Against the envy of lefs happier Lands,

This bleffed Plot, this Earth, this Realm, this England,
This Nurse, 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 ther were my enfuing Death!

Enter King Richard, Queen, Amerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot,
Rots, 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 noll Uncle, Lancaster?

K. Rich. What comfort, Man? How is't wi haged Gaunt? 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 abftains from Meat, that is not gaunt; For fleeping England long time have I watcht, Watching breeds leanefs, leanefs 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, Whofe hollow Womb inherits nought but Bones. K. Rich. Can fick Men play fo nicely with their Names? Gaunt. No, Mifery makes fport to mock it felf:

Since thou doft feek 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'st thou flatter'st me.
Gaunt. Oh no, thou dy'ft, though 1 the ficker bé.
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 seeing 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'ft thy anointed Body to the cure
Of those Physicians that firft wounded thee:
A thousand Flatterers fit within thy Crown,
Whose 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 destroy 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 fhame 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 Cheek, chafing the Royal Blood
With fury, from his Native Refidence:
Now by my Seat's right Royal Majesty

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 fpare me not, my Brother Edward's Son,
For that I was his Father Edward's Son:

That Blood already, like the Pelican,

Thou

Thou haft tapt out, and drunkenly carows'd.
My Brother Glofter, plain well meaning Soul,
Whom fair befal in Heav'n 'mongst happy Souls,
May be a Prefident and Witnefs good,

That thou refpect'ft not fpilling Edward's Blood;
Join with the prefent 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 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.

K. Rich. And let them die, that Age and Sullens have
For both haft thou, and both become the Grave.
York. I do beseech 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.

Enter Northumberland

North. My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty K. Rich. What fay's he?

North. Nay nothing, all is faid:

His Tongue is now a ftringless Instrument,

Words, Life, and all, old Lancafter hath spent.

York. Be York the next, that must be Bankrupt fo.
Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal wo.

K. Rich. The ripest Fruit first falls, and so doth he,
His time is spent, 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 elfe
But only they, have privilege to live.
And for thefe 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.
Tork. How long fhall I be patient? Oh how long
Shall tender Duty make me fuffer wrong?
Not Glofter's Death, not Hereford's Banishment,

Nor

Nor Gaunt's Rebukes, nor England's private Wrongs;
Nor the prevention of poor Bullingbroke,
About his Marriage, nor my own Difgrace,
Have ever made me fower my patient Cheek,
Or bend one Wrinkle on my Soveraign's Face.
I am the laft of noble Edward's Sons,

Of whom thy Father, Prince of Wales, was firft:
In Wars was never Lion rag'd more fierce;
In Peace, was never gentle Lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely Gentleman;
His Face thou haft, for even fo look'd he,
Accomplish'd with the Number of thy 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 Kindreds Blood,
But bloody with the Enemies of his Kin;
Oh Richard, Tork is too far gone with Grief,
Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich. Why Uncle, what's the matter?
York, Oh, my Liege, pardon me if you please; if not,
I, pleas'd not to be pardon'd, am content with all:
Seek you to feize, and gripe into your

Hands
The Royalties and Rights of banish'd Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt juft, and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deferve to have an Heir?
Is not his Heir a well-deferving Son?

Take Hereford's Rights away, and take from Time
His Charters, and his cuftomary Rights.
Let not to Morrow then enfue to Day,
Be not thy felf. For how art thou a King
But by fair Sequence and Succeffion?
Now afore God, God forbid I fay true,
If you do wrongfully feize Hereford's Right,
Call in his Letters Patents that he hath,
By his Attorneys-General, to fue
His Livery, and deny his offer'd Homage,
You pluck a thousand Dangers on your Head,
You lose a thoufand well difpofed Hearts,

And

And prick my tender Patience to thofe Thoughts
Which Honour and Allegiance cannot think.

K. Rich. Think what you will; we feize into our Hands, His Plate, his Goods, his Mony, and his Lands

York. I'll not be by the while; My Liege, farewel:
What will enfue hereof, there's none can tell.
But by bad Courfes may be understood,
That their Events can never fall out good.

K. Rich. Go Bufhie to the Earl of Wiltshire ftreight,
Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,

To fee this Bufinefs done: To morrow next
We will for Ireland, and 'tis time I trow;
And we create, in abfence of our self,
Our Uncle York Lord Governor of England:
For he is juft, and always lov'd us well.
Come on our Queen, to Morrow muft we part;
Be merry, for our time of ftay is fhort.

[Exiti

[Flourish.

[Exeunt King, Queen, &c. Manet Northumberland, Willoughby, and Rofs. North. Well, Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead. Rofs. And living too, for now his Son is Duke Willo. Barely in Title, not in Revenue.

North. Richly in both, if Juftice had her Right. Rofs. My Heart is great; but it must break with filence] E'r't be disburthen'd with a liberal Tongue.

North. Nay, fpeak thy Mind; and let him ne'er fpeak more That speaks thy Words again to do thee harm.

Willo. Tends that thou'dft fpeak to the Duke of Hereford? If it be fo, out with it boldly, Man:

Quick is mine Ear to hear of good towards him.

Rofs. No good at all that I can do for him,

Unless you call it good to pity him,

Bereft and gelded of his Patrimony.

North. Now afore Heav'n, it's Shame fuch Wrongs are born} In him a Royal Prince, and many more, Of noble Blood in this declining Land; The King is not himself, but bafely led By Flatterers; and what they will inform Meerly in Hate 'gainft any of us all, That will the King feverely profecute

Gainft us, our Lives, our Children, and our Heirs.

VOL. III

H

Rofs.