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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 possessid, 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, With fury, from his native residence. 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: My brother Gloster, plain well-meaning soul, (Whom fair befal in heaven 'mongst happy souls !) May be a precedent and witness good, That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood : Join with the present sickness that I have ; And thy unkindness be like crooked age 7, To crop at once a too-long wither'd flower. 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 by his Attendants, K. Rich. And let them die, that age and sullens haves For both hast thou, and both become the grave.
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?
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; His time is spent, 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 18, But only they, hath privilege to live. And, for these great affairs do ask some charge, Towards our assistance, we do seize to us The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables, Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess'd.
York. How long shall I be patient ? Ah, how long Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong? Not Gloster's death, nor Hereford's banishment, Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs, Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke 19 About his marriage, nor my own disgrace, Have ever made me sour my patient cheek, Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face. I am the last of noble Edward's sons, Of whom thy father, prince of Wales, was first; In war 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 hast, for even so look'd he, Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours ;
at he did spends : his noble han French,
But, when he frown'd, it was against the French,
K. Rich. Why, uncle, what's the matter ?
O, my liege,
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts
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. [Erit. 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; And we create, in absence of ourself, Our uncle York lord governor of England, For he is just, and always lov'd us well. Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part; Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [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!