Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land, Wherein thou liest in reputation sick; And thou, too careless patient as thou art, Commit'st thy anointed body to the cure Of those physicians that first wounded thee: A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown, Whose compass is no bigger than thy head; And yet, incaged in so small a verge, The waste is no whit lesser than thy land. O, had thy grandsire, with a prophet's eye, Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons, From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame; Deposing thee before thou wert possess'd, Which art possess'd now to depose thyself. Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world, It were a shame, to let this land by lease: But, for thy world, enjoying but this land, Is it not more than shame, to shame it so ? Landlord of England art thou now, not king: Thy state of law is bondslave to the law 16; And thou K. Rich. a lunatick lean-witted fool, Presuming on an ague's privilege, Dar'st with thy frozen admonition Make pale our cheek; chasing the royal blood, Now by my seat's right royal majesty, Wert thou not brother to great Edward's son, This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head, Should run thy head from thy unreverend shoulders. Gaunt. O, 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 tapp'd out, and drunkenly carous'd: That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood: York. 'Beseech your majesty, impute his words To wayward sickliness and age in him : 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, so his : As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is. Enter NORTHUMBERLAND. North. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty. K, Rich, What says he now? North. Nay, nothing; all is said: His tongue is now a stringless instrument; Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent. York. Be York the next that must be bankrupt so! Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe. K. Rich. The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he; And, for these great affairs do ask some charge, Not Gloster's death, nor Hereford's banishment, Of whom thy father, prince of Wales, was first; In war was never lion rag'd more fierce, But, when he frown'd, it was against the French, K. Rich. Why, uncle, what's the matter? Take Hereford's rights away, and take from time His livery, and deny his offer'd homage, And prick my tender patience to those thoughts K. Rich. Think what you will; we seize into our hands His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands. York. I'll not be by, the while: My liege, farewell: What will ensue hereof, there's none can tell; But by bad courses may be understood, That their events can never fall out good. [Exit. K. Rich. Go, Bushy, to the earl of Wiltshire straight; Bid him repair to us to Ely-house, To see this business: To-morrow next We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow; Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part; Be [Flourish. [Exeunt King, Queen, Bushy, Aumerle, Green, and Bagot. North. Well, lords, the duke of Lancaster is dead. Ross. And living too; for now his son is duke. Willo. Barely in title, not in revenue. North. Richly in both, if justice had her right. Ross. My heart is great; but it must break with silence, Ere't be disburden'd with a liberal tongue. North. Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more, That speaks thy words again, to do thee harm! |