Gaunt.
Will the King come, that I may breathe my last
In wholesome counsel to his unstay'd youth?

York.
Vex not your self, nor strive not with your breath;
For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.

Gaunt.
Oh, but, they say, the tongues of dying men
Inforce attention, like deep harmony:
Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent in vain;
For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain.
He, that no more must say, is listen'd more
Than they, whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
More are men's ends mark'd, than their lives before:
The setting Sun,—and musick in the close.—
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last;
Writ in remembrance, more than things long past;
Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,
My death's sad Tale may yet undeaf his ear.

York.
His ear is stopt with other flatt'ring charms,
As praises of his State; there are, beside,
Lascivious meeters, to whose venom'd sound
The open ear of youth doth always listen:
Report of Fashions in proud Italy,
Whose manners still our tardy, apish, Nation
Limps after, in base aukward imitation.
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
(So it be new, there's no respect how vile,)
That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?

Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,
Where Will doth mutiny with wit's regard.
Direct not him, whose way himself will chuse;
'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

Gaunt.
Methinks, I am a prophet new-inspir'd,
And, thus expiring, do foretel of him,
His rash, fierce blaze of riot cannot last;
For violent fires soon burn out themselves.
Small show'rs last long, but sudden storms are short;
He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding, food doth choak the feeder;
Light vanity, insatiate Cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon it self.
The royal Throne of Kings, this scepter'd Isle,
This Earth of Majesty, this Seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demy Paradise,
This fortress, built by Nature for her self,
Against infection, and the hand of war;
This happy Breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier Lands;
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal Kings,
Fear'd for their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds, as far from home
For christian service and true chivalry,
As is the Sepulchre in stubborn Jury
Of the world's Ransom, blessed Mary's Son;
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear Land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leas'd out, (I dye, pronouncing it)
Like to a Tenement, or pelting Farm.
England, bound in with the triumphant Sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watry Neptune, is bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment-bonds.

That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful Conquest of it self.
Ah! would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!

Next section