To stir against the butchers of his life.
But since correction lieth in those hands,
Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;
Who, when he sees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.
Duch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
Were as seven phials of his sacred blood,
Or seven fair branches springing from one root:
Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,
Some of those branches by the destinies cut:
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloster,-
One phial full of Edward's sacred blood,
One flourishing branch of his most royal root,-
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;

Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all faded,
By envy's hand, and murder's bloody axe.
Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine; that bed, that womb,
That mettle, that self-mould, that fashion'd thee,
Made him a man; and though thou liv'st, and breath'st,
Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent,
In some large measure, to thy father's death,
In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father's life.
Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair:
In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,
Thou show'st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee:
That which in mean men we entitle-patience,
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,

The best way is-to 'venge my Gloster's death.

Gaunt. Heaven's is the quarrel; for heaven's substitute,

His deputy anointed in his sight,

Hath caus'd his death: the which if wrongfully,
Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift

An angry arm against his minister.

Duch. Where then, alas! may I complain myself?

Gaunt. To heaven, the widow's champion and de

fence.

Duch. Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt. Thou go'st to Coventry, there to behold Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight: O sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear, That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast! Or, if misfortune miss the first career, Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom, That they may break his foaming courser's back, And throw the rider headlong in the lists, A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford! Farewell, old Gaunt; thy sometimes brother's wife, With her companion grief must end her life. Gaunt. Sister, farewell: I must to Coventry :

As much good stay with thee, as go with me! Duch. 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 so;
Though this be all, do not so quickly go;
I shall remember more. Bid him-O, what?—

With all good speed at Plashy visit me.

Alack, and what shall good old York there see,
But empty lodgings and unfurnish'd walls,
Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?

And what cheer there for welcome, but my groans?
Therefore commend me; let him not come there,
To seek out sorrow, that dwells every where:
Desolate, desolate, will I hence, and die;

The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.-Gosford Green, near Coventry.

Lists set out, and a Throne. Heralds, &c. attending.

Enter the Lord Marshal, and AUMERLE.

Mar. My 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 the appellant's trumpet. Aum. Why then, the champions are prepar'd, and stay

For nothing but his majesty's approach.

Flourish of Trumpets. Enter King RICHARD, who takes

his seat on his Throne; GAUNT, and several Noblemen, who take their Places. A Trumpet is sounded, and answered by another Trumpet within. Then enter NORFOLK in armour, preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich. Marshal, demand of yonder champion The cause of his arrival here in arms:

Ask him his name; and orderly proceed

2

To swear him in the justice of his cause.

Mar. In God's name, and the king's, say who thou

art,

And why thou com'st, thus knightly clad in arms:
Against what man thou com'st, and what thy quarrel :
Speak truly, on thy knighthood, and thy oath ;
And so defend thee heaven, and thy valour!

Nor. My name is Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk;

Who hither come engaged by my oath,

(Which, heaven defend, a knight should violate!)
Both to defend my loyalty and truth,

To God, my king, and my succeeding issue,
Against the duke of Hereford, that appeals me :
And, by the grace of God, and this mine arm,
To prove him, in defending of myself,
A traitor to my God, my king, and me:
And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

[He takes his seat.

Trumpet sounds. Enter BOLINGBROKE, in armour ; 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 comest 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 valour,
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.

Mur. 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 gor'd 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: