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Thomas of Norfolk, what fay'ft thou to this?
Mowb. O, let my Sovereign turn away his face,
And bid his ears a little while be deaf,
Till I have told this Slander of his blood,
How God and good men hate fo foul a liar.

K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears.
Were he our brother, nay, our Kingdom's heir,
As he is but our father's brother's fon;
Now by my Scepter's awe, I make a vow,
Such neighbour-nearnefs to our facred blood
Should nothing priv'lege him, nor partialize
Th' unftooping firmnefs of my upright foul.
He is our Subject, Mowbray, fo art thou;
Free fpeech, and fearless, I to thee allow.

Mowb. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, Through the falfe paffage of thy throat, thou lieft! Three parts of that Receipt I had for Calais, Difburit I to his Highness' foldiers; The other part referv'd I by confent, For that my fovereign Leige was in my debt; Upon remainder of a dear account, Since laft I went to France to fetch his Queen. Now, fwallow down that Lie.-For Gloucester's death, I flew him not; but, to mine own difgrace, Neglected my fworn duty in that cafe. For you, my noble lord of Lancaster, The honourable father to my foe, Once did I lay an ambush for your life, A trespass that doth vex my grieved foul; But ere I laft receiv'd the Sacrament, I did confefs it, and exactly begg'd Your Grace's pardon; and, I hope, I had it, This is my fault; as for the reft appeal'd, It iffues from the rancor of a villain, A recreant and most degen'rate traitor; Which in my felf I boldly will defend,

3 My Scepter's arve.] The reverence due to my Scepter. B 4


And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot;
To prove my self a loyal gentleman,
Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bofom.
In hafte whereof, moft heartily I pray
Your Highness to affign our tryal-day.

K. Rich. Wrath-kindled Gentlemen, be rul'd by me;
Let's purge this Choler without letting blood :
+ This we prescribe, though no physician;
Deep malice makes too deep incision:
Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed;
Our Doctors fay, this is no time to bleed.
Good Uncle, let this end where it begun;
We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your Son.

Gaunt. To be a make-peace fhall 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 fhould not bid again.

K. Rich. Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot.

Mowb. My felf I throw, dread Sovereign, at thy

My life thou shalt command, but not my Shame;
The one my duty owes; but my fair Name,
Defpight of death, That lives upon my Grave,
To dark difhonour's use thou shalt not have.
I am difgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here,

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Pierc'd to the foul with flander's venom'd spear:
The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath'd this poison.

K. Rich. Rage must be withstood.
Give me his gage. Lions make Leopards tame.
Mowb. Yea, but not change their spots. Take but
my shame,

And I refign my gage. My dear, dear Lord,
The pureft treasure mortal times afford,
Is fpotlefs Reputation; That away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times-barr'd-up cheft,
Is a bold fpirit in a loyal breast.

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


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 beggar face impeach my height, Before this out-dar'd Daftard? Ere my tongue Shall wound my 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 shame doth harbour, ev'n 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 anfwer it, At Coventry upon Saint Lambert's day.

6 Or with pale beggar face-] i.e. with a face of fupplication. But this will not fatisfy the Oxford Editor, he turns it to baggard jear. WARBURTON.

7 The flavish motive - Motive, for inftrument. WARB. Rather that which fear puts in motion.


There fhall your Swords and Lances arbitrate
The fwelling diff'rence of your fettled hate.
Since we cannot atone you, you fhall fee
Juftice decide the Victor's Chivalry.
Lord Marshal, bid our officers at Arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms.


Changes to the Duke of Lancaster's Palace.
Enter Gaunt and Dutchefs of Gloucefter.




Las! the part I had in Glo'fter's blood Doth more follicit me, than your Exclaims,

To flir 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 froin one root: Some of thofe fev'n are dry'd by Nature's Course; Some of thofe 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 felf-mould that fashion'd thee;


The part I had] That is, my relation of confanguinity to

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

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 miss 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 must end her life.

A caitiff recreant] Caitif originally fignified a prisoner; next a flave, from the condition of prifoners; then a fcoundrel, from the qualities of a flave.

Ημισυ 1ῆς ἀρλῆς απαΐνεται δέλιον μαρ

In this paffage it partakes of all thefe fignifications.


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