Or like a cunning instrument cased up,

Or, being open, put into his hands

That knows no touch to tune the harmony.

Within my mouth you have enjailed my tongue,

Doubly portcullised with my teeth and lips,

And dull unfeeling barren ignorance

Is made my jailer 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 sentence then but speechless death,

Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

KING RICHARD

It boots thee not to be compassionate.

After our sentence, plaining comes too late.

MOWBRAY

Then thus I turn me from my country’s light,

To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.

KING RICHARD

Return again, and take an oath with thee.

(To both) Lay on our royal sword your banished hands.

Swear by the duty that you owe to God—

Our part therein we banish with yourselves—

To keep the oath that we administer.

You never shall, so help you truth and God,

Embrace each other’s love in banishment,

Nor never look upon each other’s face,

Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile

This low‘ring tempest of your home-bred hate,

Nor never by advised purpose meet

To plot, contrive, or complot any ill

’Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.

BOLINGBROKE

I swear.

MOWBRAY And I, to keep all this.

BOLINGBROKE

Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy:

By this time, had the King permitted us,

One of our souls had wandered in the air,

Banished this frail sepulchre of our flesh,

As now our flesh is banished from this land.

Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm.

Since thou hast far to go, bear not along

The clogging burden of a guilty soul.

MOWBRAY

No, Bolingbroke, if ever I were traitor,

My name be blotted from the book of life,

And I from heaven banished as from hence.

But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know,

And all too soon I fear the King shall rue.

Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray:

Save back to England, all the world’s my way.

Exit

KING RICHARD

Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes

I see thy grieved heart. Thy sad aspect

Hath from the number of his banished years

Plucked four away. (To Bolingbroke) Six frozen winters

spent,

Return with welcome home from banishment.

BOLINGBROKE

How long a time lies in one little word!

Four lagging winters and four wanton springs

End in a word: such is the breath of kings.

JOHN OF GAUNT

I thank my liege that in regard of me

He shortens four years of my son’s exile.

But little vantage shall I reap thereby,

For ere the six years that he hath to spend

Can change their moons and bring their times about,

My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light

Shall be extinct with age and endless night.

My inch of taper will be burnt and done,

And blindfold death not let me see my son.

KING RICHARD

Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.

JOHN OF GAUNT

But not a minute, King, that thou canst give.

Shorten my days thou canst with sudden sorrow,

And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow.

Thou canst help time to furrow me with age,

But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage.

Thy word is current with him for my death,

But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.

KING RICHARD

Thy son is banished upon good advice,

Whereto thy tongue a party verdict gave.

Why at our justice seem’st thou then to lour?

JOHN OF GAUNT

Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.

You urged me as a judge, but I had rather

You would have bid me argue like a father.

Alas, I looked when some of you should say

I was too strict to make mine own away,

But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue

Against my will to do myself this wrong.

KING RICHARD

Cousin, farewell; and uncle, bid him so.

Six years we banish him, and he shall go.

⌈Flourish.⌉ Exeunt all but Aumerle, the Lord Marshal, John of Gaunt, and Bolingbroke

AUMERLE (to Bolingbroke)

Cousin, farewell. What presence must not know,

From where you do remain let paper show.

[Exit]

LORD MARSHAL (to Bolingbroke)

My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride

As far as land will let me by your side.

JOHN OF GAUNT (to Bolingbroke)

O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,

That thou return’st no greeting to thy friends?

BOLINGBROKE

I have too few to take my leave of you,

When the tongue’s office should be prodigal

To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.

JOHN OF GAUNT

Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

BOLINGBROKE

Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

JOHN OF GAUNT

What is six winters? They are quickly gone.

BOLINGBROKE

To men in joy, but grief makes one hour ten.

JOHN OF GAUNT

Call it a travel that thou tak’st for pleasure.

BOLINGBROKE

My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,

Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.

JOHN OF GAUNT

The sullen passage of thy weary steps

Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set