Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument. [Snatching a weapon, and killing one. Go thou, and fill another room in hell. [He kills another, then EXTON strikes him down. That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire, That staggers thus my person.-Exton, thy fierce hand Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land. Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die. [Dies. Exton. As full of valour, as of royal blood: This dead king to the living king I'll bear; Take hence the rest, and give them burial here. [Exeunt. SCENE VI.-Windsor. A room in the castle. Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE and YORK, with Lords and Attendants. Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear, Is that the rebels have consum'd with fire Our town of Cicester in Glostershire; But whether they be ta'en, or slain, we hear not. Enter NORTHUMBERLAND. Welcome, my lord: What is the news? North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness The next news is, I have to London sent The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent: [Presenting a paper Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains; And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. Enter FITZWAter. Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London The heads of Brocas, and Sir Bennet Seely; Two of the dangerous consorted traitors, That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow. Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot; Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. Enter PERCY, with the Bishop of CARLISLE. Percy. The grand conspirator, abbot of Westminster, With clog of conscience, and sour melancholy, Hath yielded up his body to the grave; But here is Carlisle living, to abide Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride. Choose out some secret place, some reverend room, Enter EXTON, with Attendants bearing a coffin. The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, Richard of Bourdeaux, by me hither brought. Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought A deed of slander, with thy fatal hand, Upon my head, and all this famous land, Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed. Boling. They love not poison that do poison need, That blood should sprinkle me, to make me grow: To wash this blood off from my guilty hand:- [Exeunt. |