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Too good to be fo, and too bad to live;
Mowb. Let not my cold words here accufe my zeal';
Call him a fland'rous coward, and a villain;
Boling. Pale trembling Coward, there I throw my
Difclaiming here the kindred of a King,
Inhabitable.] That is, not habitable, uninhabitable.
2 Right-drawn. a right or just Cause.
As to take up mine Honour's pawn, then stoop;
Mowb. I take it up, and by that Sword I fwear,
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.
That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles,
That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death;
K. Rich. How high a pitch his refolution foars!
Thomas of Norfolk, what fay'ft thou to this?
K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears.
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 fovereign Leige 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 trefpafs that doth vex my grieved foul; But ere I last 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 degen'rate traitor; Which in myself I boldly will defend,
3 My Scepter's awe.] The reverence due to my Scepter.
And interchangeably hurl down my gage
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: 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 çommand, but not my Shame;
4 This awe 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 verfes are of a much better talte than all the others, which rather strengthens my conjecture. POPE. No boot.] That is, no advontage, 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 to the foul with flander's venom'd fpear:
K. Rich. Rage must be withstood.
And I refign my gage. My dear, dear Lord,
K. Rich. Coufin, throw down your gage; do you
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 bafe 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.
Or with pale beggar face-] i. e. with a face of fupplication. But this will not fatisfy the Oxford Editor, he turns it to baggard fear. WARBURTON.
7 The flavish motive-] Mtive, for intrument. WARB. Rather that which fear puts in motion.