(Which fear, not rev'rence, makes thee to except :)
If guilty Dread hath left thee so much strength,
As to take up mine Honour's pawn, then ftoop.
By that, and all the rights of Knighthood elfe,
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
What I have spoken, or thou canst devise.
Mob. I take it up, and by that Sword I fwear,
Which gently laid my Knighthood on my shoulder,
I'll answer thee in any fair degree,
Or chivalrous defign of knightly tryal;
And when I mount, alive may I not light,
If I be traitor, or unjustly fight!
K. Rich. What doth our Coufin lay to Mowbray's charge?
It must be great, that can inherit us
So much as of a thought of l in him.
Boling. Look, what I faid, my life shall prove it true;
That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thoufand nobles,
In name of lendings for your Highness' foldiers,
The which he hath detain'd for lewd imployments;
Like a falfe traitor and injurious villain.
Befides, I fay, and will in battel prove,
Or here, or elsewhere, to the furtheft verge,
That ever was furvey'd by English eye;
'That all the treafons for thefe eighteen years,
Complotted and contrived in this Land,
Fetch from falfe Mowbray their first head and spring.
Further, I fay, and further will maintain
Upon his bad Life to make all This good,
That he did plot the Duke of Gloucefter's death;
Suggeft his foon-believing adverfaries;
And confequently, like a traitor-coward,
Sluic'd out his inn'cent foul through ftreams of blood;
Which blood, like facrificing Abel's, cries
Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,
To me, for juftice, and rough chastisement.
And by the glorious Worth of my Defcent,
This arm fhall do it, or this life be fpent.
K. Rich. How high a pitch his refolution foars!
Thomas of Norfolk, what fay'ft thou to this?
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
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 Highnefs' foldiers;
The other part referv'd I by confent,
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 disgrace,
Neglected my fworn 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 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.
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 prefcribe, though no phyfician; Deep malice makes too deep incition: 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.
Mowb. 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 ufe thou fhalt 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 muft be withftood:
Give me his gage: Lions make Leopards tame.
Moub. Yea, but not change their spots: take but my
And I refign my gage. My dear, dear lord,
The pureft treafure mortal times afford,
Is fpotlefs Reputation; That away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times- barr'd-up chest,
Is a bold fpirit 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;
la That I live, and for That will I die.
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 shall tear
The flavish motive of recanting fear,
And fpit it bleeding, in his high difgrace,
Where shame 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 answer 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..
SCENE changes to the Duke of Lancafter's
Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucefter.
Las! the part I had in Glofter's blood
Doth more follicit me, than your Exclaims, To ftir against the butchers of his life.
But fince 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 fees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.
Dutch, Finds brotherhood in thee no fharper fpur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's fev'n fons, whereof thy felf art one,
Were as fev'n vials of his facred blood;,
Or fev'n fair branches, fpringing from one root:
Some of those fev'n are dry'd by Nature's Course;
Some of thofe 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 moft royal root ;)
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor fpilt;
Is hackt down, and his fummer 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 felf-mould that fashion'd thee,
Made him a man; and though thou liv'st and breath'ft
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 despair.
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 breasts.
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 Minifter.
Dutch. Where then, alas, may I complain my felf? 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 breast!
Or, if misfortune mifs the first career,
Be Mowbray's fins fo heavy in his bofom,
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