This is my fault; as for the reft appeal'd,
It iffues from the rancour of a villain,
A recreant and most degen'rate traitor
Which in myself I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot;
To prove myself 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 trial day,
K. RICH. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul'd by me;
Let's purge this choler without letting blood :
This we prescribe, though no physician;
Deep malice makes too deep incifion :
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 fon.
GAUNT. To be a make-peace fhall become my age;
Throw down, my son, the duke of Norfolk's gage.
K. RICA. 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. Mow B. Myfelf I throw, dread fovereign 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 shalt not have.
I am difgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here,
Piere'd to the foul with flander's venom'd spear;
The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath'd this poifon.
K.RICH. Rage must be withstood.
Give me his gage. Lions make leopards tame.
Mowв. Yea, but not change their spots.
And I refign my gage. My dear, dear lord,
The pureft treasure mortal times afford,
Is fpotless 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;
Take honour from me, and my life is done.
Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try;
In that I live, and for that will I die.
K. RICH. Coufin, throw down your gage; do you begin. BOL. 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 such feeble Or found fo base a parle, my teeth shall tear The flavish motive of recanting fear,
And spit it bleeding, in his high difgrace,
Where fhame doth harbour, ev'n in Mowbray's face.
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 shall your fwords and lances arbitrate
The fwelling diff'rence of your settled hate.
Since we cannot atone you, you shall see
Justice decide the victor's chivalry.
Lord Marshal, bid our officers at arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms.
SCENE III. Changes to the Duke of Lancaster's palace.
Enter Gaunt and Duchefs of Gloucefter.
GAUNT. Alas! the part I had in Glo'fter's blood
Doth more folicit 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 sharper 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 feven fair branches, fpringing from one root:
Some of thofe 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 Glo'fter,
One vial, full of Edward's facred blood,
One flourishing branch of his moft royal root;
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquour 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 self-mould that fashion'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 defpair.
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 shall I fay? to fafeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Glo'ster's death.
GAUNT. God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute,
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.
, 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 so heavy in his bosom,
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 sometime 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 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:
I fhall remember more. Bid him-oh, what?
With all good speed at Plafhie visit me.
Alack, and what fhall good old York fee there
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?
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.
SCENE IV. The lifts, at Coventry.
Enter the Lord-Marshal, and Aumerle.
MAR. My 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
For nothing but his majesty's approach.
The trumpets found, and the king enters with Gaunt, Bufhy, Bago, and others: when they are fet, Enter the Duke of Norfolk in armour.
K. RICH. Marfhal, demand of yonder champion
The cause 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, fay who thou
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