York.
I do beseech your Majesty, impute
His words to wayward sickliness, and age:

He loves you, on my life; and holds you dear
As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.

K. Rich.
Right, you say true; as Hereford's love, so his;
As theirs, so mine; and all be, as it is. Enter Northumberland.

North.
My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty.

K. Rich.
What says old Gaunt?

North.
Nay, nothing; all is said:
His tongue is now a stringless instrument,
Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

York.
Be York the next, that must be bankrupt so!
Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich.
The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he;
His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be:
So much for that.—Now for our Irish wars;
We must supplant those rough rug-headed Kerns,
Which live like venom, where no venom else,
But only they, have privilege to live.
And, for these great affairs do ask some Charge,
Towards our assistance we do seize to us
The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possest.

York.
How long shall I be patient? Oh, how long
Shall tender Duty make me suffer wrong?
Not Glo'ster'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 disgrace,
Have ever made me sow'r my patient cheek;
Or bend one wrinkle on my Soveraign's face.
I am the last of noble Edward's sons,
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 hast, for even so 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 spend; 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,
Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich.
Why, uncle, what's the matter?

York.
O my Liege,
Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas'd
Not to be pardon'd, am content withal.
Seek you to seize, 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 just, and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir?
Is not his heir a well-deserving son?
Take Hereford's Rights away, and take from time
His Charters, and his customary Rights.
Let not to morrow then ensue to day;
Be not thy self.—For how art thou a King,
But by fair sequence and succession?
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's Right,
Call in his letters patents that he hath,
By his attorneys-general to sue
His livery, and deny his offer'd homage;
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head;
You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts;
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts,
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich.
Think, what you will; we seize into our hands
His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.

York.
I'll not be by, the while; my Liege, farewel:
What will ensue hereof, there's none can tell.
But by bad courses may be understood,
That their events can never fall out good. [Exit.

K. Rich.
Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire streight,
Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,
To see this business done: To morrow next

We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow.
And we create, in absence of our self,
Our uncle York Lord-governor of England:
For he is just, and always lov'd us well.
Come on, our Queen; to morrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of Stay is short. [Flourish. [Exeunt King, Queen, &c. Manent Northumberland, Willoughby, and Ross.

North.
Well, Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.

Ross.
And living too, for now his son is Duke.

Willo.
Barely in title, not in revenue.

North.
Richly in both, if justice had her right.

Ross.
My heart is great; but it must break with silence,
Ere't be disburthen'd with a lib'ral tongue.

North.
Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more,
That speaks thy words again to do thee harm.

Willo.
Tends, what you'd speak, to th' Duke of Hereford?
If it be so, out with it boldly, man:
Quick is mine ear to hear of Good towards him.

Ross.
No Good at all that I can do for him,
Unless you call it good to pity him,
Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

North.
Now, afore heav'n, it's shame such wrongs are borne
In him a royal Prince, and many more,
Of noble blood in this declining Land;
The King is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers; and what they will inform
Merely in hate 'gainst any of us all,
That will the King severely prosecute
'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.

Ross.
The Commons hath he pill'd with grievous Taxes,
And lost their hearts; the Nobles hath he fin'd
For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.

Willo.
And daily new Exactions are devis'd;
As Blanks, Benevolences, I wot not what;

But what, o'God's name, doth become of this?

North.
Wars have not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not,
But basely yielded upon compromise
That, which his Ancestors atchiev'd with blows:
More hath he spent in peace, than they in wars.

Ross.
The Earl of Wiltshire hath the Realm in farm.

Willo.
The King's grown bankrupt, like a broken man.

North.
Reproach, and dissolution, hangeth over him.

Ross.
He hath not mony for these Irish wars,
(His burthenous taxations notwithstanding)
But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.

North.
His noble Kinsman—most degenerate King
But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm:
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

Ross.
We see the very wreck, that we must suffer;
And unavoided is the Danger now,
For suff'ring so the causes of our wreck.

North.
Not so: ev'n through the hollow eyes of Death
I spy life peering; but I dare not say,
How near the tidings of our comfort is.

Willo.
Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours.

Ross.
Be confident to speak, Northumberland;
We three are but thy self, and speaking so,
Thy words are but as thoughts, therefore be bold.

North.
Then thus, my friends. I have from Port le Blanc,
A bay in Bretagne, had intelligence,
That Harry Hereford, Rainald lord Cobham,
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Rainston,
Sir John Norberie, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Coines,
All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Bretagne,

With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And shortly mean to touch our northern shore;
Perhaps, they had ere this; but that they stay
The first departing of the King for Ireland.
If then we shall shake off our slavish yoak,
Imp out our drooping Country's broken wing,
Redeem from broking Pawn the blemish'd Crown,(7) ^note
Wipe off the dust that hides our Scepter's gilt,
And make high Majesty look like it self:
Away with me in post to Ravenspurg.
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay, and be secret, and my self will go.

Ross.
To horse, to horse; urge Doubts to them that fear.

Willo.
Hold out my horse, and I will first be there. [Exeunt.

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