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Nor never look upon each other's face;

Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile

This louring 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 wand'red in the air,

Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our flesh,

As now our flesh is banish'd 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 banish'd 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, an 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 banish'd years

Pluck'd 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.

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.

GAUNT.

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

Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow

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

Thou can'st 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 banish'd upon good advice,

Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave.

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

GAUNT.

Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.

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 stranger, not my child,

To smooth his fault I should have been more mild.

A partial slander sought I to avoid,

And in the sentence my own life destroy'd.

Alas, I look'd 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. Exit KING with train

AUMERLE.

Cousin, farewell; what presence must not know,

From where you do remain let paper show.

MARSHAL.

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

As far as land will let me by your side.

GAUNT.

O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,

That thou returnest 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.

GAUNT.

Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

BOLINGBROKE.

Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

GAUNT.

What is six winters? They are quickly gone.

BOLINGBROKE.

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

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.

GAUNT.

The sullen passage of thy weary steps

Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set

The precious jewel of thy home return.

BOLINGBROKE.

Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make

Will but remember me what a deal of world

I wander from the jewels that I love.