Duch. Yet one word more:-grief boundeth

where it falls,

Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:
I take my leave before I have begun;

For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done :-
Commend me to my brother, Edmund York.
Lo, this is all-nay, yet depart not so:
Though this be all, do not so quickly go:

I shall remember more. Bid him-O, what?—
With all good speed at Plashy visit me.
Alack, and what shall good old York there see
But empty lodgings and unfurnished walls,
Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?

And what hear there for welcome but my groans?
Therefore commend me: let him not come there,
To seek out sorrow that dwells everywhere.
Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die:
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.

(Which Heaven defend a knight should violate!) Both to defend my loyalty and truth,

To God, my king, and my succeeding issue,
Against the Duke of Hereford, that appeals me;
And by the grace of God, and this mine arm,
To prove him, in defending of myself,
A traitor to my God, my king, and me:
And, as I truly fight, defend me Heaven!
[He takes his seat.

Trumpet sounds. Enter BOLINGBROKE in armour ; preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms Both who he is and why he cometh hither, Thus plated in habiliments of war: And formally, according to our law, Depose him in the justice of his cause.

Mar. What is thy name; and wherefore com'st thou hither,

Before King Richard, in his royal lists? Against whom comést thou; and what's thy quarrel?

Speak like a true knight, so defend thee Heaven! Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and

Derby,

Am I who ready here do stand in arms,
To prove, by Heaven's grace and my body's valour,
In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
That he's a traitor, foul and dangerous,
To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me:
And, as I truly fight, defend me Heaven!

Mar. On pain of death, no person be so bold
Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists,
Except the marshal and such officers
Appointed to direct these fair designs.
Boling. Lord Marshal, let me kiss my sove-
reign's hand,

And bow my knee before his majesty:
For Mowbray and myself are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage:
Then let us take a ceremonious leave
And loving farewell of our several friends.

Mar. The appellant in all duty greets your highness,

And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave. K. Rich. We will descend and fold him in our

arms.

Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right
So be thy fortune in this royal fight!
Farewell, my blood: which if it to-day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

Boling. O, let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gored with Mowbray's spear
As confident as is the falcon's flight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.-
My loving lord [To Lord Marshal], I take my
leave of you:

Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle:-
Not sick, although I have to do with death;
But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.-
Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet:
O thou, the earthly author of my blood,-
[TO GAUNT.
Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up
To reach at victory above my head,—
Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers;
And with thy blessings steel my lance's point,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat,
And furbish new the name of John of Gaunt,
Even in the lusty 'haviour of his son.

Gaunt. Heaven in thy good cause make thee
prosperous!

Be swift like lightning in the execution;
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing thunder on the casque
Of thy adverse pernicious enemy.

Rouse up thy youthful blood: be valiant and live.
Boling. Mine innocency, and Saint George to
thrive!
[He takes his seat.
Nor. [rising]. However Heaven or fortune
cast my lot,

There lives or dies, true to King Richard's throne,
A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.
Never did captive with a freer heart
Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace
His golden uncontrolled enfranchisement,
More than my dancing soul doth celebrate
This feast of battle with mine adversary.—
Most mighty liege, and my companion peers,
Take from my mouth the wish of happy years:
As gentle and as jocund as to jest,
Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breast.

K. Rich. Farewell, my lord: securely I espy Virtue with valour couchéd in thine eye.— Order the trial, marshal, and begin.

The King and the Lords return to their seats. Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Receive thy lance; and God defend the right! Boling. [rising]. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry "Amen."

Mar. Go bear this lance [To an Officer] to
Thomas, Duke of Norfolk.

1st Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and
Derby,

Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A traitor to his God, his king, and him;
And dares him to set forward to the fight.
2nd Her. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray,
Duke of Norfolk,

On pain to be found false and recreant,
Both to defend himself and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
To God, his sovereign, and to him, disloyal:
Courageously and with a free desire,
Attending but the signal to begin.

Mar. Sound, trumpets; and set forward, combatants.[A charge sounded. Stay! the King hath thrown his warder down.

K. Rich. Let them lay by their helmets and

their spears,

And both return back to their chairs again:-
Withdraw with us :-and let the trumpets sound
While we return these dukes what we decree.-
[A long flourish.
Draw near,
[To the Combatants.
And list what, with our council, we have done:—
For that our kingdom's earth should not be soiled
With that dear blood which it hath fostered;
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspéct
Of civil wounds, ploughed up with neighbours'
swords;

And for we think the eagle-wingéd pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,
With rival-hating envy, set you on

To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle
Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep
(Which so roused up with boisterous untuned
drums

With harsh resounding trumpets' dreadful bray,
And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,
Might from our quiet cónfines fright fair peace,
And make us wade even in our kindred's blood);-
Therefore we banish you our territories.
You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of death,
Till twice five summers have enriched our fields
Shall not regreet our fair dominions,
But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

Boling. Your will be done. This must my

comfort be,

That sun that warms you here shall shine on me; And those his golden beams, to you here lent, Shall point on me, and gild my banishment.

K. Rich. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier

doom,

Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:
The fly-slow hours shall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear exile :-
The hopeless word of "never to return"
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.
Nor. A heavy sentence, my most sovereigu

liege,

And all unlooked for from your highness' mouth!
A dearer merit-not so deep a maim
As to be cast forth in the common air-
Have I deserved at your highness' hand.
The language I have learned these forty years,

My native English, now I must forego:
And now my tongue's use is to me no more
Than an unstringéd viol or a harp;
Or like a cunning instrument cased up,
Or, being open, put into his hands

That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
Within my mouth you have engaoled my tongue,
Doubly portcullised with my teeth and lips:
And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance,
Is made my jailor to attend on me.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a pupil now:

What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death, Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate; After our sentence plaining comes too late. Nor. Then thus I turn me from my country's light,

To dwell in solemn shades of endless night!

[Retiring.

K. Rich. Return again, and take an oath with thee.

Lay on our royal sword your banished hands:
Swear by the duty that you owe to heaven
(Our part therein we banish with yourselves)
To keep the oath that we administer:-
You never shall (so help you truth and heaven!)
Embrace each other's love in banishment;
Nor never look upon each other's face;
Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile
This lowering tempest of your home-bred hate;
Nor never by adviséd purpose meet,
To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,

'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land. Boling. I swear.

Nor. And I, to keep all this.

Boling. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy:— By this time, had the King permitted us, One of our souls had wandered in the air, Banished this frail sepulchre of our flesh, As now our flesh is banished from this land:Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm: Since thou hast far to go, bear not along The clogging burden of a guilty soul.

Nor. No, Bolingbroke: if ever I were traitor,
My name be blotted from the book of life,
And I from heaven banished as from hence!
But what thou art, heaven, thou, and I do know;
And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue.—
Farewell, my liege.-Now no way can I stray:
Save back to England, all the world's my way.
[Exit.
K. Rich. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine
eyes

I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspéct
Hath from the number of his banished years

Plucked four away.-six frozen winters spent, Return [To BOLINGBROKE] with welcome home from banishment.

Boling. How long a time lies in one little word! Four lagging winters, and four wanton springs, End in a word: such is the breath of kings!

Gaunt. I thank my liege, that, in regard of me, He shortens four years of my son's exile: But little vantage shall I reap thereby: For ere the six years that he hath to spend Can change their moons and bring their times

about,

My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light
Shall be extinct with age and endless night:
My inch of taper will be burnt and done,
And blindfold death not let me see my son.
K. Rich. Why, uncle, thou hast many years
to live.

Gaunt. But not a minute, King, that thou

canst give.

Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow,
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow.
Thou canst help time to furrow me with age,
But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage:
Thy word is current with him for my death;
But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.

K. Rich. Thy son is banished upon good advice,
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave:
Why at our justice scem'st thou, then, to lour?
Gaunt. Things sweet to taste prove in digestion

sour.

You urged me as a judge; but I had rather
You would have bid me argue like a father.
O, had it been a stranger, not my child,
To smooth his fault I should have been more mild;
A partial slander sought I to avoid,
And in the sentence my own life destroyed.
Alas! I looked when some of you should say
I was too strict, to make mine own away:
But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue,
Against my will, to do myself this wrong.
K. Rich. Cousin, farewell:-and, uncle, bid
him so:

Six years we banish him, and he shall go.
[Flourish. Exeunt KING RICHARD and Train.
Aum. Cousin, farewell: what presence must

not know

(From where you do remain) let paper shew. Mar. My lord, no leave take I: for I will ide As far as land will let me, by your side.

Gaunt. O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy

words,

That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends?

Boling. I have too few to take my leave of you, When the tongue's office should be prodigal To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.

Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

Boling. Joy absent, grief is present for that time. Gaunt. What is six winters? they are quickly gone. Boling. To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.

Gaunt. Call it a travel that thou tak'st for plea

sure.

Boling. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so; Which finds it an enforcéd pilgrimage.

Gaunt. The sullen passage of thy weary steps Esteem a foil, wherein thou art to set The precious jewel of thy home-return.

Boling. Nay, rather every tedious stride I make Will but remember me what a deal of world I wander from the jewels that I love. Must I not serve a long apprenticehood To foreign passages; and in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?

Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven visits
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus;
There is no virtue like necessity.
Think not the King did banish thee;

But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.
Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour;
And not the King exíled thee: or suppose
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air,
And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
To lie that way thougo'st, not whence thou com'st.
Suppose the singing birds musicians;

The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strewed;

The flowers, fair ladies; and thy steps no more
Than a delightful measure or a dance:
For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite
The man that mocks at it and sets it light.
Boling. O, who can hold a fire in his hand
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus:
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
By bare imagination of a feast:
Or wallow naked in December snow
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
O, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse:
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.
Gaunt. Come, come, my son; I'll bring thee
on thy way:

Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay. Boling. Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu:

My mother and my nurse, that bears me yet! Where'er I wander, boast of this I can,Though banished, yet a true-born Englishman. [Exeunt.

When time shall call him home from banishment,
Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.
Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green,
Observed his courtship to the common people :
How he did seem to dive into their hearts,
With humble and familiar courtesy:
What reverence he did throw away on slaves;
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles,
And patient underbearing of his fortune,
As 't were to banish their affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench:
A brace of draymen bid God speed him well,
And had the tribute of his supple knee,
With "Thanks, my countrymen, my loving
friends:"

As were our England in reversion his,
And he our subjects' next degree in hope.

Green. Well, he is gone; and with him go

these thoughts.

Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland: Expedient manage must be made, my liege, Ere further leisure yield them further means For their advantage and your highness' loss.

K. Rich. We will ourself in person to this war. And, for our coffers (with too great a court And liberal largess) are grown somewhat light,

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 unstaid 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 listened more
Than they whom youth and ease have taught

to glose:

More are men's ends marked than their lives before:
The setting sun and music 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 car.

York. No; it is stopped with other flattering

sounds,

As praises of his state. Then there are found
Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound
The open ear of youth doth always listen:
Report of fashions in proud Italy;
Whose manners still our tardy apish nation
Limps after, in base imitation.

Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity
(So it be new, there's no respect how vile)
That is not quickly buzzed into his ears?
Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,
Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard.
Direct not him whose way himself will choose:
"Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt
thou lose.

Gaunt. Methinks I am a prophet new inspired; And thus, expiring, do foretel 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: With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder: Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,

Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.