The trumpets. found. Enter Bolingbroke, appellant, in
K. Rich. Marfhal, ask yonder knight in arms,
Both who he is, and why he cometh hither,
Thus plated in habiliments of war':
And formally, according to our law,
Depofe him in the juftice of his cause.
Mar. What is thy name, and wherefore com'ft thou
Before King Richard, in his Royal lists? [To Boling,
Against whom comeft thou? and what's thy quarrel?
Speak like a true knight, fo defend thee Heav'n!
Boling Harry of Hereford, Lancafier, and Derby,
Am 1, who ready to ftand here in arms,
To prove, by Heav'n's grace and my body's valour,
In lifts, on Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolk,
That he's a traitor foul and dangerous,
To God of heav'n, King Richard, and to me;
And, as I truly fight, defend me Heav'n!
Mar. On pain of death, no perfon be so bold,
Or daring-hardy, as to touch the lifts,
Except the Marshal, and fuch officers
Appointed to direct thefe fair defigns.
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 ceremonious leave,
And loving farewell, of our feveral friends.
Mar. Th' appellant. in all duty greets your Highnefs,
And craves to kifs your hand, and take his leave.
K. Rich. We will defcend, and fold him in our arms. Coufin 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. Oh, let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear:
As confident, as is the faulcon's flight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.
My loving Lord, I take my leave of
Of you, my noble coufin, Lord Aumerle *.
Oh thou! the earthly author of my blood,
Whofe youthful fpirit, 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 prayers;
And with thy bleffings steel my lance's point,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat,
And furbish new the name of John o' Gaunt
Ev'n in the lufty 'haviour of his fon.
Gaunt. Heav'n in thy good cause make thee profperous! Be fwift like lightning in the execution;
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing thunder on the cask
Of thy adverfe pernicious enemy
Roufe up thy youthful blood, be brave, and live.
Boling. Mine innocence, God and St. George to thrive
Mowb. However Heav'n or Fortune caft my lot,
There lives, or dies, true to King Richard's throne,
A loyal, juft, and upright gentleman.
Never did captive with a freer heart
Caft off his chains of bondage, and embrace
His golden uncontroul'd enfranchisement,
More than my dancing foul doth celebrate
This feaft of battle with mine adverfary.
Moft mighty Liege, and my companion Peers,
Take from my mouth the wifh of happy years;
As gentle and as jocund, as to juft,
Go I to fight: Truth hath a quiet breast.
K. Rich. Farewell, my Lord; fecurely I efpy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.
Order the trial, Marfhal, and begin.
Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Receive thy lance; and Heav'n defend thy right!
Boling. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry, Amen.
Mar. Go bear this lance to Thomas Duke of Norfolk.
Not fick, although I have to do with death;
But lufty, young, and chearly drawing breath.-
Lo, as at English feafts, so I regret
The daintiest laft, to make the end most sweet:
Oh thou, &c.
1 Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Stands here for God, his Sovereign, and himself,
On pain to be found falfe and recreant,
To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A traitor to his God, his King, and him;
And dares him to fet forward to the fight.
2 Her. Here ftandeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of On pain to be found falfe and recreant, Both to defend himself, and to approve Henry of Hereford, Lancafter, and Derby, To God, his Sovereign, and to him, disloyal; Courageously, and with a free defire, Attending but the signal to begin.
[A charge founded.
Mar. Sound, trumpets; and fet forward, combatants.
-But ftay, the King hath thrown his warder down.
K. Rich. Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,
And both return back to the charge again:
Withdraw with us, and let the trumpets found,
While we return thefe Dukes what we decree.
[A long flourish; after which the King Speaks to the combatants.
And lift, what with our council we have done.
For that our kingdom's earth fhould not be foil'd
With that dear blood which it hath fostered;
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbour fwords;
[And for we think, the eagle-winged pride
Of fky-afpiring and ambitious thoughts
With rival-hating Envy fet you on,
To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle
Draws the fweet infant-breath of gentle fleep *;]
Which thus rous'd up with boiit'rous untun'd drums,
And harth-refounding trumpets' dreadful bray,
And grating fhock of wrathful iron arms,
Might from our quiet confines fright fair Peace,
And make us wade ev'n in our kindred's blood:
The five lines inclosed within crotchets, were inferted, from the first edition in 1598, by Mr. Pope : but inadvertently; for they were afterwards omitted by Shakespeare, as not agreeing to the rest of the context; which, on revife, he thought fit to alter. Mr. Warburton.
Therefore we banish you our territories,
You, coufin Hereford, on pain of death,
Till twice five fummers have enrich'd our fields,
Shall not regreet our fair dominions,
But tread the ftranger paths of banishment.
Boling. Your will be done: this must my comfort be,
That fun 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 fome unwillinguefs pronounce.
The fly-flow hours fhall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear exile:
The hopeless word, of never to return,
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.
Mowb. A heavy fentence, my moft fovereign Leige,
And all unlook'd for from your Highness' mouth:
A dearer merit, not fo deep a maim,
As to be caft forth in the common air,
Have I deferved at your Highness' hands.
The language I have learn'd thefe forty years,
My native English, now I must forego;
"And now my tongue's ufe is to me no more,
"Than an unftringed viol, or a harp;
"Or like a cunning inftrument cas'd up,
"Or being open, put into his hands
"That knows no touch to tune the harmony *.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a pupil now;
What is thy fentence, then, but fpeechless death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?
K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compaffionate t
After our sentence, plaining comes too late.
Mowb. Then thus I turn me from my country's light,
To dwell in folemn fhades of endless night.
K. Rich. Return again, and take an oath with
VOL. IV.
Within my mouth you have engoal'd my tongue,
Doubly port-cullis'd with my teeth and lips;
And dull, unfeeling, barren Ignorance
Is made my goaler to attend on me.
I am too old, &c.
Lay on our Royal fword your banish'd hands;
Swear by the duty that you owe to Heav'n,
(Our part therein we banish with yourselves,)
To keep the oath that we adminifter:
You never fhall (fo help you truth, and heav'n!)
Embrace each other's love in banishment;
Nor ever look upon each other's face,
Nor ever write, regrect, or reconcile
This low'ring tempeft of your home-bred hate;
Nor ever by advised purpose meet,
To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,
'Gainft us, our state, our subjects, or our land. Boling. I fwear.
Mowb. And I, to keep all this.
Boling. Norfolk, fo far, as to mine enemy:
By this time, had the King permitted tis, [In falutation.
One of ouf fouls had wander'd in the air,
Banifh'd this frail fepulchre of our flesh,
As now our flefh is banifh'd from this land.
Confefs thy treafons, ere thou fly this realm;
Since thou haft far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty foul.
Mowb. No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,
My name be blotted from the book of life,
And I from heav'n banish'd as from hence!
But what thou art, heav'n, thou, and I do know,
And all too foon, I fear, the King shall rue.
Farewell, my Liege; now no way can I ftray,
Save back to England; all the world's my way.
K. Rich. Uncle, even in the glaffes of thine eyes
I fee thy grieved heart, thy fad alpect
Hath from the number of his banish'd years
Pluck'd four away; fix frozen winter's spent,
Return with welcome home from banishment.
Boling. How long a time lies in one little word!
Four lagging winters and four wanton fprings
End in a word; fuch is the breath of kings.
Gaunt. I thank my Liege, that in regard of me
He fhortens four years of my fon's exile:
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