Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps, Bol. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage, Disclaiming here the kindred of a king; And lay aside my high blood's royalty, Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except: If guilty dread hath left thee so much strength, As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop; By that, and all the rites of knighthood else, Will I make good against thee, arm to arm, What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise. Nor. I take it up; and, by that sword I swear, Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder, I'll answer thee in any fair degree, Or chivalrous design of knightly trial: And, when I mount, alive may I not light, If I be traitor, or unjustly fight! K. Rich. What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge? It must be great, that can inherit us So much as of a thought of ill in him. Now swallow down that lie For Gloster's death,- Once did I lay an ambush for your life, 1 K. Rich. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul'd by me Bol. Look, what I speak, my life shall prove it Forget, forgive; conclude, and be agreed; true ; That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles, Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring. Suggest his soon-believing adversaries; Our doctors say, this is no time to bloed.- Gaunt. To be a make-peace shall become my age: -Throw down, my son, the duke of Norfolk's gage. K. Rich. And, Norfolk, throw down his. Gaunt. When, Harry? when? Obedience bids, I should not bid again. K. Rich. Norfolk, throw down; we bid; there is no boot. Nor. Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot: My life thou shalt command, but not my shame: The one my duty owes; but my fair name, (Despite of death, that lives upon my grave,) To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have. I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here; The which no balm ean cure, but his heart-blood Which breath'd this poison. And, consequently, like a traitor coward, Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries, K. Rich. How high a pitch his resolution soars!- K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes, and ears: Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom's heir, (As he is but my father's brother's son,) Now by my sceptre's awe I make a vow, Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize The unstooping firmness of my upright soul; He is our subject, Mowbray, so art thou; Free speech, and fearless, I to thee allow. Nor. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest! Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais, Dis urs'd I duly to his highness' solders: The other part reserv'd I by consent; For that my sovereign liege was in my debt, Upon remainder of a dear account, Since last I went to France to fetch his queen: K. Rich. Rage must be withstood; Give me his gage:-Lions make leopards tame. Nor. Yea, but not change their spots: take but my shame, And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord, K. Rich. Cousin, throw down your gage; do you SCENE 11.-The same. A Room in the Duke of Lancaster's Palace. Enter Gaunt, and Duchess of Gloster. Gaunt. Alas! the part I had in Gloster's blood Doth more solicit me than your exelaims, 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 he sees the hours ripe on earth, Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads. Duch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur? Hath love in thy old blood no living fire ? Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one, Were as seven phials of his sacred blood, Or seven fair branches springing from one root: Some of those seven are dried by nature's course, Some of those branches by the destinies cut: But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloster,One phial full of Edward's sacred blood, One flourishing branch of his most royal root,Is erack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt ;Is haek'd down, and his summer leaves all faded, By envy's hand, and murder's bloody axe. Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine; that bed, that womb, That mettle, that self-mould, that fashion'd thee, Made him a man; and though thou liv'st, and breath'st, Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent In some large measure to thy father's death, In that thou seest thy wretched brother die, Who was the model of thy father's life. Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair: In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter'd, Thou show'st the naked pathway to thy life, Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee: That which in mean men we entitle-patience, Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life, The best way is to 'venge my Gloster's death. Gaunt. Heaven's is the quarrel; for heaven's sub stitute, His deputy anointed in his sight, Hath caus'd his death: the which if wrongfully, An angry arm against his minister. Duch. Where then, alas! may I complain myself? Gaunt. To heaven, the widow's champion and de fence. Duch. Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt. Thou go'st to Coventry, there to behold Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight: Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom, With her companion grief must end her life. Not with the empty hollowness, but weight: And what cheer there for welcome but my groans? [Excunt. SCENE III.-Gosford Green, near Coventry. Lists set out, and a Throne. Heralds, &c. attending. Enter the Lord Marshal, and Aumerle. Mar. My lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd? Aum. Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in. Mar. The duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold, Stays but the summons of the appellant's trumpet. Aum. Why then, the champions are prepar'd, and stay For nothing but his majesty's approach. Flourish of Trumpets. Enter King Richard, who takes his seat on his throne; Gaunt, and several Noblemen, who take their places. A Trumpet is sounded, and answered by another Trumpet within. Then enter Norfolk in armour, preceded by a Herald. K. Rich. Marshal, demand of yonder champion Mar. In God's name, and the king's, say who thou art, And why thou com'st, thus knightly clad in arms: Nor. My name is Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk; Who hither come engaged by my oath, To God, my king, and my succeeding issue, [He takes his seat. Trumpet sounds. Enter Bolingbroke, in armour; preceded by a Herald. K. Rich. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms, Mar. What is thy name? and wherefore com'st thou hither, Before king Richard, in his royal lists? Bol. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Mar. On pain of death, no person be so bold, Or daring-hardy, as to touch the lists; Appointed to direct these fair designs. Virtue with valour couched in thine eye- [The King and the Lords return to their seats, amen. Mar. Go bear this lance [To an Officer.] to Thomas duke of Norfolk. 1 Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself, On pain to be found false and recreant, To prove the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, Bol. Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's hand, And dares him to set forward to the fight. And bow my knee before his majesty: For Mowbray, and myself, are like two men That vow a long and weary pilgrimage; Then let us take a ceremonious leave, And loving farewell, of our several friends. Mar. The appellant in all duty greets your highness, And eraves to kiss your hand, and take his leave. K. Rich. We will descend, and fold him in our arms. -Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right, So be thy fortune in this royal fight! Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed, Lament we may, but not revenge thee dend. Bol. Oh, let no noble eye profane a tear For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear: As confident, as is the falcon's flight Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. My loving lord, [To Lord Marshal.] I take my leave of you Of you, my noble cousin, lord Aumerle ; Not sick, although I have to do with death; But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath- The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet: 2 Her. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk, On pain to be found false and recreant, Mar. Sound, trumpets; and set forward, comba [A charge sounded. tants. -Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down. Draw near, [A long flourish [To the Combatants And list, what with our council we have done. Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours' swords? O thou, the earthly author of my blood, [To Gaunt. And for we think, the eagle-winged pride Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up To reach at victory above my head. Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers; Even in the lusty 'haviour of his son. Gaunt. Heaven in thy good cause make thee pros perous! Be swift like lightning in the execution; Bol. Mine innocency, and Saint George to thrive! [He takes his seat. Nor. [Rising.] However heaven, or fortune, cast my lot, There lives or dies, true to king Richard's throne, K. Rich, Farewell, my lord: securely I espy Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace, But tread the stranger paths of banishment. Bol. Your will be done: This must my comfort beThat sun, that warms you here, shall shine on me; And those his golden beams, to you here lent, Shall point on me, and gild my banishment. K. Rich. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom, Which I with some unwillingness pronounce: The fly-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. Nor. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege, And all unlook'd-for from your highness' mouth: A dearer merit, not so deep a maim, As to be cast forth in the common air, Have I deserved at your highness' hand. The language I have learn'd these forty years, My native English, now I must forego: And now my tongue's use is to me no more, Is made my gaoler to attend on me. What is thy sentence then, but speechless death, Nor. Then thus I turn me from my country's light, You never shall (so help you truth and heaven!) Nor never look upon each other's face; Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile This lowering tempest of your home-bred hate; Nor never by advised purpose meet, To plot, contrive, or complot any ill, 'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land. Bol. I swear. And I, to keep all this. Nor. No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor, I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect Hath from the number of his banish'd years Pluck'd four away;-Six frozen winters spent, You urg'd me as a judge; but I had rather, To smooth his fault I should have been more mild: And in the sentence my own life destroy'd. K. Rich. Cousin, farewell:-and, uncle, bid him so ; [Flourish. Exeunt K. Richard and Train. Aum. Cousin, farewell: what presence must not know, From where you do remain, let paper show. Gaunt. O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words, Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage. Bol. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven visits Return [To Boling.] with welcome home from ban- There is no virtue like necessity. Bel. How long a time lies in one little word! Four lagging winters, and four wanton springs, End in a word; Such is the breath of kings. Think not, the king did banish thee; But thou the king: Woe doth the heavier sit, Gaunt. I thank my liege, that, in regard of me, He shortens four years of my son's exile: But little vantage shall I reap thereby; Go, say-I sent thee forth to purchase honour, Suppose the singing birds, musicians; Por, ere the six years, that he hath to spend, Can change their moons, and bring their times about, To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'st: My oil-dried lamp, and time-bewasted light, Shall be extinet with age, and endless night; And blindfold death not let me see my son. My inch of taper will be burnt and done, K. Rich. Why, unele, thou hast many years to live. The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence strew'd: Bol. O, who can hold a fire in his hand, By thinking on the frosty Cattcasus? By bare imagination of a feast? By thinking on fantastic summer's heat? Gives but the greater feeling to the worse: For our affairs in hand: If that come short, For we will make for Ireland presently. Gaunt. Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy -Bushy, what news? way: Had I thy youth, and cause, I would not stay. Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord Suddenly taken; and hath sent post-haste, Bol. Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil, To entreat your majesty to visit him. with him? Aum. Farewell: And, for my heart disdained that my tongue K. Rich. He is our cousin, cousin; but tis doubt, What reverence he did throw away on slaves; Green. Well, he is gone; and with him go these Now for the rebels, which stand out in Ireland ;- K. Rich. We will ourself in person to this war. K. Rich. Where lies he? Bushy. At Ely-house. K. Rich. Now put it, heaven, in his physician's To help him to his grave immediately! ACT II. SCENE I-London. A Room in Ely-House. Gaunt on a Couch; the Duke of York and others standing by him. Gaunt. Will the king come? that I may breathe my last In wholesome counsel to his unstaied 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 More are men's ends mark'd, than their lives before; York. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity, |