K. Rich. What comfort, man? how is't with aged Gaunt?
Gaunt. O, how that name befits my composition![1015]
Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old:[1015]
Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;[1015]75
And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt?[1015]
For sleeping England long time have I watch'd;[1015]
Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt:[1015]
The pleasure that some fathers feed upon,[1015]
Is my strict fast; I mean, my children's looks;[1015]80
And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt:[1015][1016]
Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,[1015]
Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.[1015]
K. Rich. Can sick men play so nicely with their names?[1015]
Gaunt. No, misery makes sport to mock itself:[1015]85
Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,[1015]
I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.[1015][1017]
K. Rich. Should dying men flatter with those that live?[1015][1018]
Gaunt. No, no, men living flatter those that die.[1015]
K. Rich. Thou, now a-dying, say'st thou flatterest me.[1015][1019]90
Gaunt. O, no! thou diest, though I the sicker be.[1015]
K. Rich. I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill.[1015][1020]
Gaunt. Now, He that made me knows I see thee ill;[1015]
Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill.[1021]
Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land[1022]95
Wherein thou liest in reputation sick;
And thou, too careless patient as thou art,
Commit'st thy anointed body to the cure[1023]
Of those physicians that first wounded thee:
A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,100
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head;[1024]
And yet, incaged in so small a verge,[1025]
The waste is no whit lesser than thy land.[1026]
O, had thy grandsire with a prophet's eye
Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons,105
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,
Deposing thee before thou wert possess'd,
Which art possess'd now to depose thyself.[1027]
Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world,[1028]
It were a shame to let this land by lease;[1029]110
But for thy world enjoying but this land,
Is it not more than shame to shame it so?
Landlord of England art thou now, not king:[1030]
Thy state of law is bondslave to the law;[1031]
And thou—