KING RICHARD.
Old John of Gaunt, time honour'd Lancaster,
Hast thou, according to thy Oathand Band,
Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold Son,
Here to make good the boisterous 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 inveterate Malice.

K. Rich.
Then call them to our Presence, Face to Face,
And frowning Brow to Brow, our selves will hear
Th' 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 Bullingbroke and Mowbray.

Bulling.
Many Years of happy Days befal
My gracious Soveraign, my most loving Liege.

Mowb.
Each Day still better others Happiness;
Until the Heav'ns 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, to appeal each other of high Treason.
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Bulling.
First Heaven be the Record to my Speech,
In the Devotions of a Subject's Love,
Tendring the precious Safety of my Prince,
And free from other mis-begotten Hate,
Come I Appealant 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 the 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 too 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 Traitor's Name stuff I thy Throat,
And wish, so please my Soveraign, e'er I move,
What my Tongue speaks, my right drawn Sword may prove.

Mowb.
Let not my cool 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 husht, and nought at all to say.
First the fair Reverence 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 doubly down his Throat.
Setting aside his high Blood's Royalty,
And let him be no Kinsman to my Liege,
I do defie him, and I spit at him,
Call him a slanderous Coward, and a Villain;
Which to maintain, I would allow him odds,
And meet him, were I tide to run a-foot,
Even to the frozen Ridges of the Alps,
Or any other Ground inhabitable,
Where-ever Englishman durst set his Foot;
Mean time, let this defend my Loyalty,
By all my Hopes most fasly doth he lie.

Bulling.
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 Reverence, makes thee to except;
If guilty Dread hath lest 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 Trial;
And when I mount, alive 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 us,
So much as of a Thought of ill in him.

Bulling.
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 Battel 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,
Fetcht 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,
Sluc'd 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,
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 Soveraign 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 my Brother, nay, our Kingdom's Heir,
As he is but my Father's Brother's Son;
Now by my Scepter's awe, I make a Vow,
Such neighbour-nearness to our sacred Blood,
Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize
The unstooping Firmness of my upright Soul.
He is our Subject, Mowbray, so art thou,
Free Speech and fearless I to thee allow.

Mowb.
Then, Bullingbroke, as low as to thy Heart,
Through the false Passage of thy Throat, thou liest:
Three parts of that Receipt I had for Callice,
Disburst I to his Highness Soldiers;
The other part reserv'd I by consent,
For that my Soveraign Liege 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 I did lay an Ambush for your Life,
A Trespass that doth vex my grieved Soul;
But e'er 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 dangerous Traitor,
Which in my self I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurle 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 Trial-Day.

K. Rich.
Wrath-kindled Gentlemen, be rul'd by me;
Let's purge this Choler without letting Blood:
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 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,
Obedience bids, I should not bid again,

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

Mowb.
My self I throw, dread Soveraign, at thy Foot.
My Life thou shalt command, but not my Shame;
The one my Duty owes; but my fair Name,
Despight of Death that lives upon my Grave,
To dark Dishonours use, thou shalt not have.
I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffl'd here,
Pierc'd to the Soul, with Slanders venom'd Spear.
The which no Blame 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 his 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 guilded 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.

Bulling.
Oh Heav'n defend my Soul from such foul Sin.
Shall I seem Crest-fall'n in my Father's Sight,
Or with pale beggar'd Fear impeach my hight
Before this out-dar'd Bastard? E'er my Tongue
Shall wound my Honour with such feeble Wrong,
Or sound so base a Parle, 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.

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 Difference of you settled Hate:
Since we cannot attone you, you shall see
Justice design the Victor's Chivalry.
Lord Marshal command our Officers at Arms,
Be ready to direct these home Alarms. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Enter Gaunt, and Dutchess of Gloucester.

Gaunt.
Alas, the 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 they see 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 seven Sons, whereof thy self art one,
Were as seven Vials of his sacred Blood;
Or seven fair Branches springing from one Root:
Some of those seven are dry'd by Nature's Course;
Some of those Branches by the Destinies 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 Mettle, 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 suffering 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 intitle 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.
Heav'n's is the Quarrel; for Heav'n's Substitute,
His Deputy anointed in his Sight,
Hath caus'd his Death; the which if wrongfully
Let Heav'n 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;
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,
A Caytiff recreant to my Cousin Hereford.
Farewel, old Gaunt; thy sometimes Brother's Wife,
With her Companion Grief, must end her Life.

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, Edward 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 there see,
But empty Lodgings, and unfurnish'd Walls,
Un-peopl'd 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;
Desolate, desolate will I hence, and die;
The last Leave of thee, takes my weeping Eye. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter 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 the Appealant's Trumpet.

Aum.
Why then the Champions are prepar'd, and stay
For nothing but his Majesty's Approach. [Flourish. Enter King Richard, Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Green, and others; then Mowbray in Armour, and an 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? [To Mowb.
And why thou com'st, thus knightly clad in Arms?
Against what Man thou com'st, and what's 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 viola
Both to defend my Loyalty and Truth,
To God, my King, and his succeeding Issue,
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. A Tucket sounds. Enter Bullingbroke, and an Herald.

K. Rich.
Marshal; ask yonder Knight in Arms,
Both who he is, and why he cometh hither,
Thus placed 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 Bulling.
Against whom com'st thou? And what's thy Quarrel?
Speak like a true Knight, so defend thee Heav'n.

Bulling.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
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.

Bulling.
Lord Marshal, let me kiss my Soveraign'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.
The Appealant 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 just,
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.

Bulling.
Oh let no noble Eye prophane 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 Earthy Author of my Blood,
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 furnish new the Name of John a Gaunt
Even 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 Cask

Of thy amaz'd pernicious Enemy.
Rouze up thy youthful Blood, be valiant, and live.

Bulling.
Mine Innocence, 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 Captain 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 Battel, with mine Adversary.
Most mighty Liege, and my Companion Peers,
Take from my Mouth the wish of happy Years;
As gentle, and as jocond, as to jest,
Go I to fight: Truth hath a quiet Breast.

K. Rich.
Farewel, 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 Launce, and Heav'n defend thy Right.

Bulling.
Strong as a Tower, in hope, I cry Amen.

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

1 Her.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Stands here for God, his Soveraign, 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 Soveraign, and to him disloyal:
Couragiously, and with a free Desire,
Attending but the Signal to begin. [A charge sounded.

Mar.
Sound Trumpets, and set forward Combatants.
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.
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 Neighbours Swords,
Which so rouz'd up with boisterous untun'd Drums,
With harsh resounding Trumpets dreadful bray,
And grating shock of wrathful Iron Arms,
Might from our quiet Confines fright fair Peace,
And make us wade even in our Kindreds Blood:
Therefore, we banish you our Territories.
You Cousin Hereford, upon 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,

Bulling.
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 sly 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 Soveraign Liege,
And all unlook'd for from your Highness Mouth:
A dearer Merit, not 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 these forty Years,
Ny native English, now I must forgo,
And now my Tongue's use is to me no more,
Than an unstringed Viol, or a Harp,
Or like a cunning Instrument cas'd up,
Or being open, put into his Hands
That knows no touch to tune the Harmony.

Within my Mouth you have engoal'd my Tongue,
Doubly percullis'd with my Teeth and Lips,
And dull, unfeeling, barren Ignorance,
Is made my Goaler to attend on me.
I am too old to frown 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.
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,
(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 others Love in Banishment,
Nor ever look upon each others Face,
Nor ever write, regreet, or reconcile
This lowring 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.

Bulling.
I swear.

Mowb.
And I, to keep all this.

Bulling.
Norfolk, 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, e'er thou fly this Realm,
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty Soul.

Mowb.
No, Bullingbroke; if ever I were Traitor,
My Name be blotted from the Book of Life,
And I from Heav'n 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. [Exit.

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,
Return with welcome home from Banishment.

Bulling.
How long a time lyes 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 e'er the six Years that he hath to spend,
Can change the Moons, and bring their times about,
My Oil-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 sudden 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 currant 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 lowr?

Gaunt.
Things sweet to taste, prove in digestion sowr:
You urg'd me as a Judge, but I had rather
You would have bid me argue like a Father.
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.

K. Rich.
Cousin, farewel; and, Uncle, bid him so:
Six Years we banish him, and he shall go. [Exit.

Flourish.

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?

Bulling.
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.

Bulling.
Joy absent, Grief is present for that time.

Gaunt.
What is six Winters, they are quickly gone?

Bulling.
To Men in joy; but grief makes one Hour ten.

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

Bulling.
My Heart will sigh, when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an inforced Pilgrimage.

Gaunt.
The sullen Passage of thy weary Steps
Esteem a Soil, wherein thou art to set
The precious Jewel of thy home return.

Bulling.
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.

Bulling.
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. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV. Enter King Richard, Aumerle, Green, and Bagot.

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 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 grew bitterly against our Face,
Awak'd the sleepy Rheume, and so by chance
Did grace our hollow parting with a Tear.

K. Rich.
What said our 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 word seem buried in my Sorrow's Grave.
Marry, would the word Farewel had 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 Cousin, 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 Souls,
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,
E'er further leisure yield the 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.
What News?

Bushy.
Old John of Gaunt is very sick, my Lord,
Suddenly taken, and hath sent post haste
To 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. [Exe.

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