Mar. My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride, As far as land will let me, by your side. Gaunt. O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words, That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends? Gaunt. The sullen passage of thy weary steps Boling. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven visits, There is no virtue like necessity. Think not, the king did banish thee; But thou the king: Woe doth the heavier sit, And not-the king exíl'd thee: or suppose, Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'st: The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence strew'd; For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite Gaunt. Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way: Had I thy youth, and cause, I would not stay. Boling. Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu; My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet! [Exeunt. SCENE IV.-The same. A room in the king's castle. Enter King RICHARD, Bagot, and GREEN; AUMERLE following. 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 by me: except the north-east wind, Which then blew bitterly against our faces, Awak'd the sleeping rheum; and so, by chance, K. Rich. What said our cousin, when you parted with him? Aum Farewell: And, for my heart disdained that my tongue To counterfeit oppression of such grief, That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave. He should have had a volume of farewells; K. Rich. He is our cousin, cousin; but 'tis doubt, What reverence he did throw away on slaves; 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 ;— K. Rich. We will ourself in person to this war. 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! 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: The setting sun, and musick at the close, |