Ric.
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 boistrous late appeal,
Which then our leisure would not let us hear,
Against the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Gau.
I have, my liege.

Ric.
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?

Gau.
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.

Ric.
Then call them to our presence; face to face,
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear

The accuser, and the accused, freely speak:— [Exeunt some Attendants.
High-stomach'd are they both, and full of ire,
In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire. Re-enter Attendants, with Bolingbroke, Norfolk, and Others.

Bol.
May many years14Q0572 of happy days befal
My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!

Nor.
Each day still better other's happiness;
Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap,
Add ^note an immortal title to your crown!

Ric.
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?

Bol.
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 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 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,
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.

Nor.
Let not my cold words ^note 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 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 ^note post, until it had return'd
These terms of treason doubl'd ^note down his throat.
Setting aside his high blood's royalty,
And let him be no kinsman to my liege,
I do defy him, and I spit ^note 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 ^note 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 ^note,—
By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie.

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

What I have spoke ^note, or thou ^note canst worse ^note devise.

Nor.
I take it † up; and, by that sword I swear,
Which gently lay'd my knighthood on my shoulder,
I'll answer thee in any fair degree
Or chivalrous design of knightly trial:
And, when I mount, alive ^note may I not light,
If I be traitor, or unjustly fight!

Ric.
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.

Bol.
Look, what I speak, my ^note life shall prove it true;—
That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles,
In name of lendings ^note 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 these ^note 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,—
That he did plot the duke of Gloster's death;
Suggest his soon-believing adversaries;
And, consequently, like a traitor coward,
Sluic'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.

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

Nor.
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.

Ric.
Mowbray, impartial are our eyes, and ears:
Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom's ^note heir,
(As he is but my father's brother's son)
Now by my ^note scepter's awe I make a vow,
Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood
Should nothing priviledge 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.

Nor.
Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,
Through the false passage of thy throat, thou ly'st.
Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais,
Disburs'd I duly ^note to his highness' soldiers:
The other part reserv'd I by consent;
For that my sovereign 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 Gloster's death,—
I slew him not; but, to my own ^note 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 ambush for your life,
A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul:
But ^note, ere I last receiv'd the sacrament,
I did confess it; and exactly beg'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 degenerate traitor:
Which in myself I boldly will defend;
And interchangeably hurl down my † gage ^note
Upon this overweening traitor's foot,
To prove myself a loyal gentleman
Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom ^note:
In haste whereof, most heartily I pray
Your highness to assign our trial day.

Ric.
Wrath-kindl'd 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 to ^note bleed.—
Good uncle, let this end where it begun;
We'll calm the duke of Norfolk, you your son.

Gau.
To be a make-peace shall become my age:—
Throw down, my son, the duke of Norfolk's gage.

Ric.
And, Norfolk, throw down his.

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

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

Nor.
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,
(Despight of death, that lives upon my grave)
To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have.
I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffl'd here;
Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear;

The which no balm ^note can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath'd this poison.

Ric.
Rage must be withstood:
Give me his gage; Lions make leopards tame.

Nor.
Yea, but not change his spots ^note:14Q0573 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 ^note clay.
A jewel in a ten-times-bar'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.

Ric.
Cousin, throw up your ^note gage; do you begin.

Bol.
O, God defend ^note my soul from such deep sin ^note!
Shall I seem crest-fall'n in my father's sight?
Or with pale beggar-fear impeach ^note my height
Before this out-dar'd dastard? Ere my tongue
Shall wound mine honour ^note with such feeble wrong,
Or sound so base 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. [Exeunt Gaunt, and Others.

Ric.
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 settl'd hate;

Since we cannot ^note atone you, we shall ^note see
Justice decide ^note the victor's chivalry.—
Marshal ^note, command our officers at arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms ^note. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The same. Another Room. Enter Gaunt, and Dutchess of Gloster.

Gau.
Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's blood ^note
Doth more solicit 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 ^note 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 offenders' heads.

Dut.
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 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 Gloster,—
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 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 see'st 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 cowardice in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own ^note life,
The best way is—to 'venge my Gloster's death.

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

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

Gau.
To heaven ^note, the widow's champion and defence ^note.

Dut.
To heaven? why then, I will. Farewel, old Gaunt.
Thou go'st to Coventry, there to behold
Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight:
O, sit ^note 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 caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!
Farewel, old Gaunt; thy sometime ^note brother's wife,
With her companion grief must end her life.

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

Dut.
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 my ^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—O, what ^note?—
With all good speed at Plashy visit me.
Alack, and what shall good old York there see,
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Unpeopl'd 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 dwells every where:
Desolate, desolate, will I hence, and die;
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt, severally. 14Q0574 III. SCENE Coventry. A publick Place. Lists set out, and a Throne: Heralds, and People, waiting. 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, sprightful ^note all and bold,
Stays but the summons of the appellant's ^note trumpet.

Aum.
Why then, the champions are prepar'd; and stay
For nothing, but his majesty's approach. Flourish of Trumpets, &c. Enter King Richard, to his Throne; Gaunt, and Train of Nobles, &c. with him, who all take their Places.

Trumpet heard: Answer'd by another Trumpet from within; and Enter Norfolk, in Armour, preceded by a Herald.

Ric.
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 com'st thus knightly clad in arms;
Against what man thou com'st, and what thy ^note quarrel:
Speak truly, on thy knighthood, and thy oath ^note,
As so ^note defend thee heaven, and thy valour.

Nor.
My name is Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk;
Who hither come ^note engaged by my oath,
(Which, heaven defend ^note, a knight should violate!)
Both to defend my loyalty and truth,
To God, my king, and my succeeding ^note 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:
And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven! Trumpet. Enter Bolingbroke, in Armour; Herald too with him.

Ric.
Marshal, ask 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 com'st ^note thou hither
Before king Richard in his royal lists?

Against whom comest thou? and what's thy quarrel?
Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven.

Bol.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Am I; who ready here do stand in arms,
To prove, by heaven's ^note 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 heaven, king Richard, and to me;
And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven! Trumpet.

Mar.
On pain of death, no person be so bold,
Or daring-hardy, as to touch the lists;
Except the marshal ^note, and such officers
Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Bol.
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 farewel, of our several friends.

Mar.
The appellant ^note in all duty greets your highness,
And craves to kiss your hand, and take his leave.

Ric.
We will descend and fold him in our arms. [coming from his Place; Gau. and Aum. with him.
Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right ^note,
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 ^note.

Bol.
O, let no noble eye prophane a tear
For me, if I be gor'd ^note 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:
O thou, the earthly ^note author of my blood,—
Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a twofold vigour 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 coat,
And furbish ^note new the name of John of Gaunt,
Even in the lusty 'haviour of his son.

Gau.
God in ^note 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 ^note enemy:
Rouze up thy youthful blood; the valiant live ^note.

Bol.
Mine innocency ^note, and saint George to thrive!

Nor.
However heaven, or ^note 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 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,
Go I to fight; Truth hath a quiet breast.

Ric.
Farewel, my lord: securely I espy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.— [returning to his Seat, with the Lords.
Order the trial, marshal, and begin.

Mar.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Receive thy lance &dagger2;; And God defend ^note the right ^note!

Bol.
Strong as a tower in hope, I cry—amen.

Mar.
Go bear this &dagger2; lance [to an Officer.] to Thomas duke of Norfolk.

1 H.
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.

2 H.
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;
Couragiously, and with a free desire,
Attending but the signal to begin.

Mar.
Sound, trumpets; and set forward ^note, combatants. [Trumpets sound a Charge.
But stay, the king hath thrown his warder down.

Ric.
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 of Trumpets, &c.

Draw near, [to the Combatants, advancing.
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 ^note;
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
Of cruel ^note wounds, plough'd up with neighbour's sword ^note;
And for ^note we think,14Q0575 the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,
With rival-hating envy, set you on ^note
To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle
Draws ^note the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep;14Q0576
Therefore we banish you our territories:—
You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of death ^note,
'Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields ^note,
Shall not regreet ^note our fair dominions,
But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

Bol.
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.

Ric.
Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,
Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:
The fly ^note-slow hours shall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear exile;
The hopeless word of—never to return—
Breath I against thee, upon pain of life.

Nor.
A heavy sentence, my most sovereign 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' hand.
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 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 portcullis'd ^note, with my teeth, and lips;
And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance
Is made my goaler ^note to attend on me.
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?

Ric.
It boots thee not, to be compassionate;
After our sentence, plaining comes too late.

Nor.
Then thus † I turn me from my country's light,
To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.

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

Bol.
I swear.

Nor.
And I, to keep all this.

Bol.
Norfolk, so far as ^note to mine enemy;— [approaching, with Salutation.
By this time, had the king permitted us,
One of our souls had wander'd in the air,
Banish'd this frail sepulcher of our flesh,
As now our flesh is banish'd from this land:
Confess thy treasons, ere thou fly the realm ^note;
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty soul.

Nor.
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, thou ^note, 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 Norfolk

Ric.
Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspéct
Hath from the number of his banish'd years
Pluck'd four away;—Six frozen winters spent,
Return with welcome home from banishment.

Bol.
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 of ^note kings.

Gau.
I thank my liege, that, in regard of me,
He shortens four years of my son's exíle:
But little vantage shall I reap thereby;
For, ere the six years, that he hath to spend,
Can change their moons ^note, and bring their times about,

My oil-dry'd lamp, and time-bewasted light,
Shall be extinct with age, and endless night ^note;
My inch of taper will be burnt and done,
And blindfold death not let me see my son.

Ric.
Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.

Gau.
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.

Ric.
Thy son is banish'd upon good ^note advice,
Whereto thy tongue14Q0577 a party ^note-verdict gave;
Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lour?

Gau.
Things sweet to taste, prove in digestion sour.
You urg'd ^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.—
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.

Ric.
Cousin, farewel:—and, uncle, bid him so;
Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [Exeunt Richard, and Train.

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.

Gau.
O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends?

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

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

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

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

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

Gau.
Call it a travel that thou tak'st for pleasure.

Bol.
My heart will sigh, when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.

Gau.
The sullen passage of thy weary steps
Esteem a foil, ^note wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home-return.

Bol.
Nay, rather ^note, every tedious stride I make
Will but remember me, what a ^note deal of world
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?

Gau.
All places that the eye of heaven visits,
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens:
Teach thy necessity to reason thus;
There is no virtue like necessity.
Think not, the king did banish thee, my son,
But thou the king: Woe doth ^note the heavier sit,
Where it perceives it is but faintly born.
Go, say—I sent thee forth to purchase honour,
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 strow'd;
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.

Bol.
O, 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 ^note snow,
By thinking on fantastick 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 when it bites ^note, but lanceth ^note not the sore.

Gau.
Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way:
Had I thy youth, and cause, I would not stay.

Bol.
Then England's ground, farewel; sweet soil, adieu;
My mother, and my nurse, that bears ^note me yet!
Where'er I wander, boast of this I can,—
Though banish'd, yet a true-born Englishman. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. The same. A Room in the Palace. Enter Richard, with Green, and Bagot, as in Talk; Aumerle following.

Ric.
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.

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

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

Ric.
What said our ^note 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 ^noteseem'd bury'd in my sorrow's grave.
Marry, would the word farewel have lengthen'd ^note 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.

Ric.
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 ^note, and Green, ^note
Observ'd his courtship to the common people:—
How he did seem to dive into their hearts,
With humble and familiar courtesy;
What reverence ^note 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 with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oister-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.

Gre.
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.

Ric.
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 enforc'd to farm our royal realm;
The revenue whereof shall furnish us
For our affairs in hand: If that come ^note 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, hastily.
Bushy, what news? ^note

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

Ric.
Where lies he?

Bus.
At Ely-house.

Ric.
Now put it, heaven, in his ^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, we ^note may make haste, and come too late! [Ex. ^note

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