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 Subject, Mowbray, fo art thou; Free fpeech, and fearless, 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, Disburst I to his Highrefs' foldiers;

The other part referv'd I by consent,

For that my fovereign Liege was in my debt;
Upon remainder of a dear account,

Since last 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 case.

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 laft 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 moft degen'rate traitor ::
Which in my felf I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurle down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot;
To prove my felf a loyal gentleman,

Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bofom..

A £

In hafte whereof, moft heartily I pray

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 phyfician; 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.

Mob. My felf I throw, dread Sovereign, at thy foot. My life thou shalt command, but not my Shame; 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 difgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here, Pierc'd to the foul with flander's venom'd fpear: The which no balme 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.
Mob. Yea, but not change their spots: take but my

fhame,

And I refign my gage. My dear, dear lord,

The pureft treasure mortal times afford,

Is fpotless Reputation; That away,

Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times- barr'd-up cheft,
Is a bold spirit in a loyal breaft.

Mine Honour is my life, both grow in one;
Take honour from me, and my life is done.
Then, dear my Liege, mine honour let me try;
Ip That I live, and for That will I die.

K. Rich.

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 bafe a parle, my teeth fhall tear The flavish motive of recanting fear,

And spit 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.

There fhall your Swords and. Lances arbitrate:
The fwelling diff'rence of your fettled hate:.
Since we cannot atone you, you shall fee
Juftice decide the Victor's Chivalry.
Lord Marshal, bid our officers at Arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms.

[Exeunt

SCENE, changes to the Duke of Lancaster's

Gaunt.

Palace..

Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucefter.

A

your

Exclaims,

Las the part I had in Glo'fter's blood
Doth more follicit me, than
To flir against the butchers of his life.
But fince correction lyeth in those hands,
Which made the fault that we cannot correct, i
Put we our Quarrel to the Will of heav'n;

Who when it fees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.

Dutch Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper fpur?

Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's fev'n fons, whereof thy felf art one,

Were as fey'n vials of his facred blood;

Or fev'n fair branches, fpringing from one root:
Some of thofe fev'n are dry'd by Nature's Course;
Some of those branches by the Deft'nies cut :

But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Glofter,

(One vial, full of Edward's facred blood;

One flourishing branch of his most royal root ;)
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor fpilt;

Is hackt down, and his summer leaves all faded,
By Envy's hand and Murder's bloody axe!

Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine; that bed, that womb,
That metal, that self-mould that fashion'd thee,
Made him a man; and though thou liv'st and breath'st,
Yet art thou flain in him; thou doft confent
In fome large measure to thy father's death
In that thou feeft thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father's life;
Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is defpair.
In fuff'ring thus thy brother to be flaughter'd,
Thou fhew'ft the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching ftern murther how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we entitle Patience,
Is pale cold Cowardise in noble breafts.
What fhall I fay? to fafeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Glofter's death.

Gaunt. God's is the Quarrel; for God's Subftitute, His Deputy anointed in his fight,

Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully,
Let God revenge, for I may never lift
An angry arm against his Minister.

Dutch. Where then, alas, may I complain my self?
Gaunt. To heav'n, the widow's Champion and De-
fence.

Dutch. Why then, I will: farewel, old Gaunt, farewel.

Thou 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 breaft!
Or, if misfortune miss the first career,
Be Mobi ay's fins fo heavy in his bofom,

That

That they may break his foaming Courfer's back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lifts,

A caitiff recreant to my coufin Hereford!
arewel, old Gaunt; thy fometime brother's wife
With her companion Grief must end her life.
Gaunt. Sifter, farewel; I muft to Coventry.
As much Good stay with thee, as go with me!
Dutch. Yet one word more; grief boundeth where
it falls,

Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:
I take my leave, before I have begun;

For forrow ends not, when it feemeth done.
Commend me to my brother, Edmund York =
Lo, this is all
nay, yet depart not fo;
Though this be all, do not fo quickly go:
I fhall remember more. Bid him

oh, what;

With all good speed at Plafhie vifit me.
Alack, and what fhall good old York fee there
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Un-peopled offices, untroden ftones ?

And what hear there for welcome, but my groans?

Therefore commend me,

let him not come there

To feek out forrow that dwells every where ;

All defolate, will I from hence, and die;

The laft Leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt.

SCENE, the Lifts, at Coventry.

Enter the Lord Marshal, and the Duke of Aumerle.

Mar.

Με

Y lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd Aum. Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.

Mar. The Duke of Norfork, fprightfully and bold, Stays but the Summons of th' Appellant's trumpet. Aum. Why, then the Champions are prepar'd, and

stay

For nothing but his Majefty's approach.

[Flourish.

The