The best way is to 'venge my Glo'fter's death.
Gaunt. God's is the quarrel; for God's fubftitute,.
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, myself?? Gaunt. To Heav'n, the widow's champion and defence.. 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 mifs the first career,
Be Mowbray's fins fo heavy in his bosom,
That they make break his foaming courfer's back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lifts,
A caitiff recreant to my coufin Hereford!
Farewel, old Gaunt; thy fometime brother's wife
With her companion grief muft end her life.
Gaunt. Sifter, farewel; I must to Coventry.
As much good stay with thee, as go with me!"
Dutch. Yet one word more; grief boundeth where it:
Not with the empty hollownefs, 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:·
Ifhall remember more. Bid him-oh, what??
With all good speed at Plafbie vifit me.
Alack, and what fhall good old York fee there,
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Un-peopled offices, untrodden 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
SCENE, the Lifts, at Coventry.
Enter the Lord Marshal, and the Duke of Aumerle,
Y Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd?
Aum. Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.
Mar. The Duke of Norfolk, fprightfully and bold,
Stays but the fummons of th' appellant's trumpet.
Aum. Why, then the champions are prepar'd, and stay
For nothing but his Majefty's approach. [Flourish.
The trumpets found, and the King enters with his Nobles:
when they are fet, Enter the Duke of Norfolk in arms,
Defendant.
K. Rich. Marshal, demand of yonder, champion
The catife of his arrival here in arms;
Afk him his name, and orderly proceed
To fwear him in the justice of his cause.
Mar. In God's name and the King's, say who thou art ?
[To Mowb. And why thou com'ft, thus knightly clad in arms? Against what man thou com'ft, and why thy quarrel? Speak truly on thy knighthood, and thine oath, And fo defend thee heaven, and thy valeur !
Mowb. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, Who hither come engaged by my oath,
(Which, heav'n defend, a Knight should violate!)
Both to defend my loyalty and truth,
To God, my King, and my fucceeding iffue,
Against the Duke of Hereford, that appeals me;
And by the grace of God, and this mine arm,
To prove him, in defending of myself,
A traitor to my God, my King, and me;
And as I truly fight, defend me heav'n!
The trumptets found.
Enter Bolingbroke, Appellant, in
K. Rich. Marfhal, afk 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 caufe.
Mar. What is thy name, and wherefore com'ft thou hither, Before King Richard, in his royal lifts ?
[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, Lancaster and Derby
Am I, who ready here do ftand 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 kifs 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 farewel of our several friends.
Mar. Th' appellant in all duty greets your Highness.
[To K. Rich.
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 caufe is right,
So be thy fortune in this royal fight;
Farewel, my blood; which if to-day thou fhed (4), . Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.
(4) Farewel, my blood;] i. e. my kinfman.
Projice tela manu, Sanguis meus.
Tu Sanguinis ultimus auctor.
Clarus Anchifa Venerifque Sanguis.
-Vos O
Pompilius Sanguis,
tenet, langumque tenebit Tarpeias arces Sanguis tuus.
This appellation is
Virg. Æn. v1. ver. 836.
Id. Æn. VII. ver. 49.
Horat. Carm. Sæcul.
Boling. Oh, let no noble eye prophane 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 you,
Of you, my noble coufin, Lord Aumerle.
Not fick, although I have to do with death ;
But lufty, young, and chearly drawing breath.
Lo, as at English feafts, fo I regreet
The dantiest laft; to make the end moft fweet :
Oh thou! the earthly author of my blood, [Te Gaunt,
Whofe youthful fpirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up
To reach at victory above my head,
Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers;
And with thy bleffings fteel my lance's point,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat,
And furbish new the name of John 'Gaunt:
Even in the lufty 'haviour of his fon.
Gaunt. Heav'n in thy good caufe make thee profperous!! Be fwift like lightning in the execution,
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing thunder on the cafque
Of thy adverfe pernicious enemy
Rouze 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 feast of battle, with mine adversary.
Moft mighty Liege, and my companion Peers,
Take from my mouth the wifh of happy years;
As gentle and as jocund, as to jeft,
Go I to fight: Truth hath a quiet breaft.
vos, Superi, meus, ordine Sanguis,
Statius, Theb. lib. 3.
K. Rich
K. Rich. Farewel, my Lord; fecurely I efpy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.
Order the trial, Marshal, 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
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 Norfolk On pain to be found falfe and recreant, Both to defend himself, and to approve Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, To God, his Sovereign, and to him, difloyal: Courageoufly, and with a free defire, Attending but the fignal 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 their chairs 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 foffered;
And, for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbour (words
And for we think, the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-afpiring and ambitious thoughts
With rival-hating envy fet you on,
To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle-
Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle fleep;
(Which thus rouz'd up with boift'rous untun'd drums,
|