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]

        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;