King Richard II. Уильям Шекспир

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.

        KING RICHARD. 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 yicld them further means

          For their advantage and your Highness' loss.

        KING RICHARD. 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 poste-haste

          To entreat your Majesty to visit him.

        KING RICHARD. Where lies he?

        BUSHY. At Ely House.

        KING RICHARD. Now put it, God, in the 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]

      ACT 2 SCENE 1 London. Ely House

      [Enter JOHN OF GAUNT, sick, with the DUKE OF YORK, etc.]

        GAUNT. Will the King come, that I may breathe my last

          In wholesome counsel to his unstaid 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,

          As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond,

          Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound

          The open ear of youth doth always listen;

          Report of fashions in proud Italy,

          Whose manners still our tardy apish nation

          Limps after in base imitation.

          Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity-

          So it be new, there's no respect how vile-

          That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?

          Then all too late comes counsel to be heard

          Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard.

          Direct not him whose way himself will choose.

          'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

        GAUNT. Methinks I am a prophet new inspir'd,

          And thus expiring do foretell of him:

          His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,

          For violent fires soon burn out themselves;

          Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;

          He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;