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,
To'rds 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 Sovereign'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 thyself; 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 * ^notedeny 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 straight,
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 ourself,
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.

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