SCENE I. London. KING RICHARD's palace. Enter KING RICHARD, JOHN OF GAUNT, with other Nobles and Attendants. K. Rich. Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd Lancaster, Hast thou, according to thy oath and band, Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son, 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, Enter BOLINGBROKE and MOWBRAY. K. Rich. We thank you both: yet one but flatters us, As well appeareth by the cause you come; Namely, to appeal each other of high treason. Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? 10 20 Boling. First, heaven be the record to my speech! 30 In the devotion of a subject's love, Tendering the precious safety of my prince, 40 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. Mow. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal: "Tis not the trial of a woman's war, The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, 50 Yet can I not of such tame patience boast The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this: As to be hush'd and nought at all to say: First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me These terms of treason doubled down his throat. I do defy him, and I spit at him; Call him a slanderous coward and a villain: Which to maintain I would allow him odds, Where ever Englishman durst set his foot. By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie. And lay aside my high blood's royalty, 60 Boling. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage, Disclaiming here the kindred of the king, Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except. If guilty dread have left thee so much strength Which gently laid 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! 70 80 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 true; That Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles In name of lendings for your highness' soldiers, Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge Complotted and contrived in this land Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring. Upon his bad life to make all this good, 90 That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death, Suggest his soon-believing adversaries, And consequently, like a traitor coward, 100 Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of blood: Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth, K. Rich. How high a pitch his resolution soars! K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears: Mow. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, 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 slew him not; but to my own disgrace Neglected my sworn duty in that case. 110 120 130 140 To prove myself 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 trial day. K. Rich. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by me; Deep malice makes too deep incision; Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed: Gaunt. To be a make-peace shall become my age: 150 160 When, Harry, when? Obedience bids I should not bid again. K. Rich. Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot. Mow. Myself 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, Despite of death that lives upon my grave, To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have. I am disgraced, impeach'd and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander's venom'd spear, The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood Which breathed this poison. K. Rich. Rage must be withstood: Give me his gage: lions make leopards tame. 170 Mow. Yea, but not change his spots: take but my shame, And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation: that away, Men are but gilded loam or painted clay. A jewel in a ten-times-barr'd-up chest Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try; K. Rich. Cousin, throw up your gage; do you begin. 180 190 Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong, |