And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone, And their king it is who tolls; Rolls A pæan from the bells; Keeping time, time, time, To the throbbing of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells— As he knells, knells, knells Of the bells, bells, bells— To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. E. A. Poe. XLVII. KING RICHARD II. ACT II. SCENE I.-Ely House. Enter JOHN OF GAUNT sick, with the DUKE OF YOкK, &c. 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 listened more Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose; More are men's ends marked than their lives before : The setting sun, and music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, York. No; it is stopped with other flattering sounds, Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity— Then all too late comes counsel to be heard, Direct not him whose way himself will choose : 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 ; Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. This fortress built by Nature for herself Against the envy of less happier lands, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it, Like to a tenement or pelting* farm : * Pelting, paltry. Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege York. XLVIII. KING RICHARD II. ACT II. SCENE I.-The Same. Enter KING RICHARD and QUEEN. HE king is come: deal mildly with his youth; For young hot colts being raged do rage the more. Queen. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster? K. Rich. What comfort, man? how is't with aged Gaunt. O, how that name befits my composition! K. Rich. Can sick men play so nicely with their names? Gaunt. No, misery makes sport to mock itself: Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me, I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee. K. Rich. Should dying men flatter with those that live? Gaunt. No, no, men living flatter those that die. K. Rich. Thou, now a-dying, say'st thou flatterest me. Gaunt. O, no! thou diest, though I the sicker be. K. Rich. I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill. Gaunt. Now He that made me knows I see thee ill; Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill. Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land Wherein thou liest in reputation sick; And thou, too careless patient as thou art, Commit'st thy anointed body to the cure Of those physicians that first wounded thee : A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown, Whose compass is no bigger than thy head; And yet, incagéd in so small a verge, The waste is no whit lesser than thy land. O, had thy grandsire with a prophet's eye Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons, From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame, K. Rich. A lunatic lean-witted fool, Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood Now, by my seat's right royal majesty, Wert thou not brother to great Edward's son, This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head |