Lay on our Royal fword your banifh'd hands; You never fhall (fo help you truth, and heav'n!) Nor ever look upon each other's face, This low'ring tempeft of your home-bred hate; To plot, contrive, or complot any, ill, 'Gainst us, our ftate, our subjects, or our land. Boling. I fwear. Mowb. And I, to keep all this. Boling. Norfolk, fo far, as to mine enemy: By this time, had the King permitted us, [In falutation. One of our fouls had wander'd in the air, Banish'd this frail fepulchre of our flesh, As now our flefh is banifh'd from this land. Confefs thy treafons, ere thou fly this realm; Since thou haft far to go, bear not along The clogging burthen of a guilty foul. Mowb. No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor, My name be blotted from the book of life, And I from heav'n banifh'd as from hence! But what thou art, heav'n, thou, and I do know, And all too foon, I fear, the King fhall rue. Farewel, my Liege; now no way can I firay, Save back to England; all the world's my way. SCEN E V. years 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 Pluck'd four away; fix frozen winters spent, Return with welcome home from banishment. Boling. How long a time lies in one little word! Four lagging winters and four wanton fprings 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, K. Rich. Why, uncle? thou haft many years to live. To smooth his fault I would have been more mild. And in the fentence my own life destroy'd. K. Rich. Coufin, farewel; and, uncle, bid him so. 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 dost thou hoard thy That thou return'ft no greeting to thy friends? [words. Boling. I have too few to take my leave of you, When the tongue's office fhould be prodigal, VOL. IV. C T. To breathe th' abundant dolour of the heart. Gaunt. The fullen paffage of thy weary steps Boling. Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious stride I make Having my freedom, boaft of nothing elfe Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven vifits, There is no virtue like neceffity. Think not the King did banish thee; But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier fit To lie that way thou go'ft, not whence thou com'ft. The grafs whereon thou tread'ft, the prefence floor; The flow'rs, fair ladies; and thy steps, no more Than a delightful measure, or a dance. For gnarling Sorrow hath lefs pow'r to bite Or wallow naked in December snow, BY By thinking on fantastic fummer's heat? Gaunt. Come, come, my fon, I'll bring thee on thy Had I thy youth, and caufe, I would not stay. [way. Boling. Then, England's ground, farewel; sweet foil, adieu, My mother and my nurse, which bears me yet. [Exeunt. SCENE VII. Changes to the court. Enter King Richard, and Bagot, &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 so, 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 (Which then blew bitterly against our faces) [wind Awak'd the fleepy rheum; and fo by chance Did grace our hollow parting with a tear. K. Rich. What faid your coufin when you parted Aum. Farewel. [ with him? And, for my heart disdained that my tongue Should fo profane the word, that taught me craft That words feem buried in my forrow's grave. 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 banishment, Whether our kinfman come to fee his friends. Ourself, and Bufhy, Bagot here, and Green, C 2 Obferv'd Obferv'd his courtship to the common people: What reverence he did throw away on flaves; And he our fubjects' next degree in hope. Green. Well, he is gone, and with him go these thoughts. Now for the rebels, which stand out in Ireland, For our affairs in hand; if they come fhort, Enter Bushy. K. Rich. Bufhy, what news? Bufoy. Old John of Gaunt is fick, my Lord, Suddenly taken, and hath fent post-hafte Tintreat your Majefty to vifit him. K. Rich. Where lies he? Bushy. At Ely-houfe. K. Rich. Now put it heav'n, in his phyfician's mind, To help him to his grave immediately. The lining of his coffers fhall make coats To deck our foldiers for thefe Irish wars. Come, |