And harth-refounding trumpets dreadful bray,
And grating fhock of wrathful iron arms,
Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace,
And make us wade even in our kindreds blood :)
Therefore, we banish you our territories.
You coufin Hereford, on pain of death,
Till twice five fummers have enrich'd our fields,
Shall not re-greet our fair dominions,

But tread the ftranger paths of banishment.

Boling. Your will be done: This must my comfort be, That fun, that warms you here, fhall fhine on me : And thofe his golden beams, to you here lent, Shall point on me, and gild my banishment.

K. Rich. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,
Which I with fome unwillingness pronounce.

The fly-flow hours fhall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear exile:
The hopeless word, of never to return,
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

Mob. A heavy fentence, my moft fovereign Liege,
And all unlook'd for from your Highness" mouth:
A dearer merit, not fo deep a maim,

As to be caft forth in the common air,
Have I deferved at your Highness' hands.
The language I have learn'd these forty years,
My native English, now I muft forego;
And now my tongue's ufe is to me no more,
Than an unftringed viol, or a harp,
Or, like a cunning inftrument cas'd up,

Or being open, put into his hands

That knows no touch to tune the harmony.

Within my mouth you have engoal'd my tongue, (5) (5) Within my mouth you bave engoal'd my tongue,

Doubly portcullis'd with my teeth and lips :] Thefe verses Mr. Pope has degraded and thrown out of the text, on account of the image convey'd in the fecond line, as I prefume. I am far from praifing the metaphor; but, perhaps, the ufage might be defended for once from the the example of our mafter Homer. Iliad. A. v. 350.

̓Ατρείδη, ποῖόν σε ἔπο φύγεν ἔρα ὀδόνων. The Epu idov here, methinks, approaches very nigh to the Idea of a Port-cullife.

Doubly

Doubly port-cullis'd with my teeth and lips:
And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance
Is made my goaler to attend on me.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a pupil now:

What is thy fentence then, but fpeechless death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?
K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compaffionate;
After our fentence, plaining comes too late.

Mowb. Then thus I turn me from my country's light. To dwell in folemn fhades of endless night.

K. Rich. Return again, and take an oath with ye.
Lay on our royal fword your banish'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, re-greet, or reconcile
This low'ring tempeft of your home-bred hate;
Nor ever be advised purpofe meet,

To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,
'Gainft us, our ftate, our fubjects, 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,
One of our fouls had wandred in the air,
Banish'd this frail fepulchre of our flesh,
As now our flefh is banifh'd from this land.
Confefs thy treasons, ere thou fly this realm;
Since thou haft far to go, bear not along
The clogging burden of a guilty foul.

Morub. No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,
My name be blotted from the book of life,
And I from Heaven banish'd as from hence !
But what thou art, Heav'n, thou, and I do know,
And all too foon, I fear, the King shall rue.

Farewel,

Farewel, my Liege; now no way can I ftray,
Save back to England; all the world's my way.

[Exit.
K. Rich. Uncle, even in the glaffes of thine eyes
I fee thy grieved heart; thy fad aspect
Hath from the number of his banish'd years
Pluck'd four away; fix frozen winters fpent,
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:
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 canst give;
Shorten my days thou canst 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-verdi&t gave ;
Why at our juftice feem'ft thou then to low'r?

Gaunt. Things, fweet to tafte, prove in digestion fow'r:
You urg'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,

you

To smooth his fault, I would have been more mild:
Alas, I look'd, when fome of
fhould fay,
I was too ftrict to make mine own away:
But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue,
Against 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 him fo: Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [Flourish. Exit. Aum. Coufin, farewel; what presence must not know, From where you do remain, let paper fhow.

Mar. My Lord, no leave take 1; for I will ride As far as land will let me, by your fide.

my

Gaunt. Oh, to what purpose doft thou hoard thy words, That thou retun'ft no greeting to thy friends? Boling. I have too few to take leave of you, When the tongue's office should be prodigal, 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 miscal it fo, Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.

Gaunt. The fullen paffage of thy weary fleps

Efteem a foil, wherein thou art to fet

The precious jewel of thy home-return.

Boling. Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious ftride I make (6)

Will but remember me, what a deal of world

I wander from the jewels that I love.

Muft I not serve a long apprentice-hood,

To foreign paffages, and in the end

Having my freedom, boast of nothing else
But that I was a journeyman to grief?

Gaunt. All places, that the eye of heaven vifits
wife man ports and happy havens.

Are to

Teach thy neceffity to reafon thus:

There is no virtue like neceffity.

(6) Boling. Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious fride I make.] This, and the fix verfes which follow, I have ventur'd to fupply from the old Quarto. The allufion, 'tis true, to an Apprentice-ship, and becoming a Journeyman, is not in the fublime tafte, nor, as Horace has exprefs' it, fpirat Tragicum fatis: However as there is no doubt of the paffage being genuine, the lines are not fo defpicable as to deferve being quite loft.

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'st.
Suppofe the finging birds, muficians;

The grafs, whereon thou tread'ft, the prefence-floor;
The flow'rs, fair Ladies; and thy fteps, no more
Than a delightful measure, or a dance.

For gnarling forrow 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 Caucafus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feaft?
Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastick fummer's heat?
Oh, no! the apprehenfion of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse;
Fell forrow'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 way;
Had I thy youth, and caufe, I would not stay.

Boling.Than, England's ground, farewel; fweet foil, adieu.
My mother and my nurfe, which bears me yet.
Where-e'er I wander, boaft of this I can,

Though banish'd, yet a true-born Englishman. [Exeunt.

SCENE changes to the Court.

Enter King Richard, and Bufhy, Sc. at one door; and the Lord Aumerle, at the other.

K. Rich. How far brought you high Hereford on

7E did, indeed, obferve-Coufin Aumerle,

his way?

Aum.