And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too-long withered flower.
Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!
These words hereafter thy tormentors be!
Convey me to my bed, then to my grave:
Love they to live that love and honour have.
[Exit, bourne out by his Attendants.]
KING RICHARD.
And let them die that age and sullens have;
For both hast thou, and both become the grave.
YORK.
I do 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.
KING RICHARD.
Right, you say true: as Hereford’s love, so his;
As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.
[Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.]
NORTHUMBERLAND.
My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty.
KING RICHARD.
What says he?
NORTHUMBERLAND.
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.
KING RICHARD.
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.
We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns,
Which live like venom where no venom else
But only they have privilege to live.
And for these great affairs do ask some charge,
Towards our assistance we do seize to us
The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess’d.
YORK. How long shall I be patient? Ah! how long
Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?
Not Gloucester’s death, nor Hereford’s banishment,
Nor Gaunt’s rebukes, nor England’s private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,
Have ever made me sour my patient cheek,
Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign’s face.
I am the last of noble Edward’s sons,
Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first;
In war was never lion rag’d more fierce,
In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely gentleman.
His face thou hast, for even so look’d he,
Accomplish’d with the number of thy hours;
But when he frown’d, it was against the French,
And not against his friends; his noble hand
Did win what he did spend, and spent not that
Which his triumphant father’s hand had won:
His hands were guilty of no kindred’s blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
O Richard! York is too far gone with grief,
Or else he never would compare between.
KING RICHARD.
Why, uncle, what’s the matter?
YORK.
O! my liege.
Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas’d
Not to be pardon’d, am content withal.
Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands
The royalties and rights of banish’d Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir?
Is not his heir a well-deserving son?
Take Hereford’s rights away, and take from Time
His charters and his customary rights;
Let not tomorrow then ensue to-day;
Be not thyself; for how art thou a king
But by fair sequence and succession?
Now, afore God,—God forbid I say true!—
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford’s rights,
Call in the letters-patents that he hath
By his attorneys-general to sue
His livery, and deny his offer’d homage,
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,
You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.
KING RICHARD.
Think what you will: we seize into our hands
His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.
YORK.
I’ll not be by the while: my liege, farewell:
What will ensue hereof there’s none can tell;
But by bad courses may be understood
That their events can never fall out good.
[Exit.]
KING RICHARD.
Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight:
Bid him repair to us to Ely House
To see this business. Tomorrow next
We will for Ireland; and ‘tis time, I trow:
And we create, in absence of ourself,
Our Uncle York lord governor of England;
For he is just, and always lov’d us well.
Come on, our queen: tomorrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of stay is short.
[Exeunt KING, QUEEN, BUSHY, AUMERLE, GREEN, and BAGOT.]
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.
ROSS.
And living too; for now his son is Duke.
WILLOUGHBY.
Barely in title, not in revenues.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Richly in both, if justice had her right.
ROSS.
My heart is great; but it must break with silence,
Ere’t be disburdened with a liberal tongue.
NORTHUMBERLAND.