Boling.
Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear,
Is—that the rebels have consum'd with fire
Our town of Cicester in Glostershire;
But whether they be ta'en, or slain, we hear not. Enter Northumberland.
Welcome, my lord: What is the news?

North.
First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness.
The next news is,—I have to London sent
The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent^{1 note}:
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursed in this paper here. [Presenting a Paper.

Boling.
We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. Enter Fitzwater.

Fitz.
My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
The heads of Brocas, and Sir Bennet Seely;
Two of the dangerous consorted traitors,
That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

Boling.
Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. Enter Percy, with the Bishop of Carlisle.

Percy.
The grand conspirator, abbot of Westminster,
With clog of conscience, and sour melancholy,
Hath yielded up his body to the grave^{2 note}
;
But here is Carlisle living, to abide
Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride.

Boling.
Carlisle, this is your doom^{3 note}:—
Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
So, as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife:
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen^{4 note}

Exton.
Great king, within this coffin I present

Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bourdeaux, by me hither brought.

Boling.
Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought
A deed of slander, with thy fatal hand,
Upon my head, and all this famous land.

Exton.
From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.

Boling.
They love not poison that do poison need,
Nor do I thee; though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word, nor princely favour:
With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
And never show thy head by day nor light.—
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me, to make me grow:
Come, mourn with me for what I do lament,
And put on sullen black, incontinent;
I'll make a voyage to the Holy land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand:—
March sadly after; grace my mournings here,
In weeping after this untimely bier. [Exeunt⁵. ^note

Volume 16: The First Part of King Henry the Fourth

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