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 fubftitutes at home fhall have blank charters:
Whereto, when they fhall know what men are rich
They fhall fubfcribe them for large fums of gold,
And fend them after to fupply our wants:
For we will make for Ireland presently.
Busby. Old John of Gaunt is fick, my Lord,
Suddenly taken, and hath sent poft hafte
T' intreat your Majesty to visit him.
K. Rich. Where lyes he?
Busby. At Ely-boufe.
K. Rich. Now put it, heav'n, in his physician'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! [Ex ACT II. SCENE I.
ELY-HOUSE.
Enter Gaunt fick, with the Duke of York.
WILL the King come, that I may breathe my laft
In wholesome counfel to his unftay'd youth?
York. Vex not your felf, and ftrive not with your breath For all in vain comes counfel to his ear.
Gaunt. Oh but, they fay, the tongues of dying men Inforce attention like deep harmony:
Where words are scarce, they're feldom spent in vain; For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain, ...their words in pain.
fle that no more mut fay, is liften'd more
Than they whom youth and cafe have taught to glofe More are mens ends mark'd than their lives before:
The fetting fun, and mufick in the close.
York. His ear is ftopt with other flatt'ring charms,
As praises of his ftate; there are befide
Lafcivious meeters, to whofe venom'd found
The open ear of youth doth always liften:
Report of fashions in proud Italy,
Whofe manners ftill our tardy apish 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.*
Gaunt. Methinks I am a prophet new inspir'd,
And thus expiring do foretel of him,
His rafh, fierce blaze of riot cannot laft;
For violent fires foon burn out themselves.
Small fhow'rs laft long, but fudden storms are short;
He tires betimes, that fpurs too faft betimes;
With eager feeding, food doth choak the feeder;
Light vanity, infatiate cormorant,
Confuming means, foon preys upon it felf.
This royal throne of Kings, this fcepter'd Ifles
This earth of Majefty, this feat of Mars,
This other Eden, demy Paradise,
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 fet in the filver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defenfive to a house,
Against the envy of less happy lands;
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal Kings.
As the last tafte of fweets is fweetest laft,
Writ in remembrance, more than things long past;
Though Richard my life's counfel would not hear,
My death's fad tale may yet undeaf his ear.
Direct not him, whole way himself will chufe;
'Tis breath thou lack'il, and that breath wilt thou lofe.
Gant. Methinks I am.-.
Fear'd for their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds, as far from home,
For chriftian service and true chivalry,
As is the fepulchre in ftubborn Jury
Of the world's ranfom, bleffed 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 die pronouncing it)
Like to a tenement, or pelting farm.
England bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky fhore 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 conqueft of it felf.
Ah! would the fcandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my enfuing death
SCENE 11. Enter King Richard, Queen, Asmerle, 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 Lancafter? K.Rich.What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gount?* -with aged Gauns?
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 abftains from meat, that is pot gaunt
For fleeping England long time have I watcht,
Watching breeds leannefs, leannefs is all gaunt;
The pleasure that fome fathers feed upon,
Is my ftrict faft, I mean my children's locks,
And therein fafting halt thou made me gaunt;
Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,
Whofe hollow womb inherits nought but bones.
K, Ricb. Can fick men play fo nicely with their names?
Gaunt No, mifery makes fport to mock itself:
Since thou doft feek to kill my name in me,
I mock my name, great King, to flatter thee.
K. Fich. Should dying men flatter thofe that live?
Gaunt. No, no, men living flatter thofe that die.
K.Rich Thou now a dying fay'st thou flatter*ft me.
Gant. Oh no, thou dy't, though I the ficker be.
Gaunt. Ill in my felf, but feeing thee too, ill.
Thy death-bed is no leffer than the land,
Wherein thou lyeft in reputation fick ;
And thou, too careless patient as thou art,
Giv'ft thy anointed body to the cure
Of those physicians that first wounded thee:
A thousand flatt'rers fit within thy crown,
Whose 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 poffeft now to depofe thy felf.
Why, coufin, wert thou Regent of the world,
It were a shame to let this land by leafe:
But for thy world enjoying but this land,
Is it not more than fhame to fhame it fo?
Landlord of England art thou, and not King:
Thy ftate o'er law is bondslave to the law,
And-
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, chasing the royal blood
With fury from his native refidence.
Now by my feat's right royal Majefty,
Wert thou not brother to great Edward's fon,
This tongue that runs fo roundly in thy head
Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders.
Gaunt. Oh, fpare me not, my brother Edward's fon,
For that I was his father Edward's fon.
That blood already, like the Pelican,
Haft thou tapt out, and drunkenly carows'd.
My brother Glofter, plain well-meaning foul,
(Whom fair befal in heav'n 'mong'ft happy fouls!)
May be a precedent and witness good,
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....
That thou refpect'ft not spilling Edward's blood.
Join with the prefent fickness that I have,
And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too-long-wither'd flower.
Live in thy fhame, but die not fhame with thee!
These words hereafter thy tormentors be!
Convey me to my Bed, then to my Grave:
Love they to live, that love and honour have.
K. Rich. And let them de, that age and fullens have;
For both haft thou, and both become the grave.
York. I do befeech your Majefty, impute
His words to wayward ficklinefs, and age:
He loves you on my life, and holds you dear
As Harry Duke of Hereford, were
K. Rich. Right, you fay true; as Hereford's love, fo his; As theirs, fo mine; and all be as it is!
SCENE III. Enter Northumberland.
North. My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your K. Rich. What fays old Gaunt ?
North. Nay, nothing; all is faid:
His tongue is now a ftringlefs inftrument,
Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath (pent.
York. Be York the next, that must be bankrupt fo! Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
K. Rich. The ripeft fruit firft falls, and fo doth he ;
His time is fpent, our pilgrimage must be :
So much for that. Now for our Irish wars;
We must fupplant those rough rug-
-headed kerns,
Which live like venom, where no venom else,
But only they, have privilege to live.
And, for these great affairs do afk, fome charge,
Towards our affistance we do feize to us
The plate, coin, revenues and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did ftand poffelt.
York. How long shall I be patient? Oh, how long
Shall tender duty make me fuffer wrong?
Not Glofter's death, not Hereford's banishment,
Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own difgrace,
Have ever made me fow'r my patient cheek,
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