Gainft us, our State, our Subjects, or our Land.
Boling. I fwear.

Mob. And I, to keep all this.

Boling. Norfolk, fo far, as to mine enemy:
By this time, had the King permitted us,
One of our fouls had wandred in the air,
Banish'd this frail fepulchre of our flesh,
As now our flesh is banish'd from this Land.
Confefs thy treasons, ere thou fly this Realm;
Since thou haft far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty foul.

Mob. No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,..
My Name be blotted from the Book of life,
And I from heaven banish'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 fhortens 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 fee my fon.

K. Rich. Why, uncle? thou haft many years to live.
Gaunt. But not a minute, King, that thou canft give 3:
Shorten my days thou canst with fullen forrow,
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;
Thou can't help time to furrow me with age,

Bu

death;

But ftop no-wrinkle in his pilgrimage;
Thy word is current with him, for my
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'r :

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 fmooth his Fault, I would have been more mild :
Alas, I look'd, when fome of you should 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 shall go.

[Flourish. [Exit.

Aum. Coufin, farewel; what prefence muft 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 the abundant dolour of the heart.
Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy abfence 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 miscall it so,
Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.

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

The

The precious jewel of thy home-return.

Boling. Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious ftride I make (3) Will but remember me, what a deal of World

I wander from the Jewels that I love.

Muft I not serve a long Apprentice-hood,
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 reafon 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.
Suppofe the finging birds, muficians;

The grafs whereon thou tread'ft, the presence-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 feaft?
Or wallow naked in December fnow,

(3) 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 fubAime Tafte, nor, as Horace has express'd it, fpirat Tragicum faAs however as there is no Doubt of the Paffage being genuine, the Lines are not so despicable as to deserve being quite loft.

By

By thinking on fantaftick 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;

7

Had I thy Youth, and Caufe, I would not ftay.
Boling. Then, England's Ground, farewel; fweet foil,
adieu,

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

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

SCENE changes to the Court.

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

K. Rich. WE did, indeed, obferve Coufin

Aumerle,

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.

है

K. Rich. And fay, what ftore of parting tears were

fhed?

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

wind,

(Which then blew bittrly 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 heart difdained that my tongue

my

Should so 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 short Banishment,

He fhould have had a volume of farewels;

But,

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

K. Rich. He is our kinfman, Coufin; but 'tis doubt,
When time shall call him home from Banifhment,
Whether our kinfman come to fee his friends.
Our felf, and Busby, 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 smiles,
And patient under-bearing of his fortune:
As 'twere to banish their Affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyfter-wench;
A brace of dray-men bid, God fpeed 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 these thoughts.

Now for the Rebels, which stand 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 perfon 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 shall have blank charters :
Whereto, when they fhall know what men are rich,'
They fhall fubfcribe them for large fums of gold,
And fend them after to supply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland presently.

K. Rich. Busby, what news?

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

Tintreat