My Name be blotted from the Book of life,
And I from heaven banifh'd as from hence!
But what thou art, heav'n, thou, and I do know,
And all too foon, I fear, the King shall rue.
Farewel, my Liege; now no way can I ftray,
Save back to England; all the world's my way. [Exit.
K. Rich. Uncle, even in the glaffes of thine eyes
I fee thy grieved heart; thy fad afpect

Hath from the number of his banish'd years
Pluck'd four away; fix frozen winters spent,
Return with Welcome home from Banifhment.

Boling. How long a time lies in one little word!
Four lagging Winters, and four wanton Springs
End in a word; fuch is the Breath of Kings.
Gaunt. I thank my Liege, that in regard of me
He shortens four years of my fon's exile:
But little vantage fhall I reap thereby;

For ere the fix years, that he hath to spend,

Can change their moons, and bring their times about,
My oyl-dry'd lamp, and time-bewafted 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 fon.

K. Rich. Why, uncle? thou haft many years to live.
Gaunt. But not a minute, King, that thou canft give;
Shorten my days thou canft with fullen forrow,
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;
Thou canft help time to furrow me with age,
But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;
Thy word is currant with him, for my death;
But dead, thy Kingdom cannot buy my breath.

K. Rich. Thy fon is banish'd upon good advice, Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave; Why at our juftice feem'ft thou then to low'r? Gaunt. Things, fweet to tafte, prove in digeftion fow'rs You urg'd me as a judge; but I had rather, You would have bid me argue like a father. O, had it been a ftranger, not my child,

To smooth his Fault, I would have been more mild: Alas, I look'd, when some of you fhould fay,

I was too ftrict to make mine own away:
But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue,
Against my will, to do my felf this wrong.
A partial flander fought I to avoid,

And in the Sentence my own life deftroy'd.

K. Rich. Coufin, farewel; and, uncle, bid him fo: Six years we banish him, and he fhall go. [Flourish.

[Exit. Aum. Coufin, farewel; what prefence must not

know,

From where you do remain, let paper show.

Mar. My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride As far as land will let me, by your fide.

Gaunt. Oh, to what purpose doft thou hoard thy words,

That thou return'ft no Greeting to thy friends?
Boling. I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the tongue's office fhould be prodigal,
To breathe th abundant dolour of the heart.

Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time. Boling. Joy abfent, grief is prefent for that time. Gaunt. What is fix winters? they are quickly gone. Boling. To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten. Gaunt. Call it a Travel, that thou tak ft for pleasure. Boling. My heart will figh, when I mifcall it fo, Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.

Gaunt. The fullen paffage of thy weary steps Efteem a foil, wherein thou art to fet

The precious jewel of thy home-return.

Boling. Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious ftride I make (6) Will but remember me, what a deal of World 1 wander from the Jewels that I love. Must I not serve a long Apprentice-hood,

(6) Boling. Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious. Stride I make,] This, and the fix Verfes which follow, I have ventur'd to fupply from the old Quarto. The Allufion, 'tis true, to an Apprentice-fhip, and becoming a Journeyman, is not in the fublime Tafte, nor, as Horace has exprefs'd it, fpirat Tragicum fatis: however as there is no Doubt of the Paffage being genuine, the Lines are not fo despicable as to deferve being quite loft.

Το

To foreign paffages, and in the End

Having my Freedom, boaft of Nothing else
But that I was a Journeyman to Grief?

Gaunt. All Places, that the Eye of Heaven vifits,
Are to a wife man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy neceffity to reason thus:

There is no virtue like neceffity.

Think not, the King did banish Thee;

But Thou the King. Woe doth the heavier fit,
Where it perceives It is but faintly borne.
Go fay, I fent thee forth to purchase honour,
And not, the King exil'd thee. Or fuppofe,
Devouring Peftilence hangs in our air,
And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look, what thy foul holds dear, imagin it

To lye that way thou go'ft, not whence thou com'ft.
Suppose the finging birds, muficians;

The grafs, whereon thou tread'ft, the prefence-floor;
The flow'rs, fair ladies; and thy fteps, no more
Than a delightful measure, or a dance.
For gnarling Sorrow hath lefs Pow'r to bite
The Man, that mocks at it, and fets it light.
Boling. Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frofty Caucafus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastick Summer's heat?
Oh, no! the apprehenfion of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse;
Fell forrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the fore.
Gaunt. Come, come, my fon, I'll bring thee on thy

way;

Had I thy Youth, and Cause, I would not stay.

Boling. Then, England's Ground, farewel; fweet foil,
adieu,

My mother and my nurfe, which bears me yet.
Where-e'er I wander, boast of this I can,

Though banish'd, yet a true-born Englishman. [Exeunt.

SCENE

SCENE changes to the Court.

Enter King Richard, and Bufhy, &c. at one door; and the Lord Aumerle, at the other. "

K. Rich.

E did, indeed, obferve Coufin
Aumerie,

How far brought you high Hereford on his way?
Aum. I brought high Hereford, if you call him fo,
But to the next High-way, and there I left him.
K. Rich And fay, what ftore of parting tears were

fhed?

Aum. 'Faith, none by me; except the north-east wind,

(Which then blew bitterly against our faces) Awak'd the fleepy rheume; and fo by chance Did grace our hollow Parting with a tear.

K. Rich. What faid your coufin, when you parted

with him?

Aum. Farewel

And for my heart disdained that my tongue

Should fo prophane the word, That taught me craft To counterfeit oppreffion of fuch grief,

That words feem'd buried in my forrow's Grave. Marry, would the word farewel have lengthen'd hours, And added years to his fhort Banishment,

He should have had a volume of farewels;

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

K. Rich. He is our kinfman, Coufin; but 'tis doubt, When time fhall call him home from Banifhment, Whether our kinfman come to fee his friends. Our felf, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green, Obferv'd his Courtship to the common people: How he did feem to dive into their hearts, With humble and familiar courtefie; What reverence he did throw away on flaves; Wooing poor crafts-men with the craft of fmiles, And patient under-bearing of his fortune, As 'twere to banish their Affects with him.

Off

Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;

A brace of dray-men bid, God speed him well!
And had the tribute of his fupple knee;

With, Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends,
As were our England in reverfion his,

And he our Subjects next degree in hope.

Green. Well, he is gone, and with him go thefe thoughts.

Now for the Rebels, which ftand out in Ireland,
Expedient Manage must be made, my Liege;
Ere further leifure yield them further means
For their advantage, and your Highness' lofs.
K. Rich. We will our felf in person to this war;
And, for our coffers with too great a Court,
And liberal largefs, are grown fomewhat light,
We are inforc'd to farm our royal Realm,
The Revenue whereof fhall furnish us

For our affairs in hand, if they come fhort,
Our Substitutes at home fhall have blank charters:
Whereto, when they fhall know what men are rich,
They shall subscribe them for large fums of gold,
And fend them after to supply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland presently.

Enter Bushy.

K. Rich. Bushy, what news?

Busby. Old John of Gaunt is fick, my lord, Suddenly taken, and hath fent post-hafte

T'intreat your Majefty to vifit him.

K. Rich. Where lyes he?

Bushy. At Ely-bouse.

K. Rich. Now put it, heav'n, in his physician's mind,

To help him to his Grave immediately:
The lining of his coffers fhall make coats
To deck our foldiers for these Irish wars.
Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him:

Pray heav'n, we may make hafte, and come too late!

[Exeunt.

ACT