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Come, Gentlemen, let's all go visit him.
А ст II. SCENE 1.
Ely-house. Gaunt brought in, fick; with the Duke of York. Gaunt. ILL the King come, that I may breathe
!! In wholsome counsel to his unstay'd youth?
York. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your For all in vain comes counsel to his ear. [breath;
Gaunt. Oh but, they say, the tungues 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 wordsin pain.
York. His ear is stopt with other flatt'ring charms, As praises of his state ; there are, beside, Lascivious meeters, to whose venom'd found 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 thi uft forth a vanity (So it be new, there's no respect how vile) That is not quickly buzz'd into his cars.? Then all too late comes counsel to be heard, . Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard t.
words in pain. He that no more must say, is listen'd more
Than they whom you'h and ease have taught to glore,
The setting fun, and music in their close.
York. His ear is stopt, &c. +
with wit's reward. Direct not him, whose way himself will chuse; 'Tis breath thou Jack't. and that breaib wilt thou lose.
Gaunt, Methinks, &c,
Gaunt. Methinks I am a prophet new-infpir'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 fpurs too fast betimes; With eager feeding, food doth choke the feeder ; Light vanity, insatiate coromant, Consuming means, foon preys upon itself. The royal throne of Kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of Majesty, this feat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress, built by Nature for herself, Against infection, and the hand of war; This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone let in the filver sea, Which ferves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a houfe, 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 in the fepulchre in stubborn Jury Of the world's ransom, bleffed Mary's fon; This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now leas'd out, (1 die pronouncing it), Like to a tenement, or pelting farm. England, bound in with the triumphant fea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envicus 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 shameful conquest of itself. Ah! would the scandal vanish with my life, How happy then were my ensuing death!
S C Ε Ν Ε ΙΙ. Enter King Richard, Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green,
Bagot, Ross, and Willoughby. York. The King is come, deal mildly with his youth ;
For young hot colts, being rage'd, do rage the more.
Queen. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster ?
with aged Gaunt?
K. Rich. Can Gick men play fo nicely with their names ?
Gaunt. No, misery makes sport to inock itself.
K. Rich. Should dying men fatter those that live?
Gaunt. Now, he that made me knows I see thee ill.
Is it not more than shame to shame it fo ?
K. Rich. And thou, a lunatic lean-witted fool,
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, Hast thou tapt out, and drunkenly carows’d. My brother Glo'ster, plain well-meaning foul, (Whom fair befal in heav'n 'mongst happy fouls !). May be a precedent and witnefs good, That thou respects 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 fower. Live in thy shame, but die not shame 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, borne out. K. Rich. And let them die, that
and sullens have; For both hast thou, and both become the grave.
York. I do beseech your Majesty, impute His words to wayward fickliness, and age ; He loves you, on my life; and holds you
dear As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.
K. Rich. Right, you say true; as Hereford's love, fo As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is. [his ;
Enter Northumberland. North. My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty,
K. Rich. What says old Gaunt ? !!!
North. Nay, nothing; all is said :
York. Be York the next that must be bankrupt so ! Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
K. Rich. The ripeft fruit first falls, and fo doth he; His time is fpent, our pilgrimage must be: So much for that. Now for our Irish wars; We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns, Which live like venom, where no venom else, But only they, have privilege to live; And, for thefe great affairs do ask fome charge, Towards'our affistance we do seize to us The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables, Whereof our uncle Gaunt did ftand possess’d.
York. How long shall I be patient ! Oh, how long Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong! Not Glo'ster'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 disgrace, Have ever made me sow'r my patient cheek, Or bend one wrinkle on my Sovereign's face. I am the last of noble Edward's fons, of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first: In war, was never lion rage'd more fierce ; In peace, was never gentle lamb more mild, Than was that young and princely gentleman; His face thou hast, for even so look'd he, Accomplish'd with the number of th, hours. But when he frown'd it was against the French, And not against his friends: his noble hand Did win what he did spend ; and spent not that Which his triumphant father's hand had won. His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood, But bloody with the enemies of his kin. Oh, Richard ! York is too far gone with grief, Or else he never would compare between.
K. Rich. Why, uncle, what's the matter?