To prove, by heaven's grace, and my body's valour,

In lists, on Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolk, That he's a traitor, foul and dangerous,

To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me; And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

Mar. On pain of death, no person he so bold, Or daring-hardy, as to touch the lists; Except the marshal, and such officers Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Boling. Lord Marshal, let me kiss my Sovereign's hand,

And bow my knee before his Majesty:

For Mowbray, and myself, are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;
Then let us take a ceremonies leave,

And loving farewell, of our several friends.
Mar. The appellant in all duty greets your

And craves to kiss

K. Rich. We will

Highness, your hand, and take his

leave.

descend, and fold him in

our arms.

Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right,
So be thy fortune in this royal fight!

Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

Boling. O, let no noble eye profane a tear For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear: As confident, as is the falcon's flight Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. My loving Lord, [To LORD MARSHAL.] I take iny leave of you; →→ Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerie;

Not sick, although I have to do with death;
But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.--
VOL. VIII.

Lo, as at English feasts, so I regrect

The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet: O thou the earthly author of my blood,

[To GAUNT. Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up To reach at victory above my head,

Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayer's;
And with thy blessings steel my lance's point,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat,
And furbish new the name of John of Gaunt,
Even in the lusty 'haviour of his son.

Gaunt. Heaven in thy good cause make thee
prosperous!

Be swift like lightning in the execution;
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing thunder on the casque
Of thy adverse pernicious enemy:

Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and

live.

Boling. Mine innocency, and saint George to

thrive!

[He takes his seat.

Nor. [Rising] However heaven, or fortune,

cast my lot,

There lives, or dies, true to King Richard's throne,

A loyal, just, and upright gentleman: Never did captive with a freer heart Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement, More than my dancing soul doth celebrate This feast of battle with mine adversary. Most mighty Liege, and my companion peers,Take from my mouth the wish of happy years: As gentle and as jocund, as to jest,

Go I to fight; Truth hath a quiet breast.

K. Rich. Farewell, my Lord: securely I espy Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.

Order the trial, Marshal, and begin.

[The King and the Lords return to their seats. Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and

Derby,

Receive thy lance; and God defend the right! [Boling. [Rising.] Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen.

Mar. Go bear this lance [To an Officer.] to Thomas Duke of Norfolk. 1 Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and

Derby,

Stands here for God, his Sovereign, and him

self,

On pain to be found false and recreant,

To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,

A traitor to his God, his King, and him, And dares him to set forward to the fight. 2 Her. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,

On pain to be found false and recreant,

Both to defend himself, and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
To God, his Sovereign, and to him, disloyal;
Courageously, and with a free desire,

Attending but the signal to begin.

Mar. Sound trumpets; and set forward, combatants.

[A charge sounded. Stay, the King hath thrown his warder down. K. Rich. Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,

And both return back to their chairs again;

Withdraw with us:

and let the trumpets sound,

While we return these Dukes what we decree.

[4 long flourish. Draw near, [To the Combatants. And list, what with our council we have done. For that our kingdom's earth should not be soil'd With that dear blood which it hath fostered; And for our eyes do hate the tire aspéct Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours' swords;

And for we think the cagle-winged pride Of sky-aspiring and ambitions thoughts, With rival-hating envy, set you on

To wake our peace, which in our country's

Draws the sweet infant

cradle

Which so rous'd up with boisterous untun'd

drums,

With harsh-resounding trumpets' dreadful bray,
And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,

Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace,
And make us wade even in our kindred's blood;-
Therefore, we banish you our tèrritories;
You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of death,
Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields.
Shall not regreet our fair dominions,

But tread the stranger paths of banishment. Boling. Your will be done: This must my comfort be,

That sun,

that warms you here, shall shine on

And those his golden beams, to you here lent,
Shall point on me, and gild my banishment.
K. Rich. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier

doom,

Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:
The fly-slow hours shall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear exile;
The hopeless word of never to return
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life,

Nor. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign
Liege,

And all unlook'd for from your Highness' mouth:
A dearer merit, not so deep a maim
As to be cast forth in the common air,
Have I deserved at your Highness' hand.
The language I have learn'd these forty years,
My native English, now I must forego:
And now my tongue's use is to me no more,
Than an unstringed viol, or a harp;
Or like a cunning instrument cas'd up,
Or, being open, put into his hands
That knows no touch to tune the harmony,
Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue,
Doubly portcullis'd, with my teeth, and lips;
And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance

Is made my gaoler to attend on me.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too fair in years to be a pupil now;
What is thy sentence then, but speechless death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native
breath?

K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate; After our sentence, plaining comes too late. Nor. Then thus I turn me from my country's light,

To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. [Retiring. K. Rich. Return again, and take an oath with

thee.

Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands;