For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,
The honourable father to my foe,
Once I did lay an ambush for your life,
A trefpafs that doth vex my grieved foul;
But ere I laft receiv'd the facrament,
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 rancour of a villain,
A recreant and most degen'rate traitor :
Which in my felf I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this over-weening traitor's foot,
To prove my self a loyal gentleman,
Even in the best 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: *
Good uncle, let this end where it begun,
We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your fon.
Gaunt. To be a make-peace fhall become my age;
Throw down, my fon, 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. Marub. My felf I throw, dread Sovereign, at thy foot. My life thou shalt command, but not my fhame; The one my duty owes; but my fair name, Defpight of death, that lives upon my grave, To dark difhonour's ufe thou shalt not have. I am difgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here, Pierc'd to the foul with flander's venom'd spear:
without letting blood:
This we preferibe though no physician,
Deep malice makes too deep incifion:
Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed,
Our doctors fay, this is no time to bleed.
Good uncle,
The which no balm 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 spots: take but my
fhame,
And I refign my gage. My dear, dear Lord,
The pureft treasure mortal times afford,
Is fpotlefs reputation; that away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times-barr'd-up cheft,
Is a bold fpirit in 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. Rich Coufin, throw down your gage; do you begin. Boling. Oh, heav'n defend my foul from fach foul fin Shall I feem creft-fall'n 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 fuch feeble wrong,
Or found fo bafé a parlé, 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 fwords and lances arbitrate The fwelling diff'rence of your settled hate: Since we cannot attone you, you shall fee Juftice decide the victor's chivalry. Lord Marfhal, bid our officers at arms Be ready to direct thefe home-alarms.
SCENE III. The Duke of Lancafter's palace.
Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucefter.
Gaunt. 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 sharper 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 Glofter,
(One vial full of Edward's facred blood,
One flourishing branch of his most royal root)
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;
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 fashion'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 fuffering thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,
Thou fhew'ft 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 fhall I fay? to safeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Glo'fter's death.
*Meaning the relation he had to it.
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.
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 breaft!
Or if misfortune mifs the firft 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 caitiff 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 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 forrow ends not, when it feemeth 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 fhall remember more. Bid him
oh, what?
With all good speed at Plafbie vifit me.
Alack, and what fhall good old York fee there
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Unpeopled 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 last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.
SCENE IV. The Lifts, at Coventry.
Enter the Lord Marfbal and the Duke 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, fprightful all and bold,
Stays but the fummons of th' Appellant's trumpet.
Aum. Why then the champions are prepar'd, and ftay
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, 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 fwear him in the juftice of his cause.
Mar. In God's name and the King's, fay who thou art:
[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 fo defend thee heaven, and thy valour !
Morb. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
Who hither come engaged by my oath,
(Which heav'n forbid a knight fhould 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 felf,
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 armour, with an Herald.
K. Rich. Marfhal, afk 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
Depofe him in the juftice of his caufe.
Mar. What is thy name, and wherefore com'ft thou hither,
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