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

York.
Vex not your self, and 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 ^note









their words in pain.

York.
His ear is stopt with other ^{a note}


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 buz'd into ^{b note}his ears?
^{c note}Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,
Where will doth mutiny with wits regard.* ^note

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.

This 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 happy 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!

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