Now, fwallow down that Lie. For Gloucefter'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 moft degen'rate traitor:
Which in my self I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurle down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot;
To prove my felf a loyal gentleman,
Even in the beft 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 phyfician;
Deep malice makes too deep incifion:
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 Soveraign, at thy foot. 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,
Pierc'd to the foul with flander's venom'd spear :
The which no balme 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 fpots: take but my
fhame,
And I refign my gage. My dear, dear lord,
The pureft treafure mortal times afford,
Is fpotless Reputation; That away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times-barr'd-up cheft,
Is a bold spirit 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 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 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 fhall tear The flavish motive of recanting fear, And spit it bleeding, in his high disgrace, 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 Swords and Lances arbitrate The fwelling diff'rence of your fettled hate; Since we cannot attone you, you shall see Juftice decide the Victor's Chivalry. Lord Marfhal, bid our officers at Arms Be ready to direct these home-alarms.
SCENE changes to the Duke of Lancaster's Palace.
Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucefter.
Gaunt A Doth more follicit me,
ALAS, the part I had in Glo'fter'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 Course;
Some of those branches by the Deft'nies cut:
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Glo'fter,
(One vial, full of Edward's facred blood;
One flourishing branch of his most 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 fafhion'd thee,
Made him a man; and though thou liv'ft 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 fuff'ring thus thy brother to be flaughter'd,
Thou fhew't 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 shall 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 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 caytiff 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 muft to Coventry.
As much Good ftay with thee, as go with me!
Dutch. Yet one word more; grief boundeth where
it falls,
Not with the empty hollowness, but weight;
I take my leave, before I have begun;
For Sorrow ends not, when it seemeth 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 shall remember more. Bid him-oh, what?
With all good speed at Plafbie vifit me.
Alack, and what fhall good old York see there
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Un-peopled 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 laft Leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Fxeunt. $ 4 SCENE,
SCENE, the Lifts, at Coventry.
Enter the Lord Marshal, and the Duke of Aumerle.
Y lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd? Aum. Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.
Mar. The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold, Stays but the Summons 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: when they are fet, Enter the Duke of Norfolk in arms, Defendant.
K. Rich. Marshal, demand of yonder Champion The cause of his arrival here in arms;
Ásk him his name, and orderly proceed
To fwear him in the juftice of his Cause.
Mar. In God's name and the King's, fay who thou art? [To Mowb. 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 defend, 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;
And by the grace of God, and this mine arm,
To prove him, in defending of my self,
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
K. Rich. Marshal, ask yonder Knight in arms, Both who he is, and why he cometh hither,
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