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The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath'd this poison.

K. Ricb. Rage must be withstood :
Give me his gage : Lions make Leopards tame.
Mowb. Yea, but not change their spots : take but my

shame,
And I resign my gage. My dear, dear Lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford,
Is spotless 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 to a loyal breaft.
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. Ricb. Cousin, throw down your gage ; do you begin.

Boling. Oh, heav'n defend my soul from such foul fin! Shall I seem creft-fallin in my father's fight, Or with pale haggard fear impeach my height, Before this out-dar'd daftard ? Ere my tongue Shall wound mine honour with such feeble wrong, Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear The Navish motive of recanting fear, And spit it bleeding, in his high disgrace, Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face.

[Exit Gaunti K. Rich. We were not born to sue, but to command, Which since we cannot do to make you friends, Be ready, as your lives shall answer it, At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day. There shall your swords and lances arbitrate The swelling diff'rence of your settled hates Since we cannot atone you, you shall see Justice decide the victor's chivalry. Lord Marshal, bid our officers at arms Be ready to direct these home-alarms, [Exeunt.

SCENE

SC EN E III. The Duke of Lancaster's palace,

Enter Gaunt and Dutebess of Gloucester,
Gaunt. Alas, the part I had in Glo'ser's blood *
Doth more sollicit me than your exclaims,
To ftir against the butchers of his life.
But since 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. 1

Dutcb. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?,
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire ?
Edward's sev'n fons, whereof thy self art one,
Were as sev'n vials of his sacred blood;

Or sev’n fair branches springing 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 sacred blood,

One flourishing branch of his most royal root) * Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt ;

Is hackt down, and his summer leaves all faded,
By envy's hand, and murder's bloody axe,
Ah, Gaunt ! his blood was chine ; that bed, that womb,
That metal, that self-mould that fashion'd thee,
Made him a man; and though thou liv'st and breath'ft,
Yet art thou Nain 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 Naughter'd,
Thou hew'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 cowardise in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Glo'ster's death.
Meaning the relation he had to it.

Cauni,

1

Gaunt. God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute,
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 minifter.

Dutcb. Where then, alas, may I complain my self?
Gaunt. To heav'n, the widow's champion and defence.

Dutcb. Why then I will; farewel, old Gaunt, farewel! Thou go'ft 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 fins so heavy in his bosom, That they may break his foaming courser's back, And throw the rider headlong in the lifts, A caitiff recreant to my coufin Hereford ! Farewel, old Gaunt, thy * sometime brother's wife With her companion grief mut end her life.

Gaunt. Sister, farewel; I must to Coventry. As much good stay 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 so, Though this be all, do not fo quickly go: I shall remember more, Bid him-oh, what? With all good fpeed at Plasbie visit me. Alack, and what shall good old York see there But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls, Unpeopled offices, untrodden kones ? And what hear there for welcome, but my groans ? Therefore commend me, let him not come there To seek out forrow that dwells every where ; All desolate will I from hence and die; The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Excurs

• Sometime, for formerly:

SCENS

SCENE IV. The Lifts, at Coventry, Enter the Lord Marshal and ibe Duke Aumerle, Mar. My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd ? Aum. Yea, at all points, and Jongs to enter in.

Mar. The Duke of Norfolk, sprightful all 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 Majesty's approach. [Flourish.
The trumpets found, and the King enters with bis Nobles :

when they are set, Enter the Duke of Norfolk in arms
Defendant, with an Herald.
K. Rich, Marshal, demand of yonder champion
The cause of his arrival here in arms;
Ask him his name, and orderly proceed
To swear him in the justice of his cause.
Mar. In God's name and the King's, say who thou arts

[To Mowbray.
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 so defend thee heaven, and thy valour!

Mowb.My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
Who híther come engaged by my oath,
(Which heav'n forbid 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 minc Arm,
To prove him, in defending of myself,
A traitor to my God, my King, and me;
And as I truly fight, defend me heav'n !
The trumpets found, Enter Bolingbroke Appellant, iso

grmour, with an Herald.
K. Rich, Maral, 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't thou hither,

Before

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Before King Richard, in his royal lifts ? [To Boling.
Against whom comelt thou ? and what's thy quarre ?
Speak like a true Knight, so defend thee heav'n!

Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby
Am I, who ready here do stand in arms,
To prove, by heav'n's Grace and my body's valous,
In lists, on Tbomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolk,
That he's a traitor foul and dangerous,
To God of heav'n, King Richard, and to me;
And as I truly fight, defend me heav'n!

Mar. On pain of death, no person be so bold,
Of daring hardy, as to touch the lifts,
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 my self are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage ;
Then let us take a ceremonious leave
And loving farewel of our several friends.
Mar. Th' Appellant in all duty greets your Highness,

[To K. Rich '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! Farewel, my blood, which if to day thou thed, Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

Boling. Oh, let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear:
As confident, as is the Faulcon's fight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.
My loving Lord, I take my leave of you,
Of you, my noble Coufin, Lord Aumerle, *
Oh thou, the earthly author of my blood. [To Gaint.

Lord Aumerle :
Not Gick, although I have to do with death,
But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.
Lo, as at English feasts, fo I regreet
The daintielt last, to make soc cad mod sweets
Oh thou

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