.

Whofe youthful fpirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up
To reach at victory above my head,

Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers
And with thy bleffings fteel my lance's point,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat,
And furbish new the name of John o' Gaunt,
Even in the lufty "haviour of his fon.

Gaunt, Heav'n in thy good cause make thee profperous?
Be fwift like lightning in the execution,
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled on,
Fall like amazing thunder on the cask
Of thy adverfe pernicious enemy.

Rouze up thy youthful blood, be brave and live!
Boling. Mine innocence, God and St. George to thrive !
Mowb, However heav'n or fortune caft my lot,
There lives, or dies, true to King Richard's throne,
A loyal, juft and upright gentleman:
Never did captive with a freer heart

Caft off his chains of bondage, and embrace
His golden uncontroul'd enfranchisement,
More than my dancing foul doth celebrate
This feaft of battel with mine adversary.
Moft mighty Liege, ano ny companion Peers,
Take from my mouth the wifh of happy years;
As gentle and as jocund, as to jeft,

Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breaft.

K. Rich. Farewel, my Lord, fecurely I efpy Virtue with valour, couched in thine eye. Order the tryal, Marthal, and begin.

Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Receive thy lance, and heav'n defend thy right!
Boling. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry Amen!
Mar. Go bear this lance 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 falfe and recreant,

To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A traiter to his God, his King, and him,
And dares him to fet forward to the fight.

2 Her. Here ftandeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Nor

folk,

On pain to be found falfe and recreant,
Both to defend himself, and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
To God, his Sovereign, and to him, difloyal:
Courageoufly, and with a free defire,
Attending but the fignal to begin.

[A Charge founded. Mar. Sound, trumpets, and fet forward, combatants. -But ftay, the King hath thrown his warder 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 found,
While we return thefe Dukes what we decree.

Draw near

[Along Flourish, after which the King speaks to the Dukes.

And lift what with our Council we have done.
For that our Kingdom's earth fhould not be foil'd
With that dear blood which it hath fostered;
And, for our eyes do hate the dire afpect

Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours fwords;
And for we think, the eagle-winged pride
Of fky afpiring and ambitious thoughts,
With rival-hating envy, fet you on,

To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle
Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle fleep,
But thus rouz'd up with boift'rous untun'd drums,
And harsh-refounding trumpets dreadful bray,
And grating fhock of wrathful iron arms,
Might from our quiet confines be affrighted,
And make us wade even in our kindred's blood:
Therefore, we banish you our territories.
You, coufin Hereford, on pain of death,

'Till twice five fummers have enrich'd our fields,
Shall not regreet our fair dominions,

But tread the ftranger paths of banishment.

Boling. Your will be done: this must my comfort be, That fun that warms you here, fhall fhine on me : And thofe his golden beams to you here lent,

Shall

Shall point on me, and gild my banishment.

K. Rich. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom, Which I with fome unwillingness pronounce.

The fly-flow hours fhall not determinate
The datelefs limit of thy dear exile:
The hopeless word, of never to return,
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

Mowb. A heavy fentence, my moft fovereign Liege,
And all unlook'd for from your Highness' mouth:
A dearer merit, not fo deep a maim

As to be caft forth in the common air,
Have I deferved at your Highness' hands.
The language I have learn'd these forty years,
My native English, now I must forego;
And now my tongue's ufe is to me no more,
Than an unftringed viol, or a harp,

Or like a cunning inftrument cas'd up,
Or being open, put into his hands

That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,

Too far in years to be a pupil now:

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

Mowb. Then thus I turn me from my country's light, To dwell in folemn fhades of endless night.

K. Rich. Return again, and take an oath with ye.
Lay on our royal fword your banish'd hands;
Swear by the duty that you owe to heav'n
(Our part therein we banish with your felves,)
To keep the oath that we adminifter:

You never fhall, fo help you truth, and heav'n,
Embrace each other's love in banishment,

the harmony.

Within my mouth you have engoal'd my tongue,
Doubly portcullis'd with my teeth and lips;

And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance
Is made my goaler to attend on me.
Iam too old

Nor

Nor ever look upon each other's face,

Nor ever write, regreet, nor reconcile

This low'ring tempeft of your home-bred hate,
Nor ever by advised purpose meet,

To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,

'Gainft us, our state, our subjects, or our land. Boling. I fwear.

Morub. And I, to keep all this.

Boling. Norfolk, fo far, as to mine enemy:

[In falutation,

By this time, had the King permitted us,
One of our fouls had wandred in the air,
Banifh'd this frail fepulchre of our flesh,
As now our flesh is banish'd from this land.
Confefs thy treafons, ere thou fly this realm;
Since thou haft far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty foul.

Mowb. No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,
My name be blotted from the book of life,
And I from heaven banish'd as from hence!
But what thou art, heav'n, thou, and I do know,
And all too foon, I fear, the King fhall rue.
Farewel, my Liege; now no way can I stray;
Save back to England all the world's my way.

[Exis

K. Rich. Uncle, even in the glaffes of thine eyes

I fee thy grieved heart; thy fad aspect
Hath from the number of his banish'd years-
Pluck'd four away; fix frozen winters spent,
Return with welcome home from banishment.
Boling. How long a time lyes in one little word!
Four lagging winters, and four wanton springs
End in a word; fuch is the breath of Kings.
Gaunt. I thank my Liege, that in regard of me
He fhortens four years of my fon's exile:
But little vantage fhall I reap thereby :
For ere the fix years that he hath to spend

Can change their moons, and bring their times about,
My oyl-dry'd lamp, and time-bewasted light,
Shall be extinct with age, and endless night:

1:

My

My inch of taper will be burnt, and done,

And blind-fold death not let me see my fon.

K. Rich. Why, uncle? thou haft many years to live.
Gaunt. But not a minute, King, that thou can't give;
Shorten my days thou canft with fullen forrow,
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow:
Thou canft help time to furrow me with age,
But ftop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage:

Thy word is currant with him for my death;
But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.
K. Rich. Thy fon is banish'd upon good advice,
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave;
Why at our juftice feem'ft thou then to low'r?
Gaunt. Things fweet to tafte prove in digeftion fow'r!
You urg'd me as a judge, but I had rather
You would have bid me argue like a father.
Alas, I look'd when some of you should say,
I was too ftrict to make mine own away :
But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue,
Against my will to do my felf this wrong.
A partial flander fought I to avoid,

And in the fentence my own life destroy'd.

K. Rich. Coufin, farewel! and, uncle, bid him fo: Six years we banish him, and he fhall go. [Flourish.] [Exit. SCEN E. VI.

Aum. Coufin, farewel! what presence must not know, From where you do remain let paper show..

Mar. My Lord, no leave take I, for I will ride As far as land will let me, by your fide.

Gaunt. Oh, to what purpose doft thou hoard thy words, That thou return'ft no greeting to thy friends? Boling. I have too few to take my leave of you, When the tongue's office fhould be prodigal, To breathe th' abundant dolour of the heart. Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy abfence for a time. Boling. Joy abfent, grief is prefent for that time. Gaunt. What is fix winters? they are quickly gone. Boling. To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten. Gaunt. Call it a travel that thou tak'ft for pleasure. Boling. My heart will figh, when I mifcall it fo, YOL. IV.

A a

Which