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Trumpet sounds.

Enter BOLINGBROKE, in armor; preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich. Marshal, ask 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 justice of his cause.

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

Before king Richard, in his royal lists?

Against whom com'st thou? and what's thy quarrel? Speak like a true knight, so defend thee Heaven!

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

To prove, by Heaven's grace, and my body's valor,
In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk,
That he's a traitor, foul and dangerous,

To God of heaven, king Richard, and to me:
And, as I truly fight, defend me Heaven!

Mar. On pain of death, no person be so bold,
Or daring-hardy, as to touch the lists;

Except the marshal, and such officers

Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Boling. Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's hand,

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 craves 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 dead.
Boling. O, let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gored 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.
Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.
O thou, the earthly author of my blood,—

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[TO GAUNT.

Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a twofold vigor lift me up
To reach at victory above my head,-
Add proof unto mine armor with thy prayers;
And with thy blessings steel my lance's point,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat,
And furbish new the name of John of Gaunt,
Even in the lusty 'havior of his son.

Gaunt. Heaven in thy good cause make thee prosperous!

Be swift like lightning in the execution ;
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing thunder on the casque

Of thy adverse, pernicious enemy.

Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live. Boling. 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,
A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.

Never did captive with a freer heart

Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace
His golden, uncontrolled enfranchisement,
More than my dancing soul doth celebrate
This feast of battle with mine adversary.-
Most mighty liege,-and my companion peers,-
Take from my mouth the wish of happy years.

As gentle and as jocund as to jest,'
Go I to fight; truth hath a quiet breast.
K. Rich. Farewell, my lord; securely I espy
Virtue with valor couched in thine eye.-
Order the trial, marshal, and begin.

[The King and the Lords return to their seats.
Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Receive thy lance; and God defend the right!
Boling. [Rising.] Strong as a tower in hope, I cry-
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,
A traitor to his God, his king, and him,

And dares him to set forward to the fight.

2 Her. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk,

On pain to be found false and recreant,
Both to defend himself, and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
To God, his sovereign, and to him, disloyal;
Courageously, and with a free desire,

Attending but the signal to begin.

Mar. Sound, trumpets; and set forward, combat

ants.

[A charge sounded.

Stay; the king hath thrown his warder 2 down.

K. Rich. Let them lay by their helmets and their

spears,

And both return back to their chairs again.
Withdraw with us;-and let the trumpets sound,
While we return these dukes what we decree.

[A long flourish.

1 To jest in old language sometimes signified to play a part in a mask. 2 A warder was a kind of truncheon or staff carried by persons who presided at these single combats; the throwing down of which seems to have been a solemn act of prohibition to stay proceedings. A different movement of the warder had an opposite effect.

Draw near,

[To the Combatants.

And list, what with our council we have done.

For that our kingdom's earth should not be soiled
With that dear blood which it hath fostered;
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspéct

Of civil1 wounds ploughed up with neighbors' swords;
[And for we think the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,
With rival-hating envy, set you on

To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle
Draws the sweet, infant breath of gentle sleep; 2]
Which so roused up with boisterous, untuned drums,
With harsh, resounding trumpets' dreadful bray,
And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,
Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace,
And make us wade even in our kindred's blood ;-
Therefore, we banish you our territories.
You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of death,
Till twice five summers have enriched our fields,
Shall not regreet our fair dominions,

But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

Boling. Your will be done. This must my com-
fort be,-

That 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.

3

The fly-slow hours shall not determinate

The dateless limit of thy dear exíle ;-
The hopeless word of-never to return,
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

1 Capel's copy of the quarto edition of this play reads, "Of cruel wounds," &c. Malone's copy of the same edition, and all the other editions, read "Of civil wounds," &c.

2 The five lines in brackets are omitted in the folio.

3 The old copies read "sly-slow hours." Pope reads "fly-slow hours," which has been admitted into the text. It is, however, remarkable that Pope, in the fourth book of his Essay on Man, v. 226, has employed the epiphet which, in the present instance, he has rejected.

4Word, for sentence; any short phrase was called a word.

Nor. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
And all unlooked 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 learned these forty years,
My native English, now I must forego:
And now my tongue's use is to me no more,
Than an unstringed viol or a harp;
Or like a cunning instrument cased up,
Or, being open, put into his hands

That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
Within my mouth you have enjailed my tongue,
Doubly portcullised, with my teeth, and lips;
And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance
Is made my jailer to attend on me.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a pupil now;

What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?
K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate; 2
After our sentence plaining comes too late.

Nor. Then thus I turn me from my country's light, To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.

[Retiring. K. Rich. Return again, and take an oath with thee. Lay on our royal sword your banished hands; Swear by the duty that you owe to Heaven (Our part therein we banish with yourselves) To keep the oath that we administer.You never shall (so help you truth and Heaven!) Embrace each other's love in banishment; Nor never look upon each other's face;

Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile

This lowering tempest of your home-bred hate;

1 Shakspeare uses merit, in this place, in the sense of reward. The word is used in the same sense by Prior.

2 Compassionate is apparently here used in the sense of complaining, plaintive; but no other instance of the word in this sense has occurred to the commentators. May it not be an error of the press, for "so passionate "g

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