Green. Well, he is gone, and with him go these thoughts.
Now for the Rebels, which stand out in Ireland,
Expedient Manage muft be made, my Liege;
Ere further leifure yield them further means
For their advantage, and your Highness' lofs.
K Rich. We will our felf in perfon to this war;
And, for our coffers with too great a Court,
And liberal largefs, are grown fomewhat light,
We are inforc'd to farm our royal Realm,
The Revenue whereof fhall furnish us
For our affairs in hand; if they come short,
Our Substitutes at home fhall have blank charters:
Whereto, when they fhall know what men are rich,
They shall subscribe them for large fums of gold,
And fend them after to fupply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland presently.
Enter Bushy.
K. Rich, Bufby, what news?
Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is fick, my lord, Suddenly taken, and hath fent post-haste
T'intreat your Majefty to visit him,
K. Rich. Where lyes he?
Busby. At Ely-house.
K. Rich. Now put it, heav'n, in his phyfician's
mind,
To help him to his Grave immediately :
The lining of his coffers fhall make coats
To deck our foldiers for these Irish wars.
Come, gentlemen, let's all go vifit him:
Pray heav'n, we may make hafte, and come too late!
ELY-HOUSE.
Gaunt brought in, fick; with the Duke of York.
WILL the King come, that I
In wholesome counsel to his unstay'd youth? York. Vex not your felf, nor strive not with your breath;
For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.
Gaunt. Oh, but, they fay, the tongues of dying men
Inforce attention, like deep harmony;
Where words are fcarce, they're feldom spent in vain
For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain.
He, that no more muft fay, is liften'd more
Than they, whom youth and eafe have taught to
glofe;
More are men's ends mark'd, than their lives before;
The fetting Sun,—and mufick in the close.-
As the last taste of fweets, is sweetest laft;
Writ in remembrance, more than things long paft;
Though Richard my life's counfel would not hear,
My death's fad Tale may yet undeaf his ear.
York. His ear is ftopt with other flatt'ring charms,
As praises of his State; there are, beside,
Lafcivious meeters, to whofe venom'd found
The open ear of youth doth always liften:
Report of Fashions in proud Italy,
Whose manners still our tardy, apifh, Nation
Limps after, in bafe aukward imitation.
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
(So it be new, there's no refpect 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 chufe;
'Tis breath thou lack'ft, and that breath wilt thou lofe.
Gaunt. Methinks, I am a prophet new-infpir'd,
And, thus expiring, do foretel of him,
His rafh, fierce blaze of riot cannot last;
For violent fires foon burn out themselves.
Small fhow'rs laft long, but fudden storms are short;
He tires betimes, that fpurs too fast betimes ;
With eager feeding, food doth choak the feeder;
Light vanity, infatiate Cormorant,
Confuming means, foon preys upon it self.
The royal Throne of Kings, this fcepter'd Isle,
This Earth of Majefty, this Seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demy Paradife,
This fortrefs, built by Nature for her felf,
Against infection, and the hand of war;
This happy Breed of men, this little world,
This precious ftone set in the filver sea,
Which ferves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of lefs happier Lands;
This nurfe, 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 chriftian fervice and true chivalry,
As is the Sepulchre in ftubborn Jury
Of the world's Ranfom, bleffed Mary's Son;
This land of fuch dear fouls, 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 fhore beats back the envious ficge
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 fhameful Conqueft of it felf.
Ah! would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my enfuing death!
SCE N E II.
Enter King Richard, Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Rofs, and Willoughby.
York. The King is come, deal mildly with his youth; young hot colts, being rag'd, do rage the more. Queen. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?
K. Rich. What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt?
Gaunt. Oh, how that Name befits my compofition! Old Gaunt, indeed, and gaunt in being old: Within me grief hath kept a tedious faft; And who abstains from meat, that is not gaunt? For fleeping England long time have I watch'd, Watching breeds leannefs, leannefs is all gaunt: The pleasure, that some fathers feed upon, Is my ftrict faft; I mean, my children's looks; And, therein fafting, thou haft made me gaunt; Gaunt am I for the Grave, gaunt as a Grave, Whofe hollow womb inherits nought but bones. K. Rich. Can fick-men play fo nicely with their names?
Gaunt. No, mifery makes fport to mock it felf: Since thou doft feek to kill my name in me, I mock my name, great King, to flatter thee. K. Rich. Should dying men flatter those that live? Gaunt. No, no, men living flatter those that die. K. Rich. Thou, now a dying, fay'ft, thou flatter'st
Gaunt. Oh! no, thou dyeft, though I ficker be.
K. Rich. I am in health, I breathe, I fee thee ill.
Gaunt. Now he, that made me, knows, I fee
thee ill.
Ill in my felf, but seeing thee too, ill.
Thy death-bed is no leffer than the Land,
Wherein thou lieft in Reputation fick ;
And thou, too careless Patient as thou art,
Giv'ft thy anointed body to the cure
Of those physicians, that firft wounded thee:
A thousand flatt'rers fit within thy Crown,
Whofe compass is no bigger than thy head,
• And yet incaged in fo fmall a verge,
Thy wafte is no whit leffer than thy Land.
Oh, had thy Grandfire, with a prophet's eye,
Seen how his fon's fon fhould destroy his fons ;
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,
Depofing thee before thou wert poffeft;
Who art poffefs'd now, to depofe thy felf.
Why, Coufin, wert thou Regent of the world,
It were a fhame to let this Land by lease:
But for thy world enjoying but this Land,
Is it not more than fhame, to shame it fo?
Landlord of England art thou now, not King:
Thy state of law is bondflave to the law;
And Thou
K. Rich. And thou, a lunatick lean-witted fool, Prefuming on an ague's privilege,
Dar'ft with thy frozen admonition
Make pale our cheek; chafing the royal blood.
With fury from his native refidence.
Now by my Seat's right-royal Majefty,
Wert thou not Brother to Great Edward's fon,
And yet INGAGED in fo fmall a verge,] The Folio of 1623 reads INCAGED, which is right.
z Thy ftate of law is bondilave to the law;] State of law, i. e. legal fov'rainty. But the Oxford Editor alters it to ftate o'er lav, 1. e. abfolute fov'rainty. A doctrine, which, if our poet ever learnt at all, he learnt not in the reign when this play was written, Queen Elizabeth's, but in the reign after it, King James's. By bondslave to the law, the poet means his being inilaved to his favorite fubje&ts.
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