K. Rich.
Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd Lancaster,
Hast thou, according to thy oath and band ^note,
Brought hither Henry Hereford ^note thy bold son,
Here to make good the boisterous late appeal,
Which then our leisure would not let us hear ^note,
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ^note?

Gaunt.
I have, my liege.

K. Rich.
Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him,
If he appeal ^note 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 inveterate malice.

K. Rich.
Then call them to our presence; ^note face to face,
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear ^note
The accuser and the accused freely speak:
High-stomach'd are they both, and full of ire,
In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire. Enter ^note Bolingbroke and Mowbray.

Boling.
Many ^note years of happy days befal
My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!

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

K. Rich.
We thank you both: yet one but flatters us,
As well appeareth by the cause you come ^note;
Namely, to appeal ^note 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 ^note of a subject's love,
Tendering the precious safety of my prince,
And free from other ^note misbegotten hate,
Come I appellant ^note 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 ^note soul answer it in heaven.
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 ^note,
With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat;
And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move,
What my tongue speaks my right drawn sword may prove ^note.

Mow.
Let not my cold ^note words here accuse my zeal:
'Tis not the trial 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 hush'd and nought ^note at all to say:
First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me
From giving reins and spurs to my free speech;
Which else ^note would post until it had return'd
These terms of treason doubled ^note down his throat.
Setting aside his high blood's royalty,
And let him ^note be no kinsman to my liege,
I do ^note defy him, and I ^note spit at him;
Call him a slanderous coward and a villain:
Which to maintain I would allow him odds,
And meet him, were I tied ^note to run afoot
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground inhabitable ^note,
Where ever ^note Englishman ^note durst set his foot.
Mean time ^note let this defend my loyalty ^note,
By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie.

Boling.
Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage,
Disclaiming here the kindred ^note of the king ^note;
And lay aside my high blood's royalty,
Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except.
If guilty dread have ^note left thee so much strength
As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop:
By that and all the rites ^note of knighthood else,
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
What I have spoke, or thou canst worse ^note devise.

Mow.
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 ^note chivalrous design of knightly trial:
And when I mount, alive ^note may I not light,
If I be traitor or unjustly fight!

K. Rich.
What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge?
It must be great that can inherit ^note us
So much as of a thought of ill in him.

Boling.
Look, what I speak ^note, my life shall prove it true;
That Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles
In name of lendings for your highness' soldiers,
The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments,
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 ^note these eighteen years
Complotted and contrived in this land
Fetch ^note from false Mowbray their first head and spring.
Further I say and further will maintain

Upon his bad life to make all this good ^note,
That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's ^note death,
Suggest his soon-believing adversaries,
And consequently, like a traitor ^note coward,
Sluiced out his innocent 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 ^note,
This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

K. Rich.
How high a pitch his resolution soars!
Thomas of Norfolk, what ^note say'st thou to this?

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

K. Rich.
Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears:
Were he my brother, nay, my ^note kingdom's heir,
As he is but my ^note father's brother's son,
Now, by my ^note sceptre's awe, I make a vow,
Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood
Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize
The unstooping firmness of my ^note upright soul:
He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou:
Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.

Mow.
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 ^note
Disbursed I duly ^note to his highness' soldiers;
The other part reserved I by consent,
For that my sovereign liege was in my debt

Upon remainder of a dear ^note account,
Since last I went to France to fetch his queen:
Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester's ^note death,
I slew him not; but ^note to my ^note 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 ^note lay an ^note ambush for your life,
A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul;
But ^note ere I last received 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 rancour of a villain,
A recreant and most degenerate traitor:
Which in myself I boldly will defend;
And interchangeably ^note hurl down my ^note gage
Upon ^note this overweening traitor's foot,
To prove myself a loyal gentleman
Even in the best blood chamber'd in his ^note bosom.
In haste whereof, most heartily I pray
Your highness to assign our trial day.

K. Rich.
Wrath-kindled gentlemen ^note, be ruled by me;
Let's purge this choler without letting blood:
This we prescribe, though no physician ^note;
Deep malice makes too deep incision:
Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed;
Our doctors say this is no month ^note to bleed ^note.

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 ^note I should not bid again.

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

Mow.
Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot.
My life thou shalt command, but not my shame:
The one my duty owes; but my fair name,
Despite of death that lives ^note upon my grave,
To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have.
I am disgraced, impeach'd and baffled here;
Pierced to the soul with slander's venom'd spear,
The which no balm ^note can cure but his heart-blood
Which breathed this poison.

K. Rich.
Rage must be withstood:
Give me his gage: lions make leopards ^note tame.

Mow.
Yea, but not change his spots ^note: take but my shame,
And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord, ^note
The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation: that away, ^note
Men are but gilded loam ^note or ^note 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 up ^note your gage; do you begin ^note.

Boling.
O, God ^note defend my soul from such deep ^note sin!
Shall I seem crest-fallen in my father's sight?
Or with pale beggar-fear ^note impeach my height
Before this out-dared dastard ^note? Ere my tongue
Shall wound my ^note honour with such feeble wrong,
Or sound so base ^note a parle ^note, my teeth shall tear
The slavish motive of recanting fear,
And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,
Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face. [Exit Gaunt. ^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 ^note shall answer it,
At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's ^note day:
There shall your swords and lances arbitrate
The swelling difference of your settled hate:
Since we can not atone ^note you, we ^note shall see
Justice design ^note the victor's chivalry.
Lord marshal ^note, command ^note our officers at arms
Be ready to direct these home alarms ^note. [Exeunt ^note.

^note Scene II. [Footnote: The Duke of Lancaster's palace. ^note Enter John of Gaunt with the ^note Duchess of Gloucester.

Gaunt.
Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's ^note blood
Doth more solicit me than your exclaims,
To stir against the butchers of his life!
But since correction lieth in those hands
Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;
Who, when they see ^note the hours ^note ripe on earth,
Will rain ^note hot vengeance on ^note offenders' heads.

Duch.
Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
Were as ^note seven vials of his sacred blood,
Or seven fair branches springing from one root:
Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,
Some of those branches by the Destinies cut;
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester,
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 hack'd down, and his summer leaves ^note all faded ^note,
By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe.
Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! that bed, that womb,

That metal ^note, that self-mould, that fashion'd thee
Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest ^note,
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 suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,
Thou showest ^note the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee:
That which in mean men we intitle patience
Is pale cold cowardice ^note in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine ^note own life,
The best way is to venge ^note my Gloucester's death.

Gaunt.
God's is the quarrel; for God's ^note substitute,
His deputy anointed in His sight,
Hath caused his death: the which if wrongfully,
Let heaven ^note revenge; for I may never lift
An angry arm against His minister.

Duch.
Where then, alas, may I complain ^note myself?

Gaunt.
To God ^note, the widow's ^note champion and defence ^note.

Duch.
Why, then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt. ^note
Thou goest ^note to Coventry, there to behold
Our cousin Hereford ^note and fell Mowbray fight:
O, sit ^note my husband's wrongs on Hereford ^note's spear,

That it may enter butcher ^note Mowbray's breast!
Or, if misfortune miss the first career ^note,
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,
A caitiff ^note recreant to my cousin Hereford ^note!
Farewell, old Gaunt: thy sometimes ^note brother's wife
With her companion grief must end her life.

Gaunt.
Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry:
As much good stay with thee as go with me!

Duch.
Yet one word more: grief boundeth where it ^note falls,
Not with the empty ^note hollowness, but weight:
I take my leave before I have begun,
For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.
Commend me to thy ^note brother, Edmund ^note 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—ah ^note, what?—
With all good speed at Plashy ^note visit me.
Alack, and what shall good old York there see ^note
But empty lodgings and unfurnish'd walls,
Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?
And what hear ^note there for welcome but my groans?
Therefore commend me; let him not come there,
To seek out sorrow that ^note dwells every where.
Desolate, desolate ^note, will I hence ^note and die:
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt.

^note Scene III. [Footnote: The lists at Coventry. ^note Enter the Lord ^note Marshal and the Duke of Aumerle. ^note

Mar.
My Lord ^note Aumerle, is Harry Hereford ^note arm'd?

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

Mar.
The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully ^note and bold,
Stays but the summons of the appellant's ^note trumpet.

Aum.
Why, then, the champions are prepared and stay
For nothing but his majesty's approach. The trumpets ^note sound, and the King enters with his nobles, Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Green, and others. When they are set, enter Mowbray in arms, defendant, with a Herald.

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
And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms,
Against what ^note man thou comest, and what thy quarrel:
Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thy oath ^note;
As so ^note defend thee ^note heaven and thy valour!

Mow.
My name is Thomas ^note Mowbray, Duke of ^note Norfolk;
Who hither come ^note engaged by my oath—
Which God defend ^note a knight should violate!—

Both to defend my loyalty and truth
To God, my king and my ^note succeeding issue,
Against ^note the Duke of Hereford that appeals me;
And, by the grace of God and this mine arm,
To prove him, in defending of myself,
A traitor to my God, my king, and me: ^note
And as I truly fight, defend me heaven! The trumpets ^note sound. Enter Bolingbroke, Appellant, in armour, with a Herald.

K. Rich.
Marshal, ask ^note yonder knight in arms,
Both who he is and why he cometh hither
Thus plated ^note in habiliments of war,
And formally ^note, according to our law,
Depose him in the justice of his cause.

Mar.
What is thy name? and wherefore comest thou hither,
Before King Richard in his royal lists?
Against whom comest ^note thou? and what's ^note thy quarrel?
Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!

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

Mar.
On pain of death, no person be so bold
Or daring-hardy ^note 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 myself are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;
Then let us take a ceremonious leave
And loving farewell of our several friends.

Mar.
The appellant ^note in all duty greets your highness,
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 ^note,
So be thy fortune in this royal fight!
Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead ^note.

Boling.
O, let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gored ^note with Mowbray's spear:
As confident as is the falcon'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 ^note, and cheerly drawing breath.
Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet
The daintiest last, to make the end most ^note sweet ^note:
O thou, the earthly ^note author of my blood,
Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a twofold vigour ^note lift me up
To reach at victory ^note 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 ^note coat,

And furbish ^note new the name of John a Gaunt ^note,
Even in the lusty haviour ^note of his son.

Gaunt.
God ^note in thy good cause make thee prosperous!
Be swift like lightning in the execution;
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled ^note,
Fall like amazing thunder on the casque
Of thy adverse ^note pernicious enemy:
Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant ^note and live ^note.

Boling.
Mine innocency ^note and Saint George to thrive!

Mow.
However God ^note or fortune cast my lot,
There lives ^note or dies, true to King ^note Richard's throne,
A loyal, just and upright gentleman:
Never did captive ^note with a freer heart
Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace
His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement,
More than my dancing soul doth ^note celebrate
This feast of battle with mine adversary.
Most mighty liege, and my companion peers,
Take from my mouth ^note the wish of happy years:
As gentle and as jocund as to jest ^note
Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breast.

K. Rich.
Farewell, my lord: securely I espy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.
Order the trial, marshal, and begin.

Mar.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Receive thy lance; and God ^note defend the right ^note!

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

^note

Mar.
Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke ^note of Norfolk.

First Her. ^note
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 ^note, his king and him;
And dares him to set forward ^note to the fight.

Sec. Her. ^note
Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
Both to defend ^note 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.

Mar.
Sound, trumpets; and set forward ^note, combatants ^note. [A charge sounded. ^note
Stay ^note, 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. ^note
Draw near, ^note
And list what with our council we have done ^note.
For that our kingdom's earth should not be soil'd

With that dear blood which it hath ^note fostered ^note;
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
Of civil ^note wounds plough'd up with neighbours' ^note sword ^note;
And for we think the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,
With rival-hating envy, set on you ^note
To wake our peace ^note, which in our country's cradle
Draws ^note the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep ^note;
Which so ^note roused up with boisterous untuned drums ^note,
With ^note harsh-resounding trumpets' dreadful bray,
And grating shock of wrathful iron ^note arms,
Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace ^{note note},
And make us wade even in our kindred's ^note blood ^note;
Therefore, we banish you our territories:
You, cousin Hereford, upon ^note pain of life ^note,
Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields ^note
Shall not ^note 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 ^note you here lent
Shall point on me and gild my banishment.

K. Rich.
Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom ^note,

Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:
The sly slow ^note hours shall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear ^note exile;
The hopeless word of ‘never to return’
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life ^note.

Mow.
A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
And all unlook'd for from your highness' mouth:
A dearer merit, not ^note so deep a maim
As to be cast forth in the common air,
Have I deserved at your highness' hands.
The language I have learn'd ^note these forty years,
My native English, now I must forego:
And now my tongue's use is to me no more
Than an unstringed viol or a harp;
Or like a cunning instrument cased up,
Or, being open, put into his hands
That knows no touch to tune the harmony:
Within my mouth you have engaol'd ^note my tongue,
Doubly portcullis'd ^note with my teeth and lips;
And dull unfeeling barren ignorance
Is made my gaoler ^note to attend on me ^note.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a pupil now:
What is thy sentence then ^note but speechless death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

K. Rich.
It boots thee not to be compassionate ^note:
After our sentence plaining comes too ^note late.

Mow.
Then thus I turn me from my country's light,

To dwell in solemn ^note shades of endless night.

K. Rich.
Return again, and take an oath with thee ^note.
Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands;
Swear by the duty that you owe ^note to God ^note—
Our part therein we banish with yourselves—
To keep the oath that we administer:
You never ^note shall, so help you truth and God ^note!
Embrace each other's love in banishment;
Nor never ^note look upon each other's face;
Nor never ^note write, regreet ^note, nor ^note reconcile
This louring ^note tempest of your home-bred hate;
Nor never ^note by advised purpose meet
To plot, contrive, or complot ^note any ill
'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.

Boling.
I swear ^note. ^note

Mow.
And I, to keep all this.

Boling.
Norfolk, so far ^note as to mine enemy:— ^note
By this time, had the king permitted us,
One of our souls had wander'd 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 the ^note realm;
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty soul.

Mow.
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, God ^note, thou, and I do know;
And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue.
Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray;
Save back to England, ^note all the world's my way. [Exit. ^{note note}

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. [To Boling. ^note] Six frozen winters spent,
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 ^note: such is the breath ^note of kings.

Gaunt.
I thank ^note 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 ^note years that he hath to spend
Can change their moons ^note and bring their times about,
My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light
Shall be extinct ^note with age and endless night ^note;
My inch ^note 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 ^note sorrow,
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;
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 ^note good advice ^note,
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict ^note gave:
Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lour ^note?

Gaunt.
Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour ^note.
You urged ^note me as a judge; but I had rather
You would have bid me argue like a father.
O, had it ^note been a stranger, not my child,
To smooth his fault I should ^note have been more mild:
A partial slander sought ^note I to avoid,
And in the sentence my own life destroy'd ^note.
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 myself this wrong.

K. Rich.
Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him so:
Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [Flourish. Exeunt ^note King Richard and train. ^note

Aum.
Cousin, farewell: 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.
O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou return'st ^note 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 the 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 ^note.

Gaunt.
Call it a travel that thou takest for pleasure.

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

Gaunt.
The sullen passage of thy weary steps
Esteem as foil ^note wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home return.

Boling.
Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make
Will but remember me what a deal ^note of world ^note
I wander from the jewels that I love.
Must I not serve a long apprenticehood
To foreign passages, and in the end,
Having my freedom, boast of nothing else
But that I was a journeyman to grief? ^note

Gaunt.
All places that the eye of heaven visits
Are to a wise man ^note ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus;
There is no virtue like necessity.
Think not ^note the king did banish thee, ^note
But thou the king. Woe ^note doth the heavier sit,
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne ^note.
Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour
And not the king exiled 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 lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou comest:
Suppose the singing birds musicians,

The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew'd ^note,
The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more
Than a delightful measure or a dance;
For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite
The man that mocks at it and sets it light ^{note note}.

Boling.
O, who can hold a fire ^note 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 ^note snow
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
O, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives ^note but the greater feeling to the worse:
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never ^note rankle more
Than ^note when he ^note bites, but lanceth ^note 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, farewell; sweet soil, adieu;
My mother, and my nurse, that ^note bears me yet!
Where'er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banish'd, yet a trueborn Englishman. [Exeunt. ^note

^note Scene IV. [Footnote: The court. ^note Enter the King, with Bagot and Green ^note at one door; and the Duke of Aumerle at another.

K. Rich.
We did observe ^note. Cousin Aumerle ^note,
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.
And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

Aum.
Faith, none for me ^note; except the north-east wind,
Which then blew ^note bitterly against our faces ^note,
Awaked the sleeping ^note rheum, and so by chance
Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

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

Aum.
‘Farewell:’
And, for my heart disdained that ^note my tongue ^note
Should so profane the word, that taught me craft
To counterfeit oppression of such grief,
That words ^note seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave.
Marry ^note, would the word ‘farewell’ have ^note 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 cousin, cousin ^note; but 'tis doubt,
When time shall call him home from banishment,
Whether our kinsman come ^note to see his friends.
Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here and Green ^note
Observed his courtship to the common people;
How he did seem to dive into their hearts
With humble and familiar courtesy,
What ^note reverence he did throw away on slaves,
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles ^note
And patient underbearing of his fortune,
As 'twere to banish their affects ^note 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' ^note 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 ^note 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 inforced to farm our royal realm;
The revenue whereof shall furnish us

For our affairs in hand: if that ^{note note} come short, ^note
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.
Bushy, what news? ^note

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

K. Rich.
Where lies he ^note?

Bushy.
At Ely House ^note.

K. Rich.
Now put it, God ^note, in the ^note 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 God ^note we may make haste, and come too late!

All.
Amen. ^note [Exeunt. ^note

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