King Richard.
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 boist'rous 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 † ^noteappeal 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 invet'rate malice.

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

Boling.
May many years of happy days befal
My gracious soveraign, my most loving liege.

Mowb.
Each day still better others happiness;
Until the heavens 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 t'appeal 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 of a subject's love,
Tend'ring the precious safety of my Prince,
And free from other mis-begotten hate,
Come I appellant 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 heav'n.
Thou art a traitor and a miscreant.* ^note

Mowb.
Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal;
'Tis not the tryal 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 rev'rence 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 ^{a note}doubled down his throat.
Setting aside his high blood's royalty,
Let him but be no kinsman to my liege,
And I 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 ty'd to run a-foot
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground inhabitable,
Where ^{b note}never Englishman durst set his foot.
Mean time, let this defend my loyalty,
By all my hopes most falsly doth he lie.

Boling.
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 rev'rence, makes thee to except:)
If guilty dread hath left thee so much strength,
As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop.
By that, and all the ^{c note}rites 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 tryal;
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.

Boling.
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,
Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.
Further, I say, and further will maintain,
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 inn'cent 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 ^{d note}sland'rer 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 priv'lege him, nor partialize
Th'unstooping firmness of my upright soul.
He is our subject, Mowbray, so art thou,
Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.

Mowb.
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,
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 ere 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 degen'rate 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 tryal-day.

K. Rich.
Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul'd by me;
Let's purge this choler without letting blood:* ^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, 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 dishonour's use thou shalt not have.

I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here,
Pierc'd to the soul, with slander's venom'd spear:
The which no balme 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 their 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 gilded 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.

Boling.
Oh heav'n defend my soul from such foul sin.
Shall I seem crest-fall'n in my father's sight,
Or with pale ^{e note}beggar face impeach my height,
Before this out-dar'd ^{f note}dastard? Ere 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 diff'rence of your settled hate:
Since we cannot attone you, you shall see
Justice decide the victor's chivalry.
Lord Marshal, ^{g note}bid our officers at arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms. [Exeunt. SCENE III. 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 it sees 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 sev'n sons, whereof thy self art one,
Were as sev'n vials of his sacred blood;
Or sev'n fair branches springing from one root:
Some of those sev'n are dry'd by nature's course;
Some of those branches by the dest'nies 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 metal, 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 suff'ring 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 entitle 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.
God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute,
His deputy anointed in his sight,
Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully,
Let God 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 farewel.
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 † ^notesometime 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, ^{h note}Edmund 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 see there
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Un-peopled 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;
All desolate, will I from hence, and die;
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. The Lists, at Coventry. Enter the Lord Marshal and the Duke 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 th' Appellant's trumpet.

Aum.
Why then the champions are prepar'd, and stay
For nothing but his Majesty's approach. [Flourish. The trumpets sound, and the King enters with his nobles: when they are set, Enter the Duke of Norfolk in arms defendant.

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 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 forbid a knight should violate,)
Both to defend my loyalty and truth,
To God, my King, and my 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! The trumpets sound. Enter Bolingbroke appellant, in armour.

K. Rich.
Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms,
Both who he is, and why he cometh hither,
Thus ^{i note}plated 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 Boling.
Against whom comest thou? and what's thy quarrel?
Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heav'n!

Boling.
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.

Boling.
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.
Th' Appellant 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 right,
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.

Boling.
Oh let no noble eye profane 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.* ^note






Oh thou! the earthly author of my blood, [To Gaunt.
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 ^{k note}furbish 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 on,
Fall like amazing thunder on the cask
Of thy ^{l note}adverse pernicious enemy.
Rouze up thy youthful blood, be ^{m note}brave and live.

Boling.
^{n note}Mine innocence, God 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 ^{o note}captive 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 jocund, 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 tryal, Marshal, and begin.

Mar.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Receive thy launce, and heav'n defend thy right.

Boling.
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:
Courageously, and with a free desire,
Attending but the signal to begin. [A charge sounded.

Mar.
Sound trumpets, and set forward combatants.
—But 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.
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;

^{p note}And for we think, the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,
With rival-hating envy, set you on,
To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle
Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep;
(Which thus rouz'd up with boist'rous untun'd drums,
And 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, on pain of death,
'Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields,
Shall not re-greet 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 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 fly-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,
My 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.* ^note






I am too old to fawn 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, re-greet, or reconcile
This low'ring 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.

Boling.
I swear.

Mowb.
And I, to keep all this.

Boling.
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, ere thou fly this realm,
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty soul.

Mowb.
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, 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. SCENE V.

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.

Boling.
How long a time lies in one little word?
Four lagging winters, and four wanton springs
End in a word; such is the breath of Kings.

Gaunt.
I ^{q note}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 ere the six years that he hath to spend,
Can change their moons, and bring their times about,
My oyl-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 sullen 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 low'r?

Gaunt.
Things sweet to taste, prove in digestion sow'r:
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.
^{r note}A partial slander sought I to avoid,
And in the sentence my own life destroy'd.

K. Rich.
Cousin, farewel; and, uncle, bid him so:
Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [Flourish.] [Exit. SCENE VI.

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?

Boling.
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.

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.

Gaunt.
Call it a travel that thou tak'st 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 a foil, wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home return.
^{s note}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.
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, imagin 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 floor;
The flow'rs fair ladies; and thy steps, no more
Than a delightful measure or a dance.

Boling.
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.

Boling.
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 VII. Enter King Richard, and Bushy &c. at one door, and the Lord Aumerle at the other.

K. Rich.
We did indeed 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 blew bitterly against our faces)
Awak'd the sleepy rheume, and so by chance
Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

K. Rich.
What said your 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'd buried in my sorrow's grave.
^{t note}But would the word farewel have 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 kinsman, 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 ^{u note}smiles,
And patient under-bearing of his fortune,
As 'twere to banish their affections 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 subject's 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 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 sick, my lord,
Suddenly taken, and hath sent post haste
T'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. [Exeunt.

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