ACT II. SCENE 1.-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 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. York. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds, Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity, Direct not him, whose way himself will choose; His rash, fierce blaze of riot cannot last; Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself: Enter King Richard and Queen; Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Ross, and Willoughby. York. The king is come: deal mildly with his youth; For young hot colts, being rag'd, do rage the more. Queen. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster? K. Rich. What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt? Gaunt. O, how that name befits my composition! Old Gaunt, indeed; and gaunt in being old: Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast; And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt? For sleeping England long time have I watch'd ; Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt: The pleasure, that some fathers feed upon, Is my strict fast, I mean-my children's looks; And, therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt: Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave, Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones. K. Rich. Can sick men play so nicely with their names? Gaunt. No, misery makes sport to mock itself: Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me, I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee, K. Rich. Should dying men flatter with those that live? Gaunt. No, no; men living flatter those that die. me. Gaunt. Oh! no; thou diest, though I the sicker be. K. Rich. I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill. Gaunt. Now, He that made me, knows I see thee ill; IN in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill. Thy death-bed is no lesser than the land, Vol. 3. Wherein thou liest in reputation sick: The waste is no whit lesser than thy land. K. Rich. a lunatic lean-witted fool, Presuming on an ague's privilege, Dar'st with thy frozen admonition Make pale our cheek; chasing the royal blood, Now by my seat's right royal majesty, Wert thou not brother to great Edward's son, This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head, -Should run thy head from thy unreverend shoulders. Gaunt. O, spare me not, my brother Edward's son, For that I was his father Edward's son; That blood already, like the pelican, Hast thou tapp'd out, and drunkenly carous'd: That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood: Join with the present sickness that I have; [Exit, borne out by his attendants. K. Rich. And let them die that age and sullens have For both hast thou, and both become the grave. York. 'Beseech your majesty, impute his words To wayward sickliness and age in him: He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear As Harry duke of Hereford, were he here. K. Rich. Right; you say true: as Hereford's love, so his : As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is. Enter Northumberland. North. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty. K. Rich. What says he now? North. Nay, nothing; all is said: His tongue is now a stringless instrument; Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent. York. Be York the next that must be bankrupt so! Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe. K. Rich. The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he; His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be : So much for that.-Now for our Irish wars: And for these great affairs do ask some charge, |