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Lay on our Royal fword your banifh'd hands;
Swear by the duty that you owe to Heav'n,
(Our part therein we banish with yourselves),
To keep the oath that we administer:

You never fhall (fo help you truth, and heav'n!)
Embrace each other's love in banishment;

Nor ever look upon each other's face,
Nor ever write, regreet, or reconcile

This low'ring tempeft of your home-bred hate;
Nor ever by advifed purpose meet,

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:

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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 oil-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;
Shorten my days thou canft with fullen forrow,
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;
Thou canft help Time to furrow me with age,
But ftop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;
Thy word is currant with him, for my death,
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 four."
You urge'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 smooth his fault I would have been more mild.
Alas, I look'd when fome of you should say,
I was too ftri& to make my own away.
But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue,
Againft my will, to do myfelf this wrong.
A partial flander fought I to avoid,

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.

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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. 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 mifcall it fo,
Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.

Gaunt. The fullen paffage of thy weary steps
Efteem a foil, wherein thou art to fet
The precious jewel of thy home-return.

Boling. Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious stride I make
Will but remember me, what a deal of world
I wander from the jewels that I love.
Muft I not serve a long apprenticehood
To foreign paffages, and in the end

Having my freedom, boaft of nothing elfe
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, imagine it

To lie that way thou go'ft, not whence thou com'ft.
Suppofe the finging birds, musicians;

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
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 Caucasus ?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feaft?

Or wallow naked in December snow,

BY

By thinking on fantastic fummer's heat?
Oh, no! the apprehenfion of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse;
Fell Sorrow'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 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.
Where-e'er I wander, boaft of this I can,
Though banish'd, yet a true-born Englishman.

[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
To counterfeit oppreffion of fuch grief,

That words feem buried in my forrow's grave.
Marry, would the word farewel have lengthen'd hours,
And added years to his fhort banishment,
He fhould have had a volume of farewels;

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:
How he did feem to dive into their hearts,
With humble and familiar courtely;

What reverence he did throw away on flaves;
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of fmiles,
And patient under-bearing of his fortune;
As 'twere to banish their affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
A brace of dray-men bid, God speed 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 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,
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 ourself in perfon to this war;
And, for our coffers with too great a court,
And liberal largefs, are grown fomewhat light,
We are inforce'd to farm our royal realm,
The revenue whereof fhall furnish us

For our affairs in hand; if they come fhort,
Our fubftitutes at home fhall 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 fupply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland prefently.

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,

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