Fear'd for their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds, as far from home,
For chriftian service and true chivalry,
As is the fepulchre in ftubborn Jury
Of the world's ranfom, bleffed Mary's fon;
This land of fuch dear fouls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leas'd out, (I die pronouncing it)
Like to a tenement, or pelting farm.
England bound in with the triumphant fea,
Whose rocky fhore beats back the envious fiege
Of watry Neptune, is 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 self.
Ah! would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my enfuing death!

SCENE II. Enter King Richard, Queen, Aumerle, Bufhy, Green, Bagot, Rofs, and Willoughby, York. 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 Lancafter?

K.Rich. What comfort,man? How is't with aged Gaun!?* with aged Gaunt?

--

Gaunt. Oh, how that name befits my compofition!
O'd Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old :
Within me grief hath kept a tedious faft;
And who abftains from meat, that is not gaunt?
For fleeping England long time have I watcht,
Watching breeds leannels, leannefs is all gaunt;
The pleafure that fome fathers feed upon,
Is my ftrict fait, I mean my children's looks, .
And therein fafting haft thou 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 itself:
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 thofe that live?
Gaunt. No, no, men living flatter thole that die.
K. Rich. Thou now a dying fay'ft thou flatter'ft me.
Gaunt, Oh no, thou dy't, though I the ficker be.
K. Rich. I am in health, I breathe, I fee thee ill.
Gaunt. Now he that made me, knows I fee thee ill:
All in my felf

Gaunt.

Gaunt. Ill in my self, but seeing thee too, ill
Thy death-bed is no leffer than the land,
Wherein thou lyeft in reputation fick ;
And thou, too careless patient as thou art,
Giv'ft thy anointed body to the cure
Of those physicians that first wounded thee:
A thoufand flatt'rers fit within thy crown,
Whofe compass is no bigger than thy head,
And yet incaged in fo fmall a verge,
Thy wafte is no whit leffer than thy land.
Oh, had thy grandfire with a prophet's eye
Seen how his fon's fon fhould deftroy his fons,
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy fhame,
Depofing thee before thou wert poffeft,
Who 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 o'er law is bondflave to the law,
And-

K. Rich. And thou, a lunatick lean-witted fool,
Prefuming on an ague's privilege,

Dar'ft with thy frozen admonition

Make pale our cheek, chafing the royal blood
With fury from his native refidence.

Now by my feat's right royal Majesty,

Wert thou not brother to great Edward's fon,

This tongue that runs fo roundly in thy head

Should run thy head from thy unreverent fhoulders.

Gaunt. Oh, fpare me not, my brother Edward's fon, For that I was his father Edward's fon.

That blood already, like the Pelican,

Haft thou tapt out, and drunkenly carows'd.
My brother Glofter, plain well-meaning foul,
(Whom fair befal in heav'n 'mongst happy fouls!)
May be a precedent and witness good,

That thou refpect'ft not spilling Edward's blood.
Join with the prefent fickness that I have,

And

And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too-long-wither'd flower.
Live in thy fhame, but die not fhame with thee!
Thefe 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 fullens have; For both haft thou, and both become the grave. York. I do beseech your Majefty, impute His words to wayward ficklinefs, and age: He loves you on my life, and holds dear As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.

you

K. Rich. Right, you fay true; as Hereford's love, fo his; As theirs, fo mine; and all be as it is!

SCENE III. Enter Northumberland. North. My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majefty.

K. Rich. What fays old Gaunt?

North. Nay, nothing; all is faid:

His tongue is now a ftringlefs inftrument,

Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

York. Be York the next, that must be bankrupt fo! Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich. The ripeft fruit firft falls, and fo doth he;
His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be :
So much for that. Now for our Irish wars;
We muft fupplant thofe 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 afk fome charge,
Towards our affiftance we do feize to us

The plate, coin, revenues and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did ftand poffeft.

York. How long fhall I be patient? Oh, how long
Shall tender duty make me fuffer wrong?
Not Glo'fter's death, not Hereford's banishment,
Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention poor Bolingbroke

About his marriage, nor my own difgrace,
Have ever made me fow's my patient cheek,

Of bend one wrinkle on my Sovereign's face.
I am the laft of noble Edward's fons,
Of whom thy father Prince of Wales was firft:
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 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 fpend; and spent not that
Which his triumphant father's hand had won.
His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.

Oh Richard, York is too far gone with grief,
Or elfe he never would compare between

K. Rich. Why, uncle, what's the matter?
York. Oh, my Liege! *

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 fon?

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 fequence and fucceffion?
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 lofe a thoufand well-difpofed hearts;

And prick my tender patience to those 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.

[Exit.

K. Rich. Go, Busby, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight, Bid him repair to us to Ely-boufe,

To fee this bufinefs done: to-morrow next
We will for Ireland, and 'tis time I trow.
And we create, in abfence of our felf,
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.

[Flourifbe

[Exeunt King, Queen, &c.

SCENE IV.

Manent Northumberland, Willoughby, and Rofs.
North. Well, Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.
Rofs. And living too, for now his fon 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. Ere't be difburthen'd with a lib'ral tongue.

North. Nay, fpeak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak

more

That fpeaks thy words again to do thee harm.

Willo. Tends what you'd fpeak, to th'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 fhame fuch wrongs are born In him a royal Prince, and many more Of noble blood in this declining land; The King is not himfelf, but bafely led By flatterers; and what they will inform Merely in hate 'gainst any of us all,

That