« AnteriorContinua »
K. Rich. What doth our coufin lay to Mowbray's It must be great, that can inhabit 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 received eight thoufand 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 spring,
Upon his bad life to make all this good,
And confequently, like a traitor-coward,
Sluce'd out his inn'cent foul through streams of blood;
K. Rich. How high a pitch his resolution foars!
K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears.
Mowb. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart Through the false paffage of thy throat thou lyest!
Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais,
For that my Sovereign Liege was in my debt,
Since last I went to France to fetch his Queen.
Even in the beft blood chamber'd in his bofom.
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. * 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.
without letting blood.
This we prefcribe, though no phyfician;
K. Rich Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is ne
Mob. Myfelf I throw, dread Sovereign, at thy foot. My life thou fhalt 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 use thou shalt not have. I am difgrace'd, impeach'd, and baffled here, Pierce'd to the foul with flander's venom'd spear: The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood Which breath'd this poifon.
K. Rich. Rage must be withstood :
Give me his gage: lions make leopards tame.
And I refign my gage. My dear, dear Lord,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
Mine honour is my life, both grow in one;
K. Rich. Coufin, throw down your gage; do you begin.
Boling. Oh, heaven 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 dastar'd? Ere my tongue Shall wound my honour with fuch feeble wrong, Or found fo bafe a parle, my teeth fhall tear The flavish motive of recanting fear,
And fpit it bleeding, in his high difgrace,
Where fhame doth harbour, ev'n in Mowbray's face.
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. *Motive, tor inftrument.
There fhall your fwords and lances arbitrate
Changes to the Duke of Lancaster's palace. Enter Gaunt, and Duchess of Gloucester. Gaunt. Alas! the part I had in Glo'fter's blood * Doth more folicit me than your exclaims,
To ftir against the butchers of his life.
Duch. Finds brotherhood in thee no fharper fpur?
Or fev'n fair branches fpringing from one root:
Is hack'd 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,
Meaning the relation he had to it.
In fuff'ring thus thy brother to be flaughter'd,
Gaunt. God's is the quarrel; for God's fubftitute, His deputy anointed in his fight,
Hath caus'd his death: the which if wongfully,
An angry arm against his minister.
Duch. Where then, alas, may I complain myfelf? Gaunt. To Heav'n, the widow's champion and de
Duch. Why then, I will: farewel, old Gaunt, fareThou 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 breast! Or, if misfortune mifs the first 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 must end her life.
Gaunt. Sifter, farewel; I must to Coventry.
As much good stay with thee, as go with me !
For forrow ends not when it feemeth done.
Lo, this is all
nay, yet depart not fo;
Though this be all, do not fo quickly go:
With all good speed at Plafhie vifit me.
* i. e. formerly.