K. Rich.
We did observe.—Cousin Aumerle,
How far brought you high Hereford on his way?

Aum.
I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,
But to the next highway, and there I left him.

K. Rich.
What said our cousin, when you parted with him?

Aum.
Farewell:
And for my heart disdained that my tongue
Should so prophane the word, that taught me craft
To counterfeit oppression of such grief,
That words seem bury'd in my sorrow's grave.
Marry, would the word farewell have lengthen'd hours,
And added years to his short banishment,
He should have had a volume of farewells;
But, since it would not, he had none of me.

K. Rich.
He is our kinsman, cousin: but 'tis doubt,
When time shall call him home from banishment,
Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.
Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green,
Observ'd his courtship to the common people:—

How he did seem to dive into their hearts,
With humble and familiar courtesy:
What reverence did he throw away on slaves,
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles,
And patient underbearing of his fortune,
As 'twere to banish their affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
A brace of draymen bid—God speed him well,
And had the tribute of his supple knee,
With,-thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends;—
As were our England in reversion his,
And he our subjects' 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 leisure yield them further means,
For their advantage, and your highness' loss.

K. Rich.
We will ourself in person to this war.
And, for our coffers—with too great a court,
And liberal largess—are grown somewhat light,
We are enforc'd to farm our royal realm;
The revenue whereof shall furnish us
For our affairs in hand: If that come short,
Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters;
Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,
They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold,
And send them after to supply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland presently. Enter Bushy, hastily.
Bushy, what news?

Bush.
Old John of Gaunt is sick, my lord;
Suddenly taken; and hath sent post-haste,
To entreat your majesty to visit him.

K. Rich.
Where lies he?

Bush.
At Ely-house.

K. Rich.
Come Gentlemen, let's all go visit him.
Now put it, heaven, in his physician's mind,
To help him to his grave immediately.
The lining of his coffers shall make coats,
To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars. END OF ACT I.

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