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

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

Gaunt.
O, but they say, the tongues of dying men
Enforce attention, like deep harmony:
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain:
Though Richard, my life's counsel would not heed,
My death's sad tale, may yet undeaf his ear.

York.
No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds;
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
(So it be new, there's no respect how vile),
That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?
Then all too late comes counsel to be heard—
Direct not him, whose way himself will choose.

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:

Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This fortress built by Nature for herself,
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 blessed plot, this earth, this England,
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 by the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now 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 herself:
O, would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death.

York.
Here comes the king: deal mildly with his youth. Enter King Richard, Bushy, Bagot, Green, Ross, Aumerle, and Willoughby.

K. Rich.
How fares our noble uncle Lancaster?
What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt?

Gaunt.
How well that name befits my composition!
Old Gaunt, indeed! and gaunt in being old:
Ill in myself, and seeing thee too ill,
Thy death bed is no lesser than thy land,
Wherein thou ly'st 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 flatterers sit within thy crown,
Whose compass is no bigger' than thy head;
And yet incaged in so small a verge,
The waste is no whit lesser than thy land.
O, 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,
Which art possess'd now to depose thyself.
Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world,
It were a shame, to let this land by lease:
Landlord of England art thou now, not king:
Thy state of law is bond-slave to the law;
And thou—

K. Rich.
A lunatick, lean-witted fool,
Presuming on an ague's privilege,
Dar'st with thy frozen admonition,
Make pale our cheeks, 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 unreverent shoulders.

Gaunt.
O, 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 tapp'd out, and drunkenly carous'd:
My brother Gloster, plain, well-meaning soul,
(Whom fair befal in heaven 'mongst happy souls!)
May be a precedent and witness good,
That spilling Edward's blood thou not respect'st:
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;
These words hereafter thy tormentors be!
Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!
Convey me to my bed, for I am faint. [Exeunt, led in to an inner Apartment, follow'd by Northumberland, &c.

York.
I do beseech your majesty, impute
His words to wayward sickliness and age.
He loves you, on my life, and holds you dearly too,
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. Re-enter Northumberland.

North.
My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty.

K. Rich.
What says old Gaunt?

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

K. Rich.
The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth Gaunt;
His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be.
So much for that.—Now for our Irish wars:
We must supplant these rough rug-headed kerns;
Which live like venom, where no venom else,
But only they, hath 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 possess'd.

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 Harry 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 thyself, for how art thou a king,
But by fair sequence and succession?
Now, afore heav'n (heav'n forbid, I say true!)
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's rights,
Deny his livery and 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, into our hands we seize
His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.

York.
I'll not be by the while: my liege, farewell! [Exit York.

K. Rich.
Go, Bushy, to the earl of Wiltshire straight;
Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,
To see this business: 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 just, and always lov'd us well.
Come on, my friends; to-morrow must be part;
Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [Flourish.] [Exeunt all, except Northumberland, Willoughby, and Ross.

“North.
Well, lords, the duke of Lancaster is dead.

“Ross.
And living too: for now his son is duke.

“Will.
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.
Tends that thou'dst speak to the 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 stripp'd thus of his patrimony.”

North.
Now, afore heaven, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne;
The king is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers; and what will they 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 earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm;
The king's grown bankrupt; like a broken man,
Reproach, and dissolution, hangeth o'er him.

“North.
But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
“Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm.

“Ross.
We see the very wreck that we must suffer,
“And unavoided is the danger now,
“For suffering so the causes of our wreck.

“North.
Not so; even through the hollow eyes of death,
“I spy life peering: but I dare not say
“How near the tidings of our comfort is.

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

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

North.
Then thus: I have from Port-le-blanc, a bay
In Bretagne, receiv'd intelligence,
That Harry Hereford, Reignold lord Cobham,
The archbishop, late of Canterbury; his nephew,
That late broke from the duke of Exeter;
Sir Thomas Erpingham, sir Thomas Ramston;
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 yoke,
Imp out our drooping country's broken wing,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our scepter's gilt,
And make high majesty look like itself,
Away, with me, in post to Ravenspurg;
“But if you faint, as fearing the success,
“Stay and be secret, and myself will go.”

Ross.
To horse, to horse, urge doubts to those that fear.

North.
Hold out our horses, and we'll soon be there. [Exeunt.

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