Gaunt

King Richard
Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by me.
Let’s purge this choler without letting blood.
This we prescribe, though no physician.
Deep malice makes too deep incision.

Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed.
Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.

Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed.
Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.—
Good uncle,
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Gaunt 
Alas, the part I had in Woodstock’s blood
Doth more solicit me than your exclaims
To stir against the butchers of his life.
But since correction lieth in those hands
Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven,
Who, when they see the hours ripe on Earth,
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Duchess of Gloucester
Farewell, old Gaunt.
Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold
Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
O, sit my husband’s wrongs on Hereford’s spear,
That it may enter butcher Mowbray’s breast!

Grief boundeth where it falls,
Not with the empty hollowness, but weight.

Or if misfortune miss the first career,
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Bolingbroke
O, let no noble eye profane a tear
For me if I be gored with Mowbray’s spear.
As confident as is the falcon’s flight
Against a bird do I with Mowbray fight.

As gentle and as jocund as to jest
Go I to fight. Truth hath a quiet breast.

My loving lord, I take my leave of you.—
Of you,
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King Richard
Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,
Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:
The sly, slow hours shall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear exile.
The hopeless word of “never to return”
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.
Mowbray
A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
And all unlooked-for from your Highness’ mouth.
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Gaunt, to Bolingbroke
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 dolor of the heart.

All places that the eye of heaven visits
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
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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.

This blessèd plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
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York
The King is come. Deal mildly with his youth,
For young hot colts being reined do rage the more.
Queen, to Gaunt
How fares our noble uncle Lancaster?
King Richard, to Gaunt
What comfort, man? How is ’t with agèd Gaunt?

A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,
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