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, Disburst I to his Highrefs' foldiers; The other part referv'd I by consent, For that my fovereign Liege was in my debt; Since last I went to France to fetch his Queen. Now, fwallow down that Lie.-For Gloucefter's death, For you, my noble lord of Lancaster, Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bofom.. A £ 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. Mob. My felf I throw, dread Sovereign, 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 fpear: The which no balme can cure, but his heart-blood Which breath'd this poifon K. Rich. Rage must be withstood: Give me his gage: Lions make Leopards tame. fhame, And I refign my gage. My dear, dear lord, The pureft treasure mortal times afford, Is fpotless Reputation; That away, Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay. Mine Honour is my life, both grow in one; K. Rich. 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 bafe a parle, my teeth fhall tear The flavish motive of recanting fear, And spit it bleeding, in his high difgrace, Where fhame doth harbour, ev'n in Mowbray's face.. There fhall your Swords and. Lances arbitrate: [Exeunt SCENE, changes to the Duke of Lancaster's Gaunt. Palace.. Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucefter. A your Exclaims, Las the part I had in Glo'fter's blood Who when it fees the hours ripe on earth, Dutch Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper fpur? Hath love in thy old blood no living fire? Were as fey'n vials of his facred blood; Or fev'n fair branches, fpringing from one root: But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Glofter, (One vial, full of Edward's facred blood; One flourishing branch of his most royal root ;) Is hackt down, and his summer leaves all faded, Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine; that bed, that womb, 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, Dutch. Where then, alas, may I complain my self? Dutch. Why then, I will: farewel, old Gaunt, farewel. Thou go'ft to Coventry, there to behold Our Coufin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight. That That they may break his foaming Courfer's back, A caitiff recreant to my coufin Hereford! Not with the empty hollowness, but weight: For forrow ends not, when it feemeth done. oh, what; With all good speed at Plafhie vifit me. 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. [Exeunt. SCENE, the Lifts, at Coventry. Enter the Lord Marshal, and the Duke of Aumerle. Mar. Με Y lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd Aum. Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in. Mar. The Duke of Norfork, fprightfully 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 |