By bare imagination of a feast?

Or wallow naked in December snow

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By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
O, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse ;
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore.
Gaunt. Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on
thy way;

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Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay. Boling. Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet

My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet!
Where'er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banish'd, yet a trueborn Englishman.

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[Exeunt.

SCENE IV. The court.

Enter the KING, with BAGOT and GREEN at one door; the DUKE OF AUMERLE at another.

and

K. Rich. We did observe. - Cousin Aumerle, How far brought you high Hereford on his way? Aum. I brought high Hereford, if you call him So,

But to the next highway, and there I left him.
K. Rich. And say, what store of parting tears

were shed?

Aum. Faith, none for me; except the northeast wind,

Which then blew bitterly against our faces,
Awaked the sleeping rheum, and so by chance
Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

K. Rich.

Aum.

What said our cousin when you parted with him?

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

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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.

K. Rich. 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
Observed 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,

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With Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends; ' As were our England in reversion his,

And he our subjects' next degree in hope.

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

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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.
K. Rich. We will ourself in person to this

war;

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And, for our coffers, with too great a court
And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,
We are inforced 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 50
And send them after to supply our wants,
For we will make for Ireland presently. -

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. Now put it, God, in the physician's

mind

To help him to his grave immediately!

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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. 65

ACT II.

SCENE I. Ely House.

Enter JOHN OF GAUNT sick, with the DUKE OF

YORK, etc.

Gaunt. Will the king come, that I

my last

may breathe

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;

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More are men's ends mark'd than their lives be

fore.

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.

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York. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds,

As praises, of whose taste the wise 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.

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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;
"Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou

lose.

Gaunt. Methinks I am a prophet new inspired, And thus, expiring, do foretell of him: His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last, For violent fires soon burn out themselves;

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