« ПредишнаНапред »
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down
(Since pride must have a fall), and break the neck
Of that proud man that did usurp his back?
Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be awed by man,
Was born to bear? I was not made a horse;
And yet I bear a burden like an ass,
Spur-gall'd, and tired, by jauncing* Bolingbroke.
Enter KEEPER, with a Dish.
Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.
[To the GROOM.
K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away. Groom. What my tongué dares not, that my heart shall say. [Exit.
Keep. My lord, will't please you to fall to?
K. Rich. Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do.
Keep. My lord, I dare not; Sir Pierce of Exton, who
Lately came from the king, commands the contrary.
K. Rich. The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and thee! Patience is stale, and I am weary of it. [Beats the KEEPER. Keep. Help, help, help!
Enter EXTON, and Servants, armed.
K. Rich. How now? what means death in this rude assault? 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. Exton. As full of valour, as of royal blood : Both have I spilt; O, would the deed were good! For now the devil, that told me-I did well, Says that this deed is chronicled in hell. This dead king to the living king I'll bear;Take hence the rest, and give them burial here.
Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear Is-that the rebels have consumed with fire
SCENE VI.-Windsor. A Room in the Castle.
Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE, and YORK, with LORDS and
Our town of Cicester in Glostershire;
But whether they be ta'en, or slain, we hear not.
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:'
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursed in this paper here.
Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
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.
Boling. Carlisle, this is your doom :-
Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
So, as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife;
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.
Enter EXTON, with Attendants bearing a Coffin.
Exton. Great king, within this coffin I present
Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies
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,
Nor do I thee; though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word, nor princely favour
With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
And never show thy head by day nor light.-
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me, to make me grow:
Come, mourn with me for what I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent;*
I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand:-
March sadly after; grace my mournings here,
In weeping after this untimely bier.
SCENE I.-London. A Room in the Palace.
Enter KING HENRY, WESTMORELAND, SIR WALTER BLUNT,
K. Hen. So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenced in stronds* afar remote.
*Strands of the sea.
No more the thirsty Erinnys* of this soil
Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood;
No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flowrets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,
Which,-like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one substance bred,-
Did lately meet in the intestine shock
And furious close of civil butchery,
Shall now, in mutual, well-beseeming ranks,
March all one way; and be no more opposed
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,
As far as to the sepulchre of Christ
(Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross
We are impressed and engaged to fight),
Forthwith a powert of English shall we levy;
Whose arms were moulded in their mothers' womb
To chase these pagans, in those holy fields,
Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet,
Which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nail'd
For our advantage, on the bitter cross.
But this our purpose is a twelvemonth old,
And bootless 'tis to tell you-we will go;
Therefore we meet not now:-Then let me hear
Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
What yesternight our council did decree,
In forwarding this dear expedience.
West. My liege, this haste was hot in question,
And many limits of the charge set down
But yesternight; when, all athwart, there came
A post from Wales, loaden with heavy news;
Whose worst was,-that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Against the irregular and wild Glendower,
Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,
And a thousand of his people butcher'd:
Upon whose dead corps there was such misuse,
Such beastly, shameless transformation,
By those Welsh women done, as may not be,
Without much shame, re-told or spoken of.
K. Hen. It seems then, that the tidings of this broil
Brake off our business for the Holy Land.
West. This, match'd with other, did, my gracious lord;
For more uneven and unwelcome news
Came from the north, and thus it did import.
On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there,
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon met,
*The fury of discord.