Expedient manage must be made, my Liege,
E'er further leifure yield the 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 fhort,
Our Substitutes at home fhall have blank Charters:
Whereto, when they fhall know what Men are rich,
They fhall fubfcribe them for large Sums of Gold,
And fend them after to fupply our Wants:
For we will make for Ireland prefently.
Busby. Old John of Gaunt is very fick, my Lord, Suddenly taken, and hath fent poft hafte
To intreat your Majefty to vifit 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 Soldiers for these Irish Wars.
Come, Gentlemen, let's all go vifit him:
Pray Heav'n we may make hafte, and come too late. [Exe.
Enter Gaunt fick, with the Duke of York.
VILL the King come, that I may breathe my last In wholefom Counfel to his unftaid Youth? Tork. Vex not your felf, nor ftrive 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 scarce, they are feldom fpent in vain,
For they breath Truth, that breath 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 Mens ends markt than their lives before,
The fetting Sun, and Mufick in the clofe;
At the last taste of fweets, is fweeteft laft,
Writ in remembrance, more than things long paft ;-
Though Richard my life's Counsel would not hear,
My Death's fad Tale may yet undeaf his Ear.
York. No, it is ftopt with other flatt'ring Sounds,
As praises of his State; then there are found
Lafcivious Meeters, to whofe venom found
The open Ears of Youth do always liften.
Report of Fashions in proud Italy,
Whofe Manners ftill our tardy apish Nation
Limps after in bafe Imitation.
Where doth the World thruft forth a Vanity,
So it be new, there's no respect how vile,
That is not quickly buz'd into their Ears?
That all too late comes Counfel to be heard,
Where Will doth mutiny with Wits regard;
Direct not him, whofe way himself will chufe,
'Tis Breath thou lack'ft, and that Breath wilt thou lose,
Gaunt. Methinks I am a Prophet new inspir'd,
And thus expiring, do foretel of him,
H's rafh fierce Blaze of Riot cannot laft;
For violent Fires foon burn out themselves.
Small Showers laft long, but fudden Storms are short;
He tires betimes, that fpurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding, food deth choke the Feeder;
Light Vanity, infatiate Cormorant,
Confuming means, foon preys upon it felf.
This Royal Throne of Kings, this fcepter'd Ifle,
This Earth of Majefty, this Seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demy Paradife,
This Fortress built by Nature for her felf,
Against Infection, and the Hand of War;
This happy Breed of Men, this little World,
This precious Stone fet in the Silver Sea,
Which ferves it in the Office of a Wall,
Or as a Moat defenfive to a House,
Against the envy of lefs happier Lands,
This bleffed Plot, this Earth, this Realm, this England,
This Nurfe, this teeming Womb of Royal Kings,
Fear'd for their Breed, and famous for their Birth,
Renowned for their Deeds, as far from home,
For Chriftian Service, and true Chivalry,
As is the Sepulchre in ftubborn Jury
Of the World's Ranfom, bleffed Mary's Son;
This Land of fuch 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,
Whofe rocky Shore beats back the envious Siege
Of watry Neptune, is now bound in with fhame,
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!
Enter King Richard, Queen, Aumerle, Bufhy, Green, Bagot,
Rofs, and Willoughby.
Tork. 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 ? 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 not 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 Childrens 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 fick Men play so nicely with their Names? Gaunt. No, Mifery makes fport to mock it felf:
Since thou doft seek 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'ft me.
Gaunt. Oh no, thou dy'ft, though I the 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 to fee, and in thee feeing ill.
Thy Death-bed is no leffer than the Land,
Wherein thou lieft in Reputation fick;
And thou, too careless Patient as thou art,
Committ'it thy anointed Body to the cure
Of thofe Phyficians that firft wounded thee:
A thoufand Flatterers fit within thy Crown,
Whofe compass is no bigger than thy Hand,
And yet ingaged in fo fmall a Verge,
The wafte is no whit leffer than thy Land.
Oh had thy Grandfire with a Prophet's Eye,
Seen how his Son's Son fhould deftroy his Sons,
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy fhame,
Depofing thee before thou wert poffeft,
Which art poffeft now to depofe thy felf.
Why, Coufin, wert thou Regent of the World,
It were a fhame to let this Land by leafe:
But for thy. World enjoying but this Land,
Is it not more than fhame, to shame it fo?
Landlord of England art thou, and not King:
Thy ftate of Law, is bondflave to the Law,
And-
K. Rich. And thou, a lunatick lean-witted Fool,
Prefuming on an Agues privilege,
Dar'ft with thy frozen Admonition
Make pale our Check, 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 Son,
This Tongue that runs fo roundly in thy Head,
Should run thy Head from thy unreverent Shoulders.
Gaunt. Oh spare me not, my Brother Edward's Son,
For that I was his Father Edward's Son:
That Blood already, like the Pelican,
Thou haft tapt out, and drunkenly carows'd.
My Brother Glo'fter, plain well meaning Soul,
Whom fair befal in Heav'n 'mongft happy Souls,
May be a Prefident and Witness good,
That thou respect'ft not spilling Edward's Blood:
Join with the present Sickness 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 dye 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.
[Exit K. Rich. And let them die, that Age and Sullens have, For both haft thou, and both become the Grave. York. I do befeech your Majefty impute his words To wayward ficklinefs, and age in him:
He loves you on my Life, and holds you dear
As Henry Duke of Hereford, were he here.
K. Rich. Right, you fay true; as Hereford's love, fo his; As theirs, fo mine; and all be as it is.
North. My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majefty. K. Rich. What fay's he?
North. Nay nothing, all is faid:
His Tongue is now a ftringlefs Inftrument,
Words, Life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.
York. Be York the next, that must be Bankrupt fo.
Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal wo.
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 thofe rough rug-headed Kerns,
Which live like Venom, where no Venom elfe
But only they, have privilege to live.
And for these great Affairs do ask fome charge,
Towards our Affiftance, we do feize to us
The Plate, Coin, and Revenues, and Moveables,
Whereof our Uncle Gaunt did ftand poffeft.
York. How long fhall I be patient? Oh how long
Shall tender Duty make me fuffer wrong?
Not Glofter's Death, not Hereford's Banishment,
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