And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light, For our affairs in hand: If that come short, Bushy, what news? Enter BUSHY. Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord; Suddenly taken; and hath sent post-haste, To entreat your majesty to visit him. K. Rich. Where lies he? Bushy. At Ely-house. K. Rich. Now put it, heaven, 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! [Exeunt. ACT II. 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 unstaied 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: As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last; York. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds, As, praises of his state: then, there are found Lascivious metres; to whose venom sound Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity, His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last; For violent fires soon burn out themselves: Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This fortress, built by nature for herself, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Enter King RICHARD, and Queen; AUMERLE, BUSHY, GREEN, BAGOT, Ross, and WILLOUGHBY. York. The king is come: deal mildly with his youth; For young hot colts, being rag'd, do rage the more. Queen. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster? K. Rich. What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt? Gaunt. O, how that name befits my composition! Old Gaunt, indeed; and gaunt in being old: Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast; And who abstains from meat, that is not gaunt? The pleasure, that some fathers feed upon, K. Rich. Can sick men play so nicely with their Gaunt. No, misery makes sport to mock itself: Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me, I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee. K. Rich. Should dying men flatter with those that Gaunt. No, no; men living flatter those that die. me. Gaunt. Oh! no; thou diest, though I the sicker be. K. Rich. I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill. Gaunt. Now, He, that made me, knows I see thee ill: Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill. From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame; |