Or fev'n fair branches, fpringing from one root:
Some of those fev'n are dry'd by Nature's Course ;
Some of those 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 fathion'd thee,
Made him a man; and though thou liv'ft 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 Cowardife in noble breasts.

What fhall I fay? to fafeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Glo'fier'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 Minister.

Dutch. Where then, alas, may I complain my felf? Gaunt. To heav'n, the widow's Champion and De

fence.

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 bofom,

That

That they may 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 must 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 falls,

Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:
I take my leave, before I have begun;

For Sorrow 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:
I fhall remember more. Bid him

oh, what?
With all good speed at Plabie vifit me.
Alack, and what fhall good old York see 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 last Leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt.

SCENE, the Lifts, at Coventry.

Enter the Lord Marshal, and the Duke of Aumerle.

Mar.

M

Y lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd? Aum. Yea, at all points, and longs to en ter in.

Mar. The Duke of Norfolk, fprightfully and bold, Stays but the Summons of th' Appellant's trumpet. Aum. Why, then the Champions are prepar'd, and. stay

For nothing but his Majefty's approach.

[Flourish.

The

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 cause of his arrival here in arms;
Ask him his name, and orderly proceed

To fwear him in the justice of his Caufe.

Mar. In God's name and the King's, fay who thou

art ?

[To Mowb. And why thou com'ft, thus knightly clad in arms? Against what man thou com'ft, and what thy quarrel ? Speak truly on thy Knighthood, and thine Oath, And fo defend thee heaven, and thy valour!

Mob. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, Who hither come engaged by my oath,

(Which, heav'n defend, a Knight fhould 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 my felf,
A traitor to my God, my King, and me;
And, as I truly fight, defend me heav'n!

The trumpets found.

Enter Bolingbroke, Appellant,

in armour.

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'ft thou

hither,

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, 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

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 fo bold,
Or daring-hardy, as to touch the Lifts,
Except the Marfhal, and fuch Officers
Appointed to direct these fair defigns.

Boling. Lord Marthal, let me kifs my Sovereign's hand, And bow my knee before his Majefty: For Mowbray and my felf are like two men That vow a long and weary pilgrimage; Then let us take a ceremonious Leave, And loving Farewel, of our feveral 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,
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 fpear:
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 daintieft laft, to make the end moft fweet:

Oh thou! the earthly author of my blood, [To 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 Jahn o' Gaunt

Ev'n in the lufty 'haviour of his fon.

Gaunt. Heav'n in thy good Caufe make thee profpe

rous!

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, just 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 battel, 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 jeft,

Go I to fight: Truth hath a quiet breast.

K. Rich. Farewel, my lord; fecurely I efpy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.
Order the tryal, 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.
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
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,

To