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The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath'd this poifon,

K. Rich. Rage must be withstood:

Give me his gage: Lions make Leopards tame.
Mowb. Yea, but not change their spots: take but my
fhame,

And I refign my gage. My dear, dear Lord,
The pureft treasure mortal times afford,
that away,

Is fpotlefs reputation;

Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times-barr'd-up cheft,
Is a bold fpirit to a loyal breaft.

Mine honour is my life, both grow in one;
Take honour from me, and my life is done.
Then, dear my Liege, mine honour let me try,
In that I live, and for that will I die.

K. Rich. Coufin, throw down your gage; do you begin. Boling. Oh, heav'n defend my foul from fuch foul fin! Shall I feem creft-fall'n in my father's fight,

Or with pale haggard fear impeach my height,
Before this out-dar'd daftard? Ere my tongue
Shall wound mine honour with fuch feeble wrong,
Or found fo base a parle, my teeth shall tear
The flavish motive of recanting fear,

And fpit it bleeding, in his high difgrace,

Where fhame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face.
[Exit Gaunt,
K. Rich. We were not born to fue, but to command,
Which fince we cannot do to make you friends,
Be ready, as your lives fhall answer it,
At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day.
There fhall your fwords and lances arbitrate
The fwelling diff'rence of your fettled hate:
Since we cannot atone you, you shall fee
Juftice decide the victor's chivalry.
Lord Marshal, bid our officers at arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms,

[Extent

SCENE

SCENE III. The Duke of Lancaster's palace.
Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucester.

Gaunt. Alas, the part I had in Glofter's blood *
Doth more follicit me than your exclaims,
To ftir against the butchers of his life.
But fince correction lyeth in those hands,
Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our quarrel to the will of heav'n;
Who when it fees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders heads.

Dutch. Finds brotherhood in thee no fharper fpur?/
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's fev'n fons, whereof thy felf art one,
Were as fev'n vials of his facred blood;
Or fev'n fair branches fpringing from one root:
Some of those sev'n are dry'd by nature's courfe;
Some of those branches by the deft'nies cut:
But Thomas, my dear Lord, my life, my Glofter,
(One vial full of Edward's facred blood,
One flourishing branch of his moft royal root)
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor fpilt;
Is hackt down, and his fummer leaves all faded,
By envy's hand, and murder's bloody axe.

Ah, Gaunt his blood was thine; that bed, that womb,
That metal, that self-mould that fashion'd thee,

Made him a man; and though thou liv'st and breath'ft,
Yet art thou flain in him; thou doft confent
In fome large measure to thy father's death;
In that thou feeft thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father's life.
Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair,
In fuffering thus thy brother to be flaughter'd,
Thou fhew'ft the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching ftern murder how to butcher thee,
That which in mean men we entitle patience,
Is pale cold cowardise in noble breafts.
What fhall I fay? to fafeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Glo'fter's death,

• Meaning the relation he had to it.

23

Gaunt

Gaunt. God's is the quarrel; for God's fubftitute, His deputy anointed in his fight,

Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully,
Let God revenge, for I may never lift

An angry arm against his minister.

Dutch. Where then, alas, may I complain my felf? Gaunt. To heav'n, the widow's champion and defence. Dutch. Why then I will; farewel, old Gaunt, farewel! Thou go'ft to Coventry, there to behold

Our coufin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
O, fit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's fpear,
That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast!
Or if misfortune mifs the first career,

Be Mowbray's fins fo heavy in his bofom,
That they may break his foaming courfer's back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lifts,
A caitiff recreant to my coufin Hereford!
Farewel, old Gaunt, thy fometime brother's wife
With her companion grief muft end her life.

Gaunt. Sifter, farewel; I must to Coventry.
As much good stay with thee, as go with me!
Dutch. Yet one word more; grief boundeth where it falls,
Not with the empty hollownefs, but weight:
I take my leave, before I have begun;
For forrow ends not, when it feemeth done.
Commend me to my brother Edmund York,
Lo, this is all-nay, yet depart not fo,
Though this be all, do not fo quickly go:
I fhall remember more, Bid him-oh, what?
With all good fpeed at Plafbie vifit me.
Alack, and what fhall good old York fee there
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Unpeopled offices, untrodden ftones?

And what hear there for welcome, but my groans?
Therefore commend me, let him not come there
To feek out forrow that dwells every where ;
All defolate will I from hence and die;

The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunte

Sometime, for formerly

SCEN

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SCENE IV. The Lifts, at Coventry. Enter the Lord Marshal and the Duke 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, fprightful all and bold, Stays but the fummons of th' Appellant's trumpet.

Aum. Why then the champions are prepar'd, and stay
For nothing but his Majefty's approach. [Flourish.
The trumpets found, and the King enters with his Nobles:
ruben they are e fet, Enter the Duke of Norfolk in arms
Defendant, with an Herald.

K. Rich, Marthal, demand of yonder champion
The caufe of his arrival here in arms;
Afk him his name, and orderly proceed

To fwear him in the juftice of his caufe.

Mar. In God's name and the King's, fay who thou art 1

[To Mowbray.
And why thou com'ft, thus knightly clad in arms:
Against what man thou com'ft, and what thy quarrel.
Speak truly on thy knighthood, and thine oath,
And fo defend thee heaven, and thy valour !

Mowb.My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
Who hither come engaged by my oath,

(Which heav'n forbid a knight should violate,)
Both to defend my loyalty and truth,

To God, my King, and my fucceeding iffue,
Against the Duke of Hereford, that appeals me z
And by the Grace of God, and this mine Arm,
To prove him, in defending of myself,

A traitor to my God, my King, and me;
And as I truly fight, defend me heav'n!

The trumpets found, Enter Bolingbroke Appellant, in
armour, with an Herald.

K. Rich, Marthal, afk yonder knight in arms,
Both who he is, and why he cometh hither,
Thus plated in habiliments of war;
And formally, according to our law

Depose him in the juftice of his caufe.

Mar. What is thy name, and wherefore com'ft thou hither,

Before

Before King Richard, in his royal lifts? [To Boling. Against whom comeft thou? and what's thy quarrel? Speak like a true Knight, fo defend thee heav'n!

Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby
Am I, who ready here do stand in arms,

To prove, by heav'n's Grace and my body's valour,
In lifts, on Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolk,
That he's a traitor foul and dangerous,

To God of heav'n, King Richard, and to me;
And as I truly fight, defend me heav'n!

Mar. On pain of death, no perfon be so bold,
Of daring hardy, as to touch the lifts,
Except the Marshal, and fuch officers
Appointed to direct these fair defigns.

Boling. Lord Marshal, let me kiss my Sovereign's hand, And bow my knee before his Majefty:

For Mowbray and my self are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;
Then let us take a ceremonious leave
And loving farewel of our feveral friends.

Mar. Th' Appellant in all duty greets your Highness,

[To K. Rich And craves to kifs your hand, and take his leave.

K. Rich. We will defcend and fold him in our arms.

Coufin of Hereford, as thy caufe is right,
So be thy fortune in this royal fight!
Farewel, my blood, which if to day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.
Boling. Oh, let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear:
As confident, as is the Faulcon's flight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.
My loving Lord, I take my leave of
Of you, my noble Coufin, Lord Aumerle.

you,

Oh thou, the earthly author of my blood. [To Gaint.

... Lord Aumerle:

Not fick, although I have to do with death,
Bat lufty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.
Lo, as at English feafts, fo I regreet

The daintielt laft, to make the end molt fweet a
Oh thou

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