Boling. My heart will sigh, when I miscall it so, Gaunt. The sullen passage of thy weary steps Boling. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven visits, There is no virtue like necessity. Think not the king did banish thee; But thou the king. Woe doth the heavier sit, To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'st. The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence strewed; Than a delightful measure, or a dance; For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite Or wallow naked in December snow, Gaunt. Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way: adieu; My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet! Where'er I wander, boast of this I can, Though banished, yet a trueborn Englishman. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. The same. A Room in the King's Castle. Enter KING RICHARD, BAGOT, and GREEN; AUMERLE following. K. Rich. We did observe.-Cousin Aumerle, How far brought you high Hereford on his way? Aum. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so, But to the next highway, and there I left him. K. Rich. And, say, what store of parting tears were shed? Aum. 'Faith, none by me; except the north-east wind, Which then blew bitterly against our faces, Awaked the sleeping rheum; and so, by chance, K. Rich. What said our cousin, when you parted with him? Aum. Farewell: And, for my heart disdained that my tongue Should so profane the word, that taught me craft That words seemed buried in my sorrow's grave. But, since it would not, he had none of me. K. Rich. He is our cousin, cousin; but 'tis doubt, What reverence he did throw away on slaves; A brace of draymen bid-God speed him well, With-Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends; And he our subjects' next degree in hope. Green. Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts. Now for the rebels, which stand out in Ireland:- For our affairs in hand. If that come short, Bushy, what news? Enter BUSHY. Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord; Suddenly taken; and hath sent post-haste, To entreat your majesty to visit him. K. Rich. Where lies he. Bushy. At Ely-house. K. Rich. Now put it, Heaven, in his physician's mind, To help him to his grave immediately The lining of his coffers shall make coats. To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars. Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him; 'Pray God, we may make haste, and come too late. [Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE I. London. A Room in Ely-house. GAUNT on a couch; the DUKE OF YORK, and others standing by him. Gaunt. Will the king come? that I may breathe my last In wholesome counsel to his unstayed youth. York. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath; For all in vain comes counsel to his ear. Gaunt. O, but they say, the tongues of dying men Enforce attention, like deep harmony: Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain, For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain. He, that no more must say, is listened more Than they whom youth and ease have taught to gloze; More are men's ends marked, than their lives before: The setting sun and music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last; York. No; it is stopped with other flattering sounds, Whose manners still our tardy, apish nation Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity, His rash, fierce blaze of riot cannot last; For violent fires soon burn out themselves: Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. This fortress, built by nature for herself, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Feared by their breed, and famous by their birth, (For Christian service, and true chivalry,) As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry, Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son: This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land, Enter KING RICHARD and Queen; AUMEKLE, BUSHY, York. The king is come: deal mildly with his youth; For young, hot colts, being raged, do rage the more. Queen. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster? K. Rich. What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt? Gaunt. O, how that name befits my composition! 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 sleeping England long time have I watched; Watching breeds leanness; leanness is all gaunt. The pleasure, that some fathers feed upon, Is my strict fast, I mean-my children's looks; And, therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt; Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave, Whose hollow womb inhabits nought but bones. K. Rich. Can sick men play so nicely with their names? Gaunt. No; misery makes sport to mock itself: Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me, I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee. K. Rich. Should dying men flatter with those that live? Gaunt. No, no; men living, flatter those that die. K. Rich. Thou, now a dying, say'st thou flatter'st me. Gaunt. O, no; thou diest, though I the sicker be. K. Rich. I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill. Gaunt. Now, He that made me, knows I see thee ill: Ill in myself to see, and in thee, seeing ill. Thy deathbed is no lesser than thy land, Wherein thou liest in reputation sick; And thou, too careless patient as thou art, |