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We did observe. Cousin Aumerle,

       How far brought you high Hereford on his way?

      AUMERLE.

       I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,

       But to the next highway, and there I left him.

      KING RICHARD.

       And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

      AUMERLE.

       Faith, none for me; except the northeast wind,

       Which then blew bitterly against our faces,

       Awak’d the sleeping rheum, and so by chance

       Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

      KING RICHARD.

       What said our cousin when you parted with him?

      AUMERLE.

       ‘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,

       He should have had a volume of farewells;

       But since it would not, he had none of me.

      KING RICHARD.

       He is our cousin, cousin; but ‘tis doubt,

       When time shall call him home from banishment,

       Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.

       Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here and Green,

       Observ’d 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 ‘twere 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.

      KING RICHARD.

       We will ourself in person to this war.

       And, for our coffers, with too great a court

       And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,

       We are enforc’d to farm our royal realm;

       The revenue whereof shall furnish us

       For our affairs in hand. If that come short,

       Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters;

       Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,

       They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold,

       And send them after to supply our wants;

       For we will make for Ireland presently.

      [Enter BUSHY.]

      Bushy, what news?

      BUSHY.

       Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord,

       Suddenly taken, and hath sent poste-haste

       To entreat your Majesty to visit him.

      KING RICHARD.

       Where lies he?

      BUSHY.

       At Ely House.

      KING RICHARD.

       Now put it, God, in his physician’s mind

       To help him to his grave immediately!

       The lining of his coffers shall make coats

       To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.

       Come, gentlemen, let’s all go visit him:

       Pray God we may make haste, and come too late!

       ALL. Amen.

      [Exeunt.]

      ACT 2

       Table of Contents

      SCENE I.

       London. An Apartment in Ely House.

       Table of Contents

      [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 listen’d more

       Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;

       More are men’s ends mark’d 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 ear.

      YORK.

       No; it is stopp’d with other flattering sounds,

       As praises of his state: then there are fond,

       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 buzz’d 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:

      

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