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That ever was furvey'd by English Eye;
That all the Treafons for thefe eighteen Years,
Complotted and contrived in this Land,

Fetch from falfe Mowbray their firft Head and Spring.
Further I fay, and further will maintain
Upon his bad Life, to make all this good,
That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's Death,
Suggeft his foon believing Adverfaries,

And confequently, like a Traitor Coward,

Sluc'd out his innocent Soul through Streams of Blood;
Which Blood, like facrificing Abel's cries,
Even from the tonguelefs Caverns of the Earth,
To me for Juftice, and rough Chastisement;
And by the glorious worth of my Defcent,
This Arm fhall do it, or this Life be spent.
K. Rich. How high a pitch his Refolution foars:
Thomas of Norfolk, what fay'ft thou to this?
Mowb. O let my Soveraign 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 my Brorher, nay, our Kingdom's Heir,
As he is but my Father's Brother's Son;
Now by my Scepter's awe, I make a Vow,
Such neighbour-nearness to our facred Blood,
Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize
The unftooping Firmnefs of my upright Soul.
He is our Subject, Mowbray, fo art thou,
Free Speech and fearless I to thee allow.

Mowb. Then, Bullingbroke, as low as to thy Heart,
Through the falle Paffage of thy Throat, thou lieft:
Three parts of that Receipt I had for Callice,
Disburit I to his Highness Soldiers;

The other part referv'd I by confent,

For that my Soveraign Liege was in my Debt,
Upon remainder of a dear Account,

Since laft I went to France to fetch his Queen:

Now fwallow down that Lie. For Gloucester's Death,
I flew him not; but, to mine own Disgrace,
Neglected my fworn Duty in that Cafe.

For

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 Soul;
But e'er I laft receiv'd the Sacrament,
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 Rancor of a Villain;
A Recreant and most dangerous Traitor,
Which in my felf I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurle down my Gage,
Upon this overweening Traitor's Foot,
To prove my felf 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 Trial- Day.

K. Rich. Wrath-kindled Gentlemen, be rul'd by me;

Let's purge this Choler without letting Blood:
This we prefcribe, though no Phyfician.

Deep Malice makes too deep Incifion.
Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed,
Our Doctors fay, this is no time 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,
Obedience bids, I fhould not bid again.

K. Rich. Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot. Mowb. My felf I throw, dread Soveraign, at thy Foot, My Life thou fhalt command, but not my Shame; The one my Duty owes; but my fair Name, Defpight of Death that lives upon my Grave, To dark Dishonours ufe, thou shalt not have. I am difgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffl'd here, Pierc'd to the Soul, with Slanders venom'd Spear. The which no Blame can cure, but his Heart Blood Which breath'd this Poifon.

K. Rich. Rage must be withftood:

Give me his Gage: Lions make Leopards tame.

Mowb. Yea, but not change his Spots: Take but my Shame; And I refign my Gage. My dear, dear Lord, The purest Treasures mortal times afford,

Is fpotless Reputation; that away,

Men are but guilded Loam, or painted Clay.
A Jewel in a ten-times barr'd up Cheft,
Is a bold Spirit 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. Bulling. Oh Heav'n defend my Soul from fuch foul Sin. Shall I feem Creft-fall'n in my Father's Sight,

Or with pale beggar'd Fear impeach my hight
Before this out-dar'd Baftard? E'er my Tongue
Shall wound my Honour with fuch feeble Wrong,
Or found fo base a Parle, my Teeth fhall tear
The flavish Motive of recanting Fear,
And spit it bleeding in his high Disgrace,
Where Shame 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 Swords and Lances arbitrate
The fwelling Difference of your fettled Hate:
Since we cannot attone you, you shall fee
Juftice defign the Victor's Chivalry.

Lord Marthal command our Officers at Arms,

Be ready to direct thefe home Alarms.

Exeunt.

II.

SCENE

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

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 they fee the Hours ripe on Earth,
Will rain hot Vengeance on Offenders Heads.
Dutch. Finds Brotherhood in thee no sharper Spur
Hath Love in thy old Blood no living Fire?
Edward's feven Sons, whereof thy felf art one,
Were as feven Vials of his facred Blood;

Or feven fair Branches fpringing from one Root:
Some of those seven are dry'd by Nature's Course;
Some of those Branches by the Deftinies cut:
But Thomas, my dear Lord, my Life, my Glo'fter;
One Vial full of Edward's facred Blood,

One flourishing Branch of his moft Royal Root,
Is crack'd, and all the precious Liquor fpilt;
Is hackt 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 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 flaughter'd,
Thou fhew'ft the naked Pathway to thy Life,
Teaching ftern Murther how to butcher thee,
That which in mean Men, we intitle Patience,
Is pale cold Cowardife in noble Breasts.

What fhall I fay? to fafeguard thine own Life.
The best way is to venge my Glofter's Death.

Gaunt. Heav'n's is the Quarrel; for Heav'n's Subftitutė

His Deputy anointed in his Sight,

Hath caus'd his Death; the which if wrongfully

Let Heav'n 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

VOL. III.

G

Dutch.

Dutch. Why then I will: Farewel; old Gaunt;
Thou go' to Coventry, there to behold

Our Coufin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
O fit my Husband's Wrongs on Hereford's Spear,
That it may enter Butcher Mowbray's Breaft:
Or if Misfortune mifs the firft Career,
Be Mowbray's Sins fo heavy in his Bofom,
That they may break his foaming Courfer's Back,
And throw the Rider headlong in the Lifts,
A Caytiff recreant to my Coufin Hereford.
Farewel, old Gaunt; thy fometimes 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 hollownefs, but weight:

I take my Leave, before I have begun;
For Sorrow ends not, when it feemeth done.
Commend me to my Brother, Edward 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 there fee,
But empty Lodgings, and unfurnish'd Walls,
Un-peopl'd Offices, untrodden Stones?

And what hear there for Welcome, but my Groans?
Therefore commend me, let him not come there
To feek out Sorrow that dwells every where ;
Defolate, defolate will I hence, and die;
The laft Leave of thee, takes my weeping Eye.

SCENE III.

Enter Marshal and Aumerle.

[Exeunt.

Mar. My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd ? Aum. Yea, at all Points, and longs to enter in. Mar. The Duke of Norfolk, fprightfully and bold, Stays but the Summons of the Appealant's Trumpet.

Aam.

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