King Richard.
Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd Lancaster,
Hast thou, according to thy oath and bond,
Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son,
Here to make good the boist'rous late Appeal,
Which then our leisure would not let us hear,
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Gaunt.
I have, my liege.

K. Rich.
Tell me moreover, hast thou sounded him,

If he appeal the Duke on ancient malice,
Or worthily, as a good Subject should,
On some known ground of treachery in him?

Gaunt.
As near as I could sift him on that argument,
On some apparent Danger seen in him
Aim'd at your Highness; no invet'rate malice.

K. Rich.
Then call them to our presence; face to face,
And frowning brow to brow. Our selves will hear
Th' accuser, and th' accused freely speak.—
High-stomach'd are they Both, and full of ire;
In rage, deaf as the sea; hasty as fire. SCENE II. Enter Bolingbroke and Mowbray.

Boling.
May many years of happy days befal
My gracious Sovereign, my most loving Liege!

Mowb.
Each day still better other's happiness;
Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap,
Add an immortal title to your Crown!

K. Rich.
We thank you both, yet one but flatters us,
As well appeareth by the cause you come;
Namely, t'appeal each other of high Treason.
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Boling.
First (Heaven be the record to my speech!)
In the devotion of a Subject's love,
Tend'ring the precious safety of my Prince,
And free from other mis-begotten hate,
Come I Appellant to this princely presence.
—Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,
And mark my Greeting well; for what I speak,
My body shall make good upon this earth,
Or my divine soul answer it in heav'n.
Thou art a traitor and a miscreant;

Too good to be so, and too bad to live;
Since, the more fair and crystal is the sky,
The uglier seem the clouds, that in it fly.
Once more, the more to aggravate the Note,
With a foul Traytor's Name stuff I thy throat;
And wish, so please my Sov'reign, ere I move,
What my Tongue speaks, my ^{2 note}Right-drawn Sword may prove.

Mowb.
Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal;
'Tis not the tryal of a woman's war,
The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,
Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;
The blood is hot, that must be cool'd for this.
Yet can I not of such tame patience boast,
As to be husht, and nought at all to say.
First, the fair Rev'rence of your Highness curbs me,
From giving reins and spurs to my free speech;
Which else would post, until it had return'd
These terms of Treason doubled down his throat.
Setting aside his high blood's Royalty,
And let him be no kinsman to my Leige,
I do defie him, and I spit at him;
Call him a sland'rous coward, and a villain;
Which to maintain, I would allow him odds,
And meet him, were I ty'd to run a-foot
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground * ^noteinhabitable,
Where never Englishman durst set his foot.
Mean time, let this defend my Loyalty;
By all my hopes, most falsly doth he lie.

Boling.
Pale trembling Coward, there I throw my Gage,
Disclaiming here the kindred of a King,
And lay aside my high blood's Royalty,
Which fear, not rev rence, makes thee to except.
If guilty Dread hath left thee so much strength,

As to take up mine Honour's pawn, then stoop;
By that, and all the rights of Knighthood else,
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
What I have spoken, or thou canst devise.

Mowb.
I take it up, and by that Sword I swear,
Which gently laid my Knighthood on my shoulder,
I'll answer thee in any fair degree,
Or chivalrous design of knightly tryal;
And when I mount, alive may I not light,
If I be traitor, or unjustly fight!

K. Rich.
What doth our Cousin say to Mowbray's charge?
It must be great, that can inherit us
So much as of a thought of Ill in him.

Boling.
Look, what I said, my life shall prove it true;
That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles,
In name of lendings for your Highness' soldiers,
The which he hath detain'd for lewd imployments;
Like a false traitor and injurious villain.
Besides, I say, and will in battle prove,
Or here, or elsewhere, to the furthest verge,
That ever was survey'd by English eye,
That all the treasons for these eighteen years,
Complotted and contrived in this Land,
Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.
Further, I say, and further will maintain
Upon his bad Life to make all This good,
That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death;
Suggest his soon-believing adversaries;
And consequently, like a traitor-coward,
Sluic'd out his inn'cent soul through streams of blood;
Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries
Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,
To me, for justice, and rough chastisement.
And by the glorious Worth of my Descent,
This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

K. Rich.
How high a pitch his resolution soars!

Thomas of Norfolk, what say'st thou to this?

Mowb.
O, let my Sovereign turn away his face,
And bid his ears a little while be deaf,
Till I have told this Slander of his blood,
How God and good men hate so foul a liar.

K. Rich.
Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears.
Were he our brother, nay, our Kingdom's heir,
As he is but our father's brother's son;
Now by ^{3 note}my Scepter's awe, I make a vow,
Such neighbour-nearness to our sacred blood
Should nothing priv'lege him, nor partialize
Th' unstooping firmness of my upright soul.
He is our Subject, Mowbray, so art thou;
Free speech, and fearless, I to thee allow.

Mowb.
Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,
Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest!
Three parts of that Receipt I had for Calais,
Disburst I to his Highness' soldiers;
The other part reserv'd I by consent,
For that my sovereign Leige was in my debt;
Upon remainder of a dear account,
Since last I went to France to fetch his Queen.
Now, swallow down that Lie.—For Gloucester's death,
I slew him not; but, to mine own disgrace,
Neglected my sworn duty in that case.
For you, my noble lord of Lancaster,
The honourable father to my foe,
Once did I lay an ambush for your life,
A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul;
But ere I last receiv'd the Sacrament,
I did confess it, and exactly begg'd
Your Grace's pardon; and, I hope, I had it.
This is my fault; as for the rest appeal'd,
It issues from the rancor of a villain,
A recreant and most degen'rate traitor;
Which in my self I boldly will defend,

And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot;
To prove my self a loyal gentleman,
Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom.
In haste whereof, most heartily I pray
Your Highness to assign our tryal-day.

K. Rich.
Wrath-kindled Gentlemen, be rul'd by me;
Let's purge this Choler without letting blood:
^{4 note}This we prescribe, though no physician;
Deep malice makes too deep incision:
Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed;
Our Doctors say, this is no time to bleed.
Good Uncle, let this end where it begun;
We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your Son.

Gaunt.
To be a make-peace shall become my age;
Throw down, my Son, the Duke of Norfolk's gage.

K. Rich.
And, Norfolk, throw down his.

Gaunt.
When, Harry? when
Obedience bids, I should not bid again.

K. Rich.
Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot.* ^note

Mowb.
My self I throw, dread Sovereign, at thy foot.
My life thou shalt command, but not my Shame;
The one my duty owes; but ^{5 note}my fair Name,
Despight of death, That lives upon my Grave,
To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have.
I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here,

Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear:
The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath'd this poison.

K. Rich.
Rage must be withstood.
Give me his gage. Lions make Leopards tame.

Mowb.
Yea, but not change their spots. Take but my shame,
And I resign my gage. My dear, dear Lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford,
Is spotless Reputation; That away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times-barr'd-up chest,
Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.
Mine Honour is my life, both grow in one;
Take honour from me, and my life is done.
Then, dear my Liege, mine honour let me try;
In That I live, and for That will I die.

K. Rich.
Cousin, throw down your gage; do you begin.

Boling.
Oh, heav'n defend my soul from such foul sin!
Shall I seem crest-fall'n in my father's sight,
^{6 note}Or with pale beggar face impeach my height,
Before this out-dar'd Dastard? Ere my tongue
Shall wound my Honour with such feeble wrong,
Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear
^{7 note}

K. Rich.
We were not born to sue, but to command,
Which since we cannot do to make you friends,
Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,
At Coventry upon Saint Lambert's day.

There shall your Swords and Lances arbitrate
The swelling diff'rence of your settled hate.
Since we cannot atone you, you shall see
Justice decide the Victor's Chivalry.
Lord Marshal, bid our officers at Arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Changes to the Duke of Lancaster's Palace. Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucester.

Gaunt.
Alas! * ^notethe part I had in Glo'ster's blood
Doth more sollicit me, than your Exclaims,
To stir against the butchers of his life.
But since correction lyeth in those hands,
Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our Quarrel to the Will of heav'n;
Who when it sees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.

Dutch.
Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's sev'n sons, whereof thy self art one,
Were as sev'n vials of his sacred blood;
Or sev'n fair branches, springing from one root:
Some of those sev'n are dry'd by Nature's Course;
Some of those branches by the Dest'nies cut:
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Glo'ster,
One vial, full of Edward's sacred blood,
One flourishing branch of his most royal root,
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;
Is hackt down, and his summer leaves all faded,
By Envy's hand and Murder's bloody axe.
Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine; that bed, that womb,
That metal, that self-mould that fashion'd thee;

Made him a man; and though thou liv'st and breath'st,
Yet art thou slain in him; thou dost consent
In some large measure to thy father's death;
In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father's life;
Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair.
In suff'ring thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,
Thou shew'st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murther how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we entitle Patience,
Is pale cold Cowardise in noble breasts,
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Glo'ster's death.

Gaunt.
God's is the Quarrel; for God's Substitute,
His Deputy anointed in his sight,
Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully,
Let God revenge, for I may never lift
An angry arm against his Minister.

Dutch.
Where then, alas, may I complain my self?

Gaunt.
To heav'n, the widow's Champion and Defence.

Dutch.
Why then, I will: farewel, old Gaunt, farewel.
Thou go'st to Coventry, there to behold
Our Cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear,
That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast!
Or, if misfortune miss the first career,
Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom,
That they may break his foaming Courser's back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
^{8 note}

Gaunt.
Sister, farewel; I must to Coventry.
As much Good stay with thee, as go with me!

Dutch.
Yet one word more—grief boundeth where it falls,
Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:
I take my leave, before I have begun;
For Sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
Commend me to my brother, Edmund York:
Lo, this is all—nay, yet depart not so;
Though this be all, do not so quickly go:
I shall remember more. Bid him—oh, what?
With all good speed at Plashie visit me.
Alack, and what shall good old York see there
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Un-peopled offices, untrodden stones?
And what hear there for welcome, but my groans?
Therefore commend me,—let him not come there
To seek out sorrow that dwells every where;
All desolate, will I from hence, and die;
The last Leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. The Lists, at Coventry. Enter the Lord Marshal, and Aumerle.

Mar.
My lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd?

Aum.
Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.

Mar.
The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,
Stays but the Summons of th' Appellant's trumpet.

Aum.
Why, then the Champions are prepar'd, and stay
For nothing but his Majesty's approach. [Flourish.

The trumpets sound, and the King enters with Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, and others: when they are set, Enter the Duke of Norfolk in armour.

K. Rich.
Marshal, demand of yonder Champion
The cause of his arrival here in arms;
Ask him his name, and orderly proceed
To swear him in the justice of his Cause.

Mar.
In God's name and the King's, say who thou art? [To Mowbray.
And why thou com'st, thus knightly clad in arms?
Against what man thou com'st, and what thy quarrel?
Speak truly on thy Knighthood, and thine Oath,
And so defend thee heaven, and thy valour!

Mowb.
My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
Who hither come engaged by my oath,
(Which, heav'n defend, a Knight should violate!)
Both to defend my Loyalty and Truth,
To God, my King, and his succeeding Issue,^{9 note}
Against the Duke of Hereford, that appeals me;
And by the grace of God, and this mine arm,
To prove him, in defending of my self,
A traitor to my God, my King, and me;
And, as I truly fight, defend me heav'n! The trumpets sound. Enter Bolingbroke, Appellant, in armour.

K. Rich.
Marshal, ask yonder Knight in arms,
Both who he is, and why he cometh hither,
Thus plated in habiliments of war;
And formally, according to our Law,

Depose him in the justice of his Cause.

Mar.
What is thy name, and wherefore com'st thou hither,
Before King Richard, in his royal Lists? [To Boling.
Against whom comest thou? and what's thy Quarrel?
Speak like a true Knight, so defend thee heav'n!

Boling.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Darby
Am I, who ready here do stand in arms,
To prove, by heav'n's grace and my body's valour,
In Lists, on Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolk,
That he's a traitor foul and dangerous,
To God of heav'n, King Richard, and to me;
And, as I truly fight, defend me heav'n!

Mar.
On pain of death, no person be so bold,
Or daring-hardy, as to touch the Lists,
Except the Marshal, and such Officers
Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Boling.
Lord Marshal, let me kiss my Sovereign's hand,
And bow my knee before his Majesty:
For Mowbray and my self are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;
Then let us take a ceremonious Leave,
And loving Farewel, of our several friends.

Mar.
Th' Appellant in all duty greets your Highness, [To K. Rich.
And craves to kiss your hand, and take his leave.

K. Rich.
We will descend and fold him in our arms.
Cousin of Hereford, as thy Cause is right,
So be thy Fortune in this royal fight!
Farewel, my Blood; which if to day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

Boling.
Oh, let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear.
As confident, as is the Faulcon's flight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.
My loving lord, I take my leave of you,
Of you, my noble Cousin, lord Aumerle.

Not sick, although I have to do with Death;
But lusty, young, and chearly drawing Breath.—
Lo, as at English Feasts, so I regreet
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet:
Oh thou! the earthly author of my blood, [To Gaunt.
Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up
To reach at Victory above my head,
Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers;
And with thy Blessings steel my Lance's point,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen Coat,
And furbish new the Name of John o' Gaunt
Ev'n in the lusty 'haviour of his son.

Gaunt.
Heav'n in thy good Cause make thee prosperous!
Be swift like Lightning in the execution,
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing thunder on the Casque
Of thy adverse pernicious enemy.
Rouze up thy youthful blood, be brave and live.

Boling.
Mine innocence, God and St. George to thrive!

Mowb.
However heav'n or fortune cast my lot,
There lives, or dies, true to King Richard's Throne,
A loyal, just and upright Gentleman.
Never did Captive with a freer heart
Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace
His golden uncontroul'd enfranchisement,
More than my dancing soul doth celebrate
This Feast of battle, with mine adversary.
Most mighty Liege, and my companion Peers,
Take from my mouth the wish of happy years;
As gentle and as jocund, as to jest,^{1 note}

K. Rich.
Farewel, my lord; securely I espy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.
Order the tryal, Marshal, and begin.

Mar.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Receive thy Lance; and heav'n defend thy Right!

Boling.
Strong as a tower in hope, I cry Amen.

Mar.
Go bear this Lance to Thomas Duke of Norfolk.

1 Her.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Stands here for God, his Sovereign and Himself,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A traitor to his God, his King, and him;
And dares him to set forward to the fight.

2 Her.
Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
Both to defend himself, and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
To God, his Sovereign, and to him, disloyal:
Courageously, and with a free desire,
Attending but the Signal to begin. [A Charge sounded.

Mar.
Sound, Trumpets; and set forward, Combatants.
—But stay, the King hath thrown his warder down.

K. Rich.
Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,
And Both return back to their chairs again.
Withdraw with us, and let the trumpets sound,
While we return these Dukes what we decree. [A long Flourish; after which, the King speaks to the Combatants.
Draw near;—
And list, what with our Council we have done.
For that our Kingdom's earth should not be soil'd
With that dear blood, which it hath fostered;

And, for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbour swords;
[^{2 note}And for we think, the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts
With rival-hating Envy set you on,
To wake our Peace, ^{3 note}

Might from our quiet Confines fright fair Peace,
And make us wade even in our kindred's blood:
Therefore, we banish you our Territories.
You cousin Hereford, on pain of death,
Till twice five Summers have enrich'd our fields,
Shall not regreet our fair Dominions,
But tread the stranger paths of Banishment.

Boling.
Your will be done. This must my comfort be,
That Sun, that warms you here, shall shine on me:
And those his golden beams, to you here lent,
Shall point on me, and gild my Banishment.

K. Rich.
Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier Doom,
Which I with some unwillingness pronounce.
The fly-slow hours shall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear exile:
The hopeless word, of never to return,
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

Mowb.
A heavy Sentence, my most sovereign Liege,
And all unlook'd for from your Highness' mouth.
A dearer merit, not so deep a maim,^{4 note}

I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a Pupil now;
What is thy Sentence then, but speechless death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

K. Rich.
^{5 note}It boots thee not to be compassionate;
After our Sentence, Plaining comes too late.

Mowb.
Then thus I turn me from my Country's light,
To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.

K. Rich.
Return again, and take an oath with ye.
Lay on our royal Sword your banish'd hands;
Swear by the duty that you owe to heav'n,
^{6 note}(Our part therein we banish with your selves,)
To keep the oath that we administer.
You never shall, so help you truth, and heav'n!
Embrace each other's love in Banishment;
Nor ever look upon each other's face,
Nor ever write, regreet, or reconcile
This low'ring tempest of your home-bred hate;
Nor ever by advised purpose meet,
To plot, contrive, or complot any Ill,
'Gainst us, our State, our Subjects, or our Land.

Boling.
I swear.

Mowb.
And I, to keep all this.

Boling.
* ^noteNorfolk,—so far, as to mine enemy—
By this time, had the King permitted us,
One of our souls had wandred in the air,
Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our flesh,

As now our flesh is banish'd from this Land,
Confess thy treasons, ere thou fly this Realm;
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty soul.

Mowb.
No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,
My Name be blotted from the Book of life,
And I from heaven banish'd as from hence!
But what thou art, heav'n, thou, and I do know,
And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue.
Farewel, my Liege. Now no way can I stray,
Save back to England; all the world's my way.^{7 note}

. [Exit. SCENE V.

K. Rich.
Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
I see thy grieved heart, thy sad aspect
Hath from the number of his banish'd years
Pluck'd four away.—Six frozen winters spent, [To Bol.
Return with Welcome home from Banishment.

Boling.
How long a time lies in one little word!
Four lagging Winters, and four wanton Springs,
End in a word; such is the Breath of Kings.

Gaunt.
I thank my Liege, that in regard of me
He shortens four years of my son's exile:
But little vantage shall I reap thereby;
For ere the six years, that he hath to spend,
Can change their moons and bring their times about,
My oyl-dry'd lamp, and time-bewasted light,
Shall be extinct with age, and endless night:
My inch of taper will be burnt and done:
And blindfold death not let me see my son.

K. Rich.
Why, uncle? thou hast many years to live.

Gaunt.
But not a minute, King, that thou canst give;
Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow,

And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;* ^note
Thou canst help time to furrow me with age,
But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;
Thy word is current with him, for my death;
But dead, thy Kingdom cannot buy my breath.

K. Rich.
Thy son is banish'd upon good advice,
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave;
Why at our justice seem'st thou then to low'r?

Gaunt.
Things, sweet to taste, prove in digestion sow'r.
You urg'd me as a judge; but I had rather,
You would have bid me argue like a father.
O, had it been a stranger, not my child,
To smooth his Fault, I would have been more mild:
Alas, I look'd, when some of you should say,
I was too strict to make mine own away:
But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue,
Against my will, to do my self this wrong.
A partial slander † ^notesought I to avoid,
And in the Sentence my own life destroy'd.

K. Rich.
Cousin, farewel; and, uncle, bid him so:
Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [Flourish. [Exit. SCENE VI.

Aum.
Cousin, farewel; what presence must not know,
From where you do remain, let paper show.

Mar.
My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride
As far as land will let me, by your side.

Gaunt.
Oh, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou return'st no Greeting to thy friends?

Boling.
I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the tongue's office should be prodigal,
To breathe th' abundant dolour of the heart.

Gaunt.
Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

Boling.
Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

Gaunt.
What is six winters? they are quickly gone.

Boling.
To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.

Gaunt.
Call it a Travel, that thou tak'st for pleasure.

Boling.
My heart will sigh, when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.

Gaunt.
The fullen passage of thy weary steps
Esteem a foil, wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home-return.

[Boling.
Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious stride I make^{8 note}
Will but remember me, what a deal of World
I wander from the Jewels that I love.
Must I not serve a long Apprentice-hood,
To foreign passages, and in the End
Having my Freedom, boast of Nothing else
But that I was a Journeyman to Grief?* ^note

Gaunt.
^{9 note}

And not, the King exil'd thee. Or suppose,
Devouring Pestilence hangs in our air,
And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
To lye that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'st.
Suppose the singing birds, musicians;
The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence-floor;
The flow'rs, fair ladies; and thy steps, no more
Than a delightful measure, or a dance.
For gnarling Sorrow hath less Pow'r to bite
The Man, that mocks at it, and sets it light.]

Boling.
Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastick Summer's heat?
Oh, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse;
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.

Gaunt.
Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way;
Had I thy Youth, and Cause, I would not stay.

Boling.
Then, England's Ground, farewel; sweet soil, adieu,
My mother and my nurse, which bears me yet.
Where-e'er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banish'd; yet a true-born Englishman.^{1 note} [Exeunt.

SCENE VII. Changes to the Court. Enter King Richard, and Bagot, &c. at one door; and the Lord Aumerle, at the other.

K. Rich.
We did, indeed, 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-High-way, and there I left him.

K. Rich.
And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

Aum.
'Faith, none by me; except the north-east wind,
(Which then blew bitterly against our faces)
Awak'd the sleepy rheume; and so by chance
Did grace our hollow Parting with a tear.

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

Aum.
Farewel.
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'd buried in my sorrow's Grave.
Marry, would the word farewel have lengthen'd hours,
And added years to his short Banishment,
He should have had a volume of farewels;
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.
Our self, 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 courtesie?

What reverence he did throw away on slaves,
Wooing poor crafts-men with the craft of smiles,
And patient under-bearing of his fortune,
As 'twere to banish their Affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
A brace of dray-men 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 our self in person to this war;
And, for our coffers with too great a Court,
And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,
We are inforc'd to farm our royal Realm,
The Revenue whereof shall furnish us
For our affairs in hand; if they 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.

K. Rich.
Bushy, what news?

Bushy.
Old John of Gaunt is sick, my lord,
Suddenly taken, and hath sent post-haste
T' intreat your Majesty to visit him.

K. Rich.
Where lyes he?

Bushy.
At Ely-house.

K. Rich.
Now put it, heav'n, 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.
Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him:
Pray heav'n, we may make haste, and come too late! [Exeunt.

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