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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-nearness to our facred blood Should nothing priv'lege him, nor partialize Th’unstooping firmness of my upright soul. He is our Subject, Mowbray, so art thou; Free speech, and fearless, I to thee allow.

Mowb. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest! Three parts of that Receipt I had for Calais, Disburst I to his Highness' foldiers; The other part reserv'd I by confent, For that my sovereign Liege was in my debt; Upon remainder of a dear account, Since last I went to France to fetch his Queen. Now, swallow down that Lie.-For Gloucester's death, I few him not; but, to mine own disgrace, Neglected my sworn 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 trespass that doth vex my grieved soul; But ere I last receiv'd the Sacrament, I did confess it, and exactly begg'd Your Grace's pardon ; and, I hope, I had it. This is my fault; as for the rest appeal'd, It issues from the rancor of a villain, A recreant and most degen'rate traitor: Which in my self I boldly will defend, And interchangeably hurle down my gage Upon this overweening traitor's foot;

To prove my self a loyal gentleman,
Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom.
In haste whereof, most heartily I pray
Your Highness to assign our tryal-day.

K. Rich. Wrath-kindled Gentlemen, be rul'd by me; Let's purge

this Choler without letting blood : 3 This we prescribe, though no physician ; Deep malice makes too deep incision : Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed ; Our Doctors say, 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 shall 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 should not bid again. K. Rich. Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no

boot. Mowb. My self 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,


, (Despight of death, That lives upon my Grave,) To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have. I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here, Pierc'd to the soul with flander's venom'd spear : The which no balme can cure, but his heart-blood Which breath'd this poison.

3. This we prescribe, though no physician, &c.] I must make one remark, in general, on the Rhymes throughout this whole play ; they are so 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 inserted rhymes, except in a very few places ; and just there too, the rhyming verses are of a much better, tastę than all the o:hers, which rather strengthens my conjecture.

Mr. Pope.
K Rich,

K. Rich. Rage must be withstood:
Gve me his gage : Lions make Leopards tame.
Mowb. Yea, but not change their spots: take but

my shame,
and I resign my gage. My dear, dear lord,
Che purest treasure mortal times afford,
!s spotless 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 breast.
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;
In That I live, and for That will I die.
K. Rick. Cousin, throw down your gage ; do you

Boling. Oh, heav'n defend my soul from such foul sin!
Shall I seem crest-fall’n in my father's sight,
4 Or with pale beggar face impeach my height,
Before this out-dar'd Daftard ? Ere my tongue
Shall wound my Honour with such feeble wrong,
Or found so base a parle, my teeth shall tear
s The slavish motive of recanting fear,
And spit it bleeding, in his high disgrace,
Where shame doth harbour, ev'n in Mowbray's face.

[Exit Gaunt.
K. Rich. We were not born to sue, but to command,
Which since we cannot do to make you friends,
Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,
At Coventry upon Saint Lambert's day.
There shall your Swords and Lances arbitrate
The swelling diff'rence of your fettled hate:

4 Or with pale beggar face-] 1. e. with a face of fupplication.
But this will not satisfy the Oxford Editor, he turns it to bag-
gard fear.
5 The flavih motive-) Motive, for inftrument.


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Since we cannot atone you, you fhall fee
Justice decide the Victor's Chivalry.
Lord Marshal, bid our officers at Arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms.


Changes to the Duke of Lancaster's Palace.

Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucester.

A Doch me pe follicit me, than your Exclaims,

Lasthe part I had in
To stir against the butchers of his life.
But since correction lyeth in those hands,
Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our Quarrel to the Will of heav'n;
Who when it sees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.

Dutch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire ?
Edward's fev'n fons, whereof thy self art one,
Were as sev’n vials of his sacred blood;
Or sev’n fair branches, springing from one root:
Some of those sev'n are dry'd by Nature's Course ;
Some of those branches by the Dest'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 spilt ;
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'ft,
Yet art thou Nain in him ; thou dost consent
In some large measure to thy father's death ;
In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,


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Who was the model of thy father's life ;
Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair.
In fuff'ring thus thy brother to be taughter'd,
Thou shew'st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murther how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we entitle Patience,
Is pale cold Cowardise in noble breasts,
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Glo'ster's death.

Gaunt. God's is the Quarrel ; for God's Substitute,
His Deputy anointed in his sight,
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-

[wel. Dutch. Why then, I will: farewel, old Gaunt, fareThou go'st to Coventry, there to behold Our Cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight. O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear, That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast ! Or, if misfortune miss the first career, Be Mowbray's fins so heavy in his bosom, That they may break his foaming Courser's back, And throw the rider headlong in the lifts, A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford ! Farewel, old Gaunt; thy sometime brother's wife With her companion Grief must end her life.

Gaunt. Sister, farewel ; I must 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 Sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
Commend me to my brother, Edmund York:


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