And thou, too careless patient as thou art,
Giv❜ft thy anointed body to the cure
Of those physicians that firft wounded thee:
A thousand flatt'rers fit within thy crown,
Whose 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 fons 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 self.
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 check, 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 shoulders.

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 Glo'fter, plain well-meaning foul,
(Whom fair befal in heav'n 'mongst happy fouls!)
May be a precedent and witnefs good,

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

O 3

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 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.

K. Rich. And let them die, that age and fullens have; For both haft thou, and both become the grave. York. I do befeech your Majefty, impute His words to wayward ficklinefs, and age: He loves you on my life, and holds you dear As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.

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

S C E N E

III.

[Majefty.

Enter Northumberland.

North. My Liege, old Gaunt commends him to your K. Rich. What says old Gount?

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 must fupplant thofe rough rug-headed kerns,
Which live like venom, where no venom elle,
But only they, have privilege to live.

And, for thefe great affairs do ask fome charge,
Towards our affittance 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 Glofter's death, not Hereford's banishment,

Not

Not Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own difgrace,
Have ever made me fow'r my patient cheek,
Or bend one wrinkle on my Sovereign's face.
I am the last 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 else 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 customary rights.
Let not to-morrow then enfue to-day,
Be not thyfelf. 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,

(a)-my Liege,

Pardon if you please; if not,

0 4

I, pleas'd not to be pardon'd, am content.
Seek you to feize, &.

By

By his attorneys-general, to fue

His livery, and deny his offer'd homage;
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head;
You lose a thousand well-difpofed hearts;
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.

[hands K. Rich. Think what you will; we feize into our

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 courses may be understood,

That their events can never fall out good.

[Exit.

K. Rich. Go, Busby, to the Earl of Wiltshire ftraight,

Bid him repair to us to Ely-house,

To fee this business done; to-morrow next
We will for Ireland, and 'tis time I trow,

And we create, in abfence of our self,
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 stay is short.

[Flourish.

[Exeunt King, Queen, &c.

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 justice had her right.
Rofs. My heart is great; but it must break with filence,

Ere't be disburthen'd with a lib'ral tongue..

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

Unless you call it good to pity him,

Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

[born

North. Now afore heav'n, it's fhame fuch wrongs are

In him a royal Prince, and many more

Of noble blood in this declining land;
The King is not himself, but bafely led
By flatterers; and what they will inform
Merely in hate 'gainst any of us all,
That will the King feverely profecute

'Gainft us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.

Rofs. The Commons hath he pill'd with grievous taxes, And loft their hearts; the Nobles hath he fin'd For ancient quarrels, and quite loft their hearts. Willo. And daily new exactions are devis'd; As blanks, benevolences, I wot not what: But what o' God's name doth become of this?

North. Wars have not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not, But bafely yielded upon compromife

That which his ancestors atchiev'd with blows:
More hath he spent in peace, than they in wars.

Rofs. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.
Willo. The King's grown bankrupt, like a broken man.
North. Reproach and diffolution 'hang o'er him.
Rofs. He hath not mony for these Irish wars,
(His burthenous taxations notwithstanding)
But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.

North. His noble kinfman-moft degenerate King! But, Lords, we hear this fearful tempeft fing,

Yet feek no fhelter to avoid the ftorm:

We see the wind fit fore upon our fails,

And yet we strike not, but fecurely perish.

Rofs. We fee the very wreck that we must suffer,

And unavoidable the danger now,

For fuff'ring fo the causes of our wreck.

North. Not fo: ev'n through the hollow eyes of death

I fpy life peering; but I dare not fay

How near the tidings of our comfort 'are.`

Willo.