(Which then blew bitterly against our faces) Awak'd the fleepy rheume; and so by chance Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.
K. RICH. What faid your coufin, when you parted with
And, for my heart disdained that my tongue
Should so prophane the word, that taught me craft
To counterfeit oppreffion of fuch grief,
That words feem'd bury'd in my forrow's grave.
Marry, would the word FAREWEL have lengthen'd hours, And added years to his short banishment,
He should have had a volume of farewels;
But fince it would not, he had none of me.
K. RICH. He is our kinfman, coufin; but 'tis doubt,
When time fhall call him home from banishment,
Whether our kinfman come to fee his friends.
Our self, and Bufhy, Bagot here, and Green,
Obferv'd his courtship to the common people :
How he did feem to dive into their hearts,
With humble and familiar courtefie?
What reverence he did throw away on flaves,
Wooing poor crafts-men with the craft of fmiles,
And patient under-bearing of his fortune,
As 'twere to banith their affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
A brace of dray-men bid, God speed him we'l!
And had the tribute of his fupple knee;
With Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends
As were our England in reverfion his,
And he our fubjects' next degree in hope.
GREEN. Well, he is gone, and with him go these
Now for the rebels, which stand out in Ireland,
Expedient manage must be made, my liege;
Ere further leifure yield them further means
For their advantage, and your highness lofs.
K. RICH. We will ourself in person to this war;
And, for our coffers with too great a court,
And liberal largefs, are grown fomewhat light,
We are enforc'd to farm our royal realm,
The revenue whereof shall furnish us
For our affairs in hand; if they come short,
Our fubftitutes 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 supply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland presently.
K. RICH. Bushy, what news?
BUSHY. Old John of Gaunt is fick, my lord,
Suddenly taken, and hath sent poste-haste
Tintreat your majesty to visit him.
K. RICH. Where lies he?
BUSHY. 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 shall make coats
To deck our foldiers for these Irish wars.
Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him :
Pray heav'n, we may make haste, and come too late!
Gaunt brought in, fick; with the Duke of York.
ILL the king come, that I may breathe my laft
In wholesome counsel to his unstay'd youth?
YORK. Vex not yourself, nor ftrive not with your
For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.
[breath;
GAUNT. Oh, but, they fay, the tongues of dying men
Inforce attention, like deep harmony:
Where words are fcarce, 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 glofe,
More are men's ends mark'd, than their lives before;
The fetting fun, 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 chaims,
As praises of his state; there are, beside,
Lafcivious meeters, to whose venom'd found
The open ear of youth doth always liften:
Report of fashions in proud Italy,
Whofe manner ftill 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 chufe;
"Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lofe.
GAUNT. Methinks, I am a prophet new-inspir'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 fhort;
He tires betimes, that fpurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding, food doth choak the feeder.
Light vanity, infatiate cormorant,
Consuming means, foon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd ifle,
This earth of majesty, this feat of Mars,
This other Eden, demy Paradise,
This fortrefs, 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 ferves 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 fepulchre in stubborn Jury
Of the world's ranfom, blessed Mary's fon;
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 shore beats back the envious fiege
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 conquest of itself.
Ah! would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my enfuing death!
SCENE II. Enter King Richard, Queen, Aumerle, Bufhy, Green, Bagot, Rofs, and Willoughby.
YORK. The king is come, deal mildly with his youth: For 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. Oh, how that name befits my compofition:
Old Gaunt, indeed, and gaunt in being old;
Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast,
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 fome fathers feed upon,
Is my strict 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,
Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.
K. RICH. Can feek men play fo nicely with their names?
GAUNT. No, mifery makes sport to mock itself:
Since thou doft seek to kill my name in me,
I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.
|