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K. Rich. What doth our Coufin lay to Mowbray's It must be great, * that can inherit us [charge? So much as of a thought of Ill in him.

Boling. Look, what I faid, my life fhall prove it true; That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles, In name of lendings for your Highness' foldiers, The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments; Like a falfe traitor and injurious villain. Befides, I fay, and will in battle prove, Or here, or elsewhere, to the furtheft verge, 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 fpring. 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,

Sluic'd out his inn'cent foul through ftreams of blood;
Which blood, like facrificing Abel's, cries
Even from the tonguelefs caverns of the earth,
To me, for juftice, and rough chaftisement.
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 Sov'reign 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

that can inherit us] We fhould read, inhabit.



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Th' unftooping firmnefs of my upright soul.
He is our Subject, Mowbray, so 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 Highnefs' foldiers;

The other part referv'd I by confent,

For that my fov'reign 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 Gloucefter's death,
I flew him not; but, to mine own difgrace,
Neglected my fworn duty in that cafe.
For you, my noble lord of Lancaster,
The honourable father to my foe,
Once did I lay an ambush for your life,
A trespass that doth vex my grieved foul;
But ere I laft 1eceiv'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 degen'rate traitor :
Which in myself I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening traitors foot;
To prove myself a loyal gentleman,

Even in the beft blood chamber'd in his bofom.
In hafte whereof, moft heartily I pray

Your Highnefs 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 prescribe, 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, 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.

Mowb. Myfelf I throw, dread Sovereign, 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 difhonour's ufe thou fhalt 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 blame can cure, but his heart-blood Which breath'd this poison.

K. Rich. Rage must be with ftood.:

Give me his gage: Lions make Leopards tame. Mowb. Yea, but not change their fpots: 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 spirit in a loyal breaft.

in one;

Mine Honour is my life, both grow
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 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 base a parle, my teeth shall tear
The flavish motive of recanting fear,

And spit it bleeding, in his high disgrace,
Where fhame doth harbour, ev'n in Mowbray's face.
[Exit Gaunt.

K. Rich. We were not born to fue, but to com


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 diff'rence of your settled hate:
Since we cannot atone you, you shall fee
Juftice decide the Victor's Chivalry.
Lord Marshal, bid our officers at Arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms.



Changes to the Duke of Lancaster's Palace.
Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucefter.
Gaunt. LAS! the part I had in Glo'fter's blood
Doth more follicit me, than your Ex-


To ftir against the butchers of his life.
But fince correction lieth 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 fharper fpur?
Hath love in
thy old blood no living fire?

Edward's fev'n fons, whereof thyfelf art one,
Were as fev'n vials of his facred blood;

Or fev'n fair branches, fpringing from one root:



Some of thofe fev'n are dry'd by Nature's Courfe;
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 facred blood;
One flourishing branch of his moft royal root;)
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor fpilt;
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 defpair.
In fuff'ring thus thy brother to be flaughter'd,
Thou fhew'ft the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching ftern murder how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we entitle Patience,
Is pale cold Cowardife in noble breasts,
What shall I fay? to fafeguard thine own life,
The beft way is to 'venge my Glo'fter's death.

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,
Let God revenge, for I may never lift

An angry arm against his Minifter.

Dutch. Where then, alas, may I complain myfelf?
Gaunt. To heav'n, the widow's Champion and

Dutch. Why then, I will: farewel, old Gaunt, fare-

• 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,


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