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More than my dancing soul doth celebrate
K. Rich. Farewell, my lord : securely I espy
[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
Mar. Go bear this lance [To an Officer. ] to Thomas
duke of Norfolk. i Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself, 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
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
[A 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 dire aspéct Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours' swords; [° And for we think the eagle-winged pride Or sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, With rival-hating envy, set you on 10 To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep ;] 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 territories : 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 me; 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 far 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.
Boling. I swear.
Boling. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy '?;-
Nor. No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,
Gaunt. I thank my liege, that, in regard of me,
K. Rich. Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.