Too good to be so, and too bad to live; may prove. 2 Mowb. Let not my cold words here accufe my zeal'; 'Tis not the tryal of a woman's war, The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, The blood is hot, that must be cool'd for this. First, the fair Rev'rence of your Highnefs curbs me, Call him a fland'rous coward, and a villain; Boling. Pale trembling Coward, there I throw my Disclaiming here the kindred of a King, And lay afide my high blood's Royalty, Which fear, not rev'rence, makes thee to except. 2 Right-drawn. Drawn in a right or just Cause. Inhabitable. That is, not babitable, uninhabitable. As to take up mine Honour's pawn, then stoop; Mowb. I take it up, and by that Sword I fwear, Which gently laid my Knighthood on my fhoulder, I'll answer thee in any fair degree, Or chivalrous defign of knightly tryal; K. Rich. What doth our Coufin fay to Mowbray's charge? It must be great, that can inherit us So much as of a thought of Ill in him. Boling. Look, what I faid, my life shall prove it true; That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles, Or here, or elsewhere, to the furtheft verge, That all the treafons for thefe eighteen years, Fetch from falfe Mowbray their first head and spring. Upon his bad Life to make all This good, That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death; And confequently, like a traitor coward, Sluic'd out his inn'cent foul through ftreams of blood; K. Rich. How high a pitch his refolution foars! Thomas Thomas of Norfolk, what fay'ft thou to this? Mowb. O, let my Sovereign 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 Th' unftooping firmnefs of my upright foul. He is our fubject, Mowbray, fo art thou; Free speech, and fearlefs, 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, Disburit I to his Highnefs' foldiers; The other part referv'd I by confent, For that my fovereign Leige was in my debt ; Since laft I went to France to fetch his Queen. Now, fwallow down that Lie.-For Gloucefter's death, 3 My Scepter's awe.] The reverence due to my Scepter. And interchangeably hurl down my gage Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bofom. 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 : 4 This we prescribe, though no physician; Deep malice makes too deep incifion : Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed; 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 çommand, but not my Shame; 4 This we preferibe, though no phyfician, &c.] I must make one Remark, in general, on the Rhymes throughout this whole play; they are fo much inferior to the rest of the writing, that they appear to me of a different hand. What confirms this, is, that the context does every where exactly (and frequently much better) connect without the inferted rhymes, except in a very few places; and just there too, the rhyming verses are of a much better taite than all the others, which rather ftrengthens my conjecture. POPE. No boot.] That is, no advantage, no ufe, in delay or refufal. 5 My fair Name, &c.] That is, My name that lives on my grave in defpight of death. This eafy paffage moft of the Editors feem to have mistaken. Pierc'd Pierc'd to the foul with flander's venom'd fpear: K. Rich. Rage must be withstood. Give me his gage. Lions make Leopards tame. Mowb. Yea, but not change their fpots. Take but my shame, And I refign my gage. My dear, dear Lord, Mine Honour is my life, both grow in one; 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 fhall tear 7 The flavish motive of recanting fear, And fpit it bleeding, in his high difgrace, Where fhame doth harbour, ev'n 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 anfwer it, At Coventry upon Saint Lambert's day. |