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        Rich. We did obserue. Cosine Aumerle,

      How far brought you high Herford on his way?

        Aum. I brought high Herford (if you call him so)

      But to the next high way, and there I left him

         Rich. And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

        Aum. Faith none for me: except the Northeast wind

      Which then grew bitterly against our face,

      Awak'd the sleepie rhewme, and so by chance

      Did grace our hollow parting with a teare

         Rich. What said our Cosin when you parted with him?

        Au. Farewell: and for my hart disdained y my tongue

      Should so prophane the word, that taught me craft

      To counterfeit oppression of such greefe,

      That word seem'd buried in my sorrowes graue.

      Marry, would the word Farwell, haue lengthen'd houres,

      And added yeeres to his short banishment,

      He should haue had a volume of Farwels,

      But since it would not, he had none of me

         Rich. He is our Cosin (Cosin) but 'tis doubt,

      When time shall call him home from banishment,

      Whether our kinsman come to see his friends,

      Our selfe, and Bushy: heere Bagot and Greene

      Obseru'd his Courtship to the common people:

      How he did seeme to diue into their hearts,

      With humble, and familiar courtesie,

      What reuerence he did throw away on slaues;

      Wooing poore Craftes-men, with the craft of soules,

      And patient vnder-bearing of his Fortune,

      As 'twere to banish their affects with him.

      Off goes his bonnet to an Oyster-wench,

      A brace of Dray-men bid God speed him well,

      And had the tribute of his supple knee,

      With thankes my Countrimen, my louing friends,

      As were our England in reuersion his,

      And he our subiects next degree in hope

         Gr. Well, he is gone, & with him go these thoughts:

      Now for the Rebels, which stand out in Ireland,

      Expedient manage must be made my Liege

      Ere further leysure, yeeld them further meanes

      For their aduantage, and your Highnesse losse

         Ric. We will our selfe in person to this warre,

      And for our Coffers, with too great a Court,

      And liberall Largesse, are growne somewhat light,

      We are inforc'd to farme our royall Realme,

      The Reuennew whereof shall furnish vs

      For our affayres in hand: if that come short

      Our Substitutes at home shall haue Blanke-charters:

      Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,

      They shall subscribe them for large summes of Gold,

      And send them after to supply our wants:

      For we will make for Ireland presently.

      Enter Bushy.

      Bushy, what newes?

        Bu. Old Iohn of Gaunt is verie sicke my Lord,

      Sodainly taken, and hath sent post haste

      To entreat your Maiesty to visit him

         Ric. Where lyes he?

        Bu. At Ely house

         Ric. Now put it (heauen) in his Physitians minde,

      To helpe him to his graue immediately:

      The lining of his coffers shall make Coates

      To decke our souldiers for these Irish warres.

      Come Gentlemen, let's all go visit him:

      Pray heauen we may make hast, and come too late.

        Gau. Will the King come, that I may breath my last

      In wholsome counsell to his vnstaid youth?

        Yor. Vex not your selfe, nor striue not with your breth,

      For all in vaine comes counsell to his eare

         Gau. Oh but (they say) the tongues of dying men

      Inforce attention like deepe harmony;

      Where words are scarse, they are seldome spent in vaine,

      For they breath truth, that breath their words in paine.

      He that no more must say, is listen'd more,

      Then they whom youth and ease haue taught to glose,

      More are mens ends markt, then their liues before,

      The setting Sun, and Musicke in the close

      As the last taste of sweetes, is sweetest last,

      Writ in remembrance, more then things long past;

      Though Richard my liues counsell would not heare,

      My deaths sad tale, may yet vndeafe his eare

         Yor. No, it is stopt with other flatt'ring sounds

      As praises of his state: then there are found

      Lasciuious Meeters, to whose venom sound

      The open eare of youth doth alwayes listen.

      Report of fashions in proud Italy,

      Whose manners still our tardie apish Nation

      Limpes 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 buz'd into his eares?

      That all too late comes counsell to be heard,

      Where will doth mutiny with wits regard:

      Direct not him, whose way himselfe will choose,

      Tis breath thou lackst, and that breath wilt thou loose

         Gaunt.

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