They come like sacrifices in their trim.
--Will it never be to-day? I will trot to-morrow a mile, and my way
shall be paved with English faces.
This sentiment Richard reiterates very plaintively, in association with
the delicate sweetness of the English fields, still sweet and fresh,
like London and her other fair towns in that England of Chaucer, for
whose soil the exiled Bolingbroke is made to long so dangerously, while
Richard on his return from Ireland salutes it--
That pale, that white-fac'd shore,--
As a long-parted mother with her child.--
So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth!
And do thee favour with my royal hands.--