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 To counterfeit oppression of such grief, That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave. Marry, would the word farewell have lengthen'd hours, And added years to his short banishment, When time shall call him home from banishment, A brace of draymen bid-God speed him well, With Thanks, my countrymen, my loving As were our England in reversion his, Now for the rebels, which stand out in Ireland ;— For their advantage, and your Highness' loss. For our affairs in hand: If that come short, They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold, Enter BUSHY, K. Rich. Bushy, what news? Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my Lord; Suddenly taken; and hath sent post haste, To entreat your Majesty to visit him. Bushy. At Ely-house. K. Rich, Now put it, heaven, in his physician's mind, To help him to his grave immediately! late! 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 unstay'd 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 listen'd more Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose; More are men's ends mark'd, then their lives before: The setting sun, and musick at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last; Writ in remembrance, more than things long past: Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear, My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear. York. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds, As, praises of his state then, there are for Lascivious metres; to whose venom sound Whose manners still our tardy apisk nation Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity Gaunt. Methinks, I am a prophet new inspir'd; And thus, expiring, do foretell of him: His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last; For violent fires soon burn out themselves: Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes; 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, Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth, Renowned for their deeds as far from home, Of the worlds ransom, blessed Mary's son: England, bound in with the triumphant sea, Enter King RICHARD, and QUEEN; AUMERLE, -GUSHY, GREEN, BAGOT, Ross, and WILLOUGHBY, Yert. The King is come: deal mildly with his youth; For young hot colts, being rag'd, 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 compo- Old Gaunt, indeed; and gaunt in being old: |