London. A Room in the KING'S Castle. |
|
Enter KING RICHARD, BAGOT, and GREEN at one door; AUMERLE at another. |
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 for me; except the northeast wind, |
Which then blew bitterly against our faces, |
Awak'd the sleeping rheum, and so by chance |
Did grace our hollow parting with a tear. |
K. Rich. What said our cousin when you parted with him? |
Aum. 'Farewell:' |
And, for my heart disdained that my tongue |
Should so profane the word, that taught me craft |
To counterfeit oppression of such grief |
That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave. |
Marry, would the word 'farewell' have lengthen'd hours |
And added years to his short banishment, |
He should have had a volume of farewells; |
But, since it would not, he had none of me. |
K. Rich. He is our cousin, cousin; but 'tis doubt, |
When time shall call him home from banishment, |
Whether our kinsman come to see his friends. |
Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here and Green |
Observ'd his courtship to the common people, |
How he did seem to dive into their hearts |
With humble and familiar courtesy, |
What reverence he did throw away on slaves, |
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles |
And patient underbearing of his fortune, |
As 'twere to banish their affects with him. |
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench; |
A brace of draymen bid God speed him well, |
And had the tribute of his supple knee, |
With 'Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends;' |
As were our England in reversion 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 leisure yield them further means |
For their advantage and your highness' loss. |
K. Rich. We will ourself in person to this war. |
And, for our coffers with too great a court |
And liberal largess are grown somewhat light, |
We are enforc'd to farm our royal realm; |
The revenue whereof shall furnish us |
For our affairs in hand. If that come short, |
Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters; |
Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich, |
They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold, |
And send them after to supply our wants; |
For we will make for Ireland presently. |
|
Enter BUSHY. |
Bushy, what news? |
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, God, 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. |
All. Amen. [Exeunt. |
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