312

Bast. Thither shall it then.

The lineal state and glory of the land!

And happily may your sweet self put on

To whom, with all submission, on my knee,

I do bequeath my faithful services

And true subjection everlastingly.

Sal. And the like tender of our love we make,

To rest without a spot for evermore.

And knows not how to do it, but with tears.
Bast. O, let us pay the time but needful woe,
Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs.—
This England never did, (nor never shall,)
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,

But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,

P. Hen. I have a kind soul, that would give you And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, thanks,

If England to itself do rest but true.

[Exeunt.

KING RICHARD II.

Persons of the Drama.

Earl of NORTHumberland: HENRY PERCY, his son.
King RICHARD the Second.
Uncles to the Lord Ross. Lord WILLOUGHBY. Lord FITZWATER.
EDMUND of Langley, duke of York,
Bishop of CARLISLE. Abbot of WESTMINSTER.
JOHN of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, king.
HENRY, surnamed Bolingbroke, duke of Hereford, Lord Marshal; and another Lord.
son to John of Gaunt; afterwards king Henry IV.
Duke of AUMERLE, son to the duke of York.
MOWBRAY, duke of Norfolk.

Duke of SURREY,

Earl of SALISBURY. Earl BERKLEY.

other Nobles, with him.

K. Rich. Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd
caster,

Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,
Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son,
Here to make good the boisterous late appeal,
Which then our leisure would not let us hear,
Against the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ?
Gaunt. I have, my liege.

Sir PIERCE of Exton. Sir STEPHEN SCROOP.
Captain of a band of Welchmen.
Queen to king RICHARD.
Duchess of GLOster.
Duchess of YORK.

Lady attending on the queen.

Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, two Gardeners, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants. in England and Wales.

Namely, to appeal each other of high treason.—
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
Against the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?
Boling. First, (heaven be the record to my speech!)
In the devotion of a subject's love,
Lan-Tendering the precious safety of my prince,
And free from other misbegotten hate,

K. Rich. Tell me moreover, hast thou sounded him,
If he appeal the duke on ancient malice,
Or worthily, as a good subject should,
On some known ground of treachery in him?
Gaunt. As near as I could sift him on that argument,-
On some apparent danger seen in him,
Aim'd at your highness, no inveterate malice.

K. Rich. Then call them to our presence; face to face,
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear
The accuser, and the accused, freely speak.

[Exeunt some Attendants.
High-stomach'd are they both, and full of ire,
In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.
Re-enter Attendants, with BOLINGBROKE and
NORFOLK.

Boling. May many years of happy days befal
My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!
Nor. Each day still better other's happiness,
Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap,
Add an immortal title to your crown!

Come I appellant to this princely presence.-
Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,
And mark my greeting well; for what I speak,
My body shall make good upon this earth,
Or my divine soul answer it in heaven.
Thou art a traitor, and a miscreant;
Too good to be so, and too bad to live;
Since, the more fair and crystal is the sky,
The uglier seem the clouds, that in it fly.
Once more, the more to aggravate the note,
With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat,
And wish, (so please my sovereign,) ere I move,
What my tongue speaks, my right-drawn sword may

prove.

Nor. Let not my cold words here accuse
'Tis not the trial of a woman's war,
The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,
Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain.
The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this.
Yet can I not of such tame patience boast,
As to be hush'd, and nought at all to say:
First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me
From giving reins and spurs to my free speech,
Which else would post, until it had return'd
These terms of treason doubled down his throat.
Setting aside his high blood's royalty,

K. Rich. We thank you both; yet one but flatters us, And let him be no kinsman to my liege,

As well appeareth by the cause you come;

I do defy him, and I spit at him;

D

Since last I went to France to fetch his queen.
Now swallow down that lie!- For Gloster's death, -
I slew him not, but to my own disgrace,
Neglected my sworn 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 trespass, that doth vex my grieved soul:

Boling. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my But, ere I last receiv'd the sacrament,

Disclaiming here the kindred of a king,

And lay aside my high blood's royalty,

Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except.
If guilty dread hath left thee so much strength,
As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop;
By that, and all the rites of knighthood else,
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise.
Nor. I take it up, and, by that sword I swear,
Which gently lay'd my knighthood on my shoulder,
I'll answer thee in any fair degree,

Or chivalrous design of knightly trial:
And, when I mount, alive may I not light,
If I be traitor, or unjustly fight!

K. Rich. What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's
charge?

It must be great, that can inherit us
So much as of a thought of ill in him.

Boling. Look, what I speak; my life shall prove it

That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles,
In name of lendings for your highness' soldiers,
The which he hath detain'd for lew'd employments,
Like a false traitor, and injurious villain.
Besides I say, and will in battle prove,

Or here, or elsewhere, to the furthest verge,
That ever was survey'd by English eye,
That all the treasons, for these eighteen years
Complotted and contrived in this land,

Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.
Further I say, and further will maintain
Upon his bad life, to make all this good,
That he did plot the duke of Gloster's death,
Suggest his soon-believing adversaries,
And, consequently, like a traitor coward,

Sluic'd out his innocent soul through streams of blood;
Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries,
Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,
To me for justice and rough chastisement;
And, by the glorious worth of my descent,
This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,
At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day!
There shall your swords and lances arbitrate
The swelling difference of your settled hate;
Since we cannot atone you, we shall see
Justice design the victor's chivalry. ·
Marshall, command our officer at arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms!

SCENE II.

[Exeunt.

The same. A room in the Duke of LAN-
CASTER'S palace.

Enter GAUNT, and Duchess of Gloster.
Gaunt. Alas! the part I had in Gloster's blood,
Doth more solicit me, than your exclaims,
To stir against the butchers of his life.
But since correction lieth in those hands,
Which made the fault, that we cannot correct,
Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;
Who, when he sees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.
Duch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
Hath love in thy old blood no-living fire?
Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
Were as seven phials of his sacred blood,
Or seven fair branches springing from one root.
Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,
Some of those branches by the destinies cut:
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloster,
One phial full of Edward's sacred blood,
One flourishing branch of his most royal root,
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt,
Is hack'd 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 mettle, that self-mould, that fashion'd thee,
Made him a man; and though thou liv'st and breath'st,
Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent,
In some large measure, to thy father's death,
In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father's life.
Call it not patience, Gaunt ! it is despair.
In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,
Thou show'st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murder, how to butcher thee.
That, which in mean men we entitle patience,
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Gloster's death.
Gaunt. Heaven's is the quarrel; for heaven's
stitute,

His deputy anointed in his sight,

Hath cans'd his death: the which, if wrongfully,
Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift
An angry arm against his minister.

(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!
Lo, this is all!-Nay, yet depart not so!
Though this be all, do not so quickly go!
I shall remember more. Bid him-0, what? -
With all good speed at Plashy visit me.
Alack, and what shall good old York there see,
But empty lodgings and unfurnish'd walls,
Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?
And what cheer there for welcome, but my groans?
Therefore commend me, let him not come there,
To seek out sorrow, that dwells every where !
Desolate, desolate, will I hence, and die;
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.-Gosford Green, near Coventry.
Lists set out, and a throne. Heralds, etc. attending.
Enter the Lord Marshal, and AUMERLE.
Mar. My lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd?
Aum. Yea, at all points, aud longs to enter in.
Mar. The duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,
Stays but the summons of the appellant's trumpet.
Aum. Why then, the champions are prepar'd, and

stay

For nothing but his majesty's approach.
Flourish of trumpets. Enter King RICHARD,who takes
his seat on his throne; GAUNT, and several Noble-
men, who take their places. A trumpet is sounded,
and answered by another trumpet within. Then en-
ter NORFOLK in armour, preceded by a Herald.
K. Rich. Marshal, demand of yonder champion
The cause of his arrival here in arms,
Ask him his name, and orderly proceed
To swear him in the justice of his cause!
Mar. In God's name, and the king's, say who thou art,
And why thou com'st, thus knightly clad in arms?
Against what man thou com'st, and what thy quarrel?
Speak truly, on thy knighthood, and thy oath,
And so defend thee heaven, and thy valour!
Nor. My name is Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk;
Who hither come engaged by my oath,
(Which, heaven defend, a knight should violate!)'
Both to defend my loyalty and truth,

To God, my king, and my succeeding issue,
Against the duke Hereford, that appeals me;
sub-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 heaven!

Duch. Where then, alas! may I complain myself?
Gaunt. To heaven, the widow's champion and

defence.

Duch. Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt!
Thou 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 sins so heavy in his bosom,,
That they may break his foaming courser's back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!

[He takes his seat.
Trumpet sounds. Enter BOLINGBROKE in armour,
preceded by a Herald.
K. Rich. Marshal, 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,
Depose him in the justice of his cause!

Mar. What is thy name? and wherefore com'st thou
hither,

Before king Richard, in his royal lists?
Against whom comest thou? and what's thy quarrel?
Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!
Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
who ready here do stand in arms,

Am I;

Farewell, old Gaunt! Thy sometimes brother's wife To prove, by heaven's grace, and my body's valour,

With her companion grief must end her life.
Gaunt. Sister, farewell! I must to Coventry.
As much good stay with thee, as go with me!
Duch. Yet one word more!-Grief boundeth, where

it falls,

In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk,
That he's a traitor, foul and dangerous,
To God of heaven, king Richard, and to me;
And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven!
Mar. On pain of death, no person be so bold,

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Or daring-hardy, as to touch the lists!
Except the marshal, and such officers
Appointed to direct these fair designs.
Boling. Lord Marshal, let me kiss my
hand,

And bow my knee before his majesty!

And dares him to set forward to the fight.

2 Her. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, duke of
Norfolk,

sovereign's On pain to be found false and recreant,
Both to defend himself, and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
To God, his sovereign, and to him, disloyal;
Courageously, and with a free desire,
Attending but the signal to begin. -

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 several friends.

Mar. The appellant in all duty greets your highness,
And craves to kiss your hand, and take his leave.

K. Rich. We will descend, and fold him in our arms.
Cousin 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. O, let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear!
As confident, as is the falcon's flight

Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.

Mar. Sound, trumpets; and set forward, combatants! [4 charge sounded. Stay, 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 sound,
While we return these dukes what we decree !-

Draw near,

[4 long Flourish. [To the Combatants. And list what with our council we have done! For that our kingdom's earth should not be soil'd

My loving lord, [To lord Marshal.]I take my leave of With that dear blood, which it hath fostered,

you;

Of you, my noble cousin, lord Aumerle;

Not sick, although I have to do with death,

But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.-
Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet

The daintiest last, to make the end more sweet:

O thou, the earthly author of my blood,-[To Gaunt.
Whose youthful spirit, 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 blessings steel my lance's point,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat,
And furbish new the name of John of Gaunt,
Even in the lusty 'haviour of his son.

Gaunt. Heaven in thy good cause make thee prospe

rous!

Be swift like lightning in the execution;
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing thunder on the casque
Of thy adverse pernicious enemy!

Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live!
Boling. Mine innocency, and Saint George to thrive!
[He takes his seat.
Nor.[Rising.]However heaven, or fortune, cast my lot
There lives or dies, true to king Richard's throne,
A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.
Never did captive with a freer heart
Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace
His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement,
More than my dancing soul doth celebrate
This feast of battle with mine adversary.-
Most mighty liege, and my companion peers,
Take from my mouth the wish of happy years!
As gentle and as jocund, as to jest,

Go I to fight. Truth hath a quiet breast.

K. Rich. Farewell, my lord! securely I espy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.-
Order the trial, marshal, and begin!

[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

Amen.

Mar. Go bear this lance [To an Officer.] 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 false and recreant,

To prove the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A traitor to his God, his king, and him,

And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect

Of civil wounds, plough'd up with neighbours' swords;
And for we think the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,
With rival-hating envy, set you on

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, nnfeeling, barren ignorance,
Is made my gaoler, to attend on me.
am too old, to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years, to be a pupil now:

I

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. [Retiring.