Richard.
Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd Lancaster,
Hast thou, according to thy oath and bond,
Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son;
Here to make good the boistrous late appeal,
Which then our leisure would not let us hear,
Against the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Gau.
I have, my liege.

Ric.
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?

Gau.
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.

Ric.
Then call them to our presence, face to face,
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear
The accuser, and the accused, freely speak:— [Exeunt some Attendants.
High-stomach'd are they both, and full of ire,
In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire. Re-enter Attendants with Bolingbroke, Norfolk, and others.

Bol.
May many years of happy days befal
My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!

Nor.
Each day still better other's happiness;
Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap,
Add an immortal title to your crown* ^note!

Ric.
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?

Bol.
First, (heaven be the record to my speech!)
In the devotion of a subject's love,
Tend'ring the precious safety of my prince,
And free from other misbegotten hate,
Come I appellant to this princely presence.—
Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,
And mark my greeting well; for what I speak,
My body shall make good upon this earth,
Or my divine soul answer it in heaven.
Thou art a traitor, and a miscreant;
&blquo;Too good to be so, and too bad to live;
&blquo;Since, the more fair and crystal is the sky,
&blquo;The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.
&blquo;Once more, the more to aggravate the note,
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* ^note.

Nor.
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,
Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;
The blood is hot, that must be cool'd for this.
Yet can I not of such tame patience boast,
As to be hush'd, and nought at all to say:
First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me,
From giving reins and spurs to my free speech;
Which else would post, until it had return'd
These terms of treason doubl'd down his throat.
Setting aside his high blood's royalty,
And let him be no kinsman to my liege,
I do defy him, and I spit at him;
Call him—a sland'rous coward, and a villain:
Which to maintain, I would allow him odds;
And meet him, were I ty'd to run a-foot
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground inhabitable
Where ever Englishman durst set his foot.
Mean time, let this defend my loyalty,—
By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie† ^note.

Bol.
Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage,
Disclaiming here the kindred of a king;
And lay aside my high blood's royalty,
Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except:
If guilty dread hath left thee so much strength,
As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop;
By that, and all the rites of knighthood else,
I will make good against thee, arm to arm,
What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise.

Nor.
I take it up; and, by that sword I swear,
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!

Ric.
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.

Bol.
Look, what I speak, my life shall prove it true;—
That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles,
In name of lendings for your highness' soldiers;
The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments,
Like a false traitor, and injurious villain.
Besides I say, and will in battle prove,—
Or here, or elsewhere, to the furthest verge
That ever was survey'd by English eye,—
That all the treasons, for these eighteen years
Complotted and contrived in this land,
Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.
Further I say,—and further will maintain
Upon his bad life, to make all this good,—
That he did plot the duke of Gloster's death;
Suggest his soon-believing adversaries;
And, consequently, like a traitor coward,
Sluic'd out his innocent soul through streams of blood:
Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries,
Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,
To me, for justice, and rough chastisement;
And, by the glorious worth of my descent,
This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

Ric.
How high a pitch his resolution soars!—
Thomas of Norfolk, what say'st thou to this?

Nor.
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 heav'n, and good men, hate so foul a liar.

Ric.
Mowbray, impartial are our eyes, and ears:
Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom's heir,
&blquo;(As he is but my father's brother's son)
Now, by my scepter's awe I make a vow,
Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood,
Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize

The unstooping firmness of my upright soul:
He is our subject, Mowbray, so art thou;
Free speech, and fearless, I to thee allow.

Nor.
Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,
Through the false passage of thy throat, thou ly'st* ^note.
&blquo;Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais,
&blquo;Disburs'd I duly to his highness' soldiers:
&blquo;The other part reserv'd I by consent;
&blquo;For that my sovereign liege was in my debt,
&blquo;Upon remainder of a dear account,
&blquo;Since last I went to France to fetch his queen:
&blquo;Now swallow down that lie. For Gloster's death,—
&blquo;I slew him not; but, to my own disgrace,
&blquo;Neglected my sworn duty in that case.—
&blquo;For you, my noble lord of Lancaster,
&blquo;The honourable father to my foe,—
&blquo;Once did I lay an ambush for your life,
&blquo;A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul:
&blquo;But, ere I last receiv'd the sacrament† ^note,
&blquo;I did confess it; and exactly begg'd
&blquo;Your grace's pardon, and, I hope, I had it.
&blquo;This is my fault: As for the rest appeal'd,—
&blquo;It issues from the rancor of a villain,
&blquo;A recreant and most degenerate traitor:
&blquo;Which in myself I boldly will defend;
I 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 bosom:
In haste whereof, most heartily I pray
Your highness to assign our trial day.

&blquo;Ric.
&blquo;Wrath-kindl'd gentlemen, be rul'd by me;
&blquo;Let's purge this choler without letting blood:
&blquo;This we prescribe, though no physician;
&blquo;Deep malice makes too deep incision:

&blquo;Forget, forgive, conclude, and be agreed;
&blquo;Our doctors say, this is no time to bleed.—
&blquo;Good uncle, let this end where it begun;
&blquo;We'll calm the duke of Norfolk, you your son.

&blquo;Gau.
&blquo;To be a make-peace shall become my age:—
&blquo;Throw down, my son, the duke of Norfolk's gage.

&blquo;Ric.
&blquo;And, Norfolk, throw down his.

&blquo;Gau.
&blquo;When, Harry? when?
&blquo;Obedience bids, I should not bid again.

&blquo;Ric.
&blquo;Norfolk, throw down; we bid; there is no boot.

&blquo;Nor.
&blquo;Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot:
&blquo;My life thou shalt command, but not my shame;
&blquo;The one, my duty owes; but my fair name,
&blquo;(Despight of death that lives upon my grave)
&blquo;To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have.
&blquo;I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here;
&blquo;Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear;
&blquo;The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood
&blquo;Which breath'd this poison.

Ric.
Rage must be withstood:
Give me his gage; lions make leopards tame.

Nor.
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;
Take honour from me, and my life is done&verbar2; ^note:
Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try;
In that I live, and for that will I die.

Ric.
Cousin, throw up your gage, do you begin.

Bol.
O, heav'n defend my soul from such deep sin!
Shall I seem crest fall'n in my father's sight?
Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height

Before this out-dar'd dastard? &blquo;Ere my tongue
&blquo;Shall wound mine honour with such feeble wrong,
&blquo;Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear§ ^note
&blquo;The slavish motive of recanting fear;
&blquo;And spit it bleeding, in his high disgrace,
&blquo;Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face. [Exeunt Gaunt and others.

Ric.
We were not born to sue, but to command:
Which since we cannot do to make you friends,
Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,
At Coventry, upon saint Lambert's day;
There shall your swords and lances arbitrate
The swelling difference of your settl'd hate;
Since we cannot atone you, we shall see
Justice decide the victor's chivalry.—
Marshal, command our officers at arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms. [Exeunt. ^note&blquo;SCENE II.

‡ [Footnote: The same. Another Room. &blquo;Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloster.

&blquo;Gau.
&blquo;Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's blood
&blquo;Doth more solicit me, than your exclaims,
&blquo;To stir against the butchers of his life.
&blquo;But, since correction lieth in those hands
&blquo;Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
&blquo;Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;
&blquo;Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth,
&blquo;Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.

&blquo;Dut.
&blquo;Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
&blquo;Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
&blquo;Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
&blquo;Were as seven vials of his sacred blood,
&blquo;Or seven fair branches springing from one root:
&blquo;Some of those seven are dry'd by nature's course,

&blquo;Some of those branches by the destinies cut;
&blquo;But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloster,—
&blquo;One vial full of Edward's sacred blood,
&blquo;One flourishing branch of his most royal root,—
&blquo;Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;
&blquo;Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all faded,
&blquo;By envy's hand, and murder's bloody axe.
&blquo;Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine; that bed, that womb,
&blquo;That metal, that self mould, that fashion'd thee,
&blquo;Made him a man; and though thou liv'st, and breath'st,
&blquo;Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent
&blquo;In some large measure to thy father's death,
&blquo;In that thou see'st thy wretched brother die,
&blquo;Who was the model of thy father's life.
&blquo;Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair:
&blquo;In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,
&blquo;Thou shew'st the naked pathway to thy life,
&blquo;Teaching stern murther how to butcher thee:
&blquo;That which in mean men we intitle—patience,
&blquo;Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
&blquo;What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
&blquo;The best way is—to 'venge my Gloster's death.

&blquo;Gau.
&blquo;Heaven's is the quarrel; for heaven's substitute,
&blquo;His deputy anointed in his sight,
&blquo;Hath caus'd his death: the which if wrongfully,
&blquo;Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift
&blquo;An angry arm against his minister.

&blquo;Dut.
&blquo;Where then, alas, may I complain myself?

&blquo;Gau.
&blquo;To heaven, the widow's champion and defence.

&blquo;Dut.
&blquo;To heaven? why then, I will. Farewel, old Gaunt.
&blquo;Thou go'st to Coventry, there to behold
&blquo;Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight;
&blquo;O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear,
&blquo;That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast!
&blquo;Or if misfortune miss the first career,
&blquo;Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom,
&blquo;That they may break his foaming courser's back;
&blquo;And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
&blquo;A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!

&blquo;Farewel, old Gaunt; thy sometime brother's wife,
&blquo;With her companion grief must end her life.

&blquo;Gau.
&blquo;Sister, farewel; I must to Coventry:
&blquo;As much good stay with thee, as go with me!

&blquo;Dut.
&blquo;Yet one word more; grief boundeth where it falls,
&blquo;Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:
&blquo;I take my leave before I have begun;
&blquo;For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
&blquo;Commend me to my brother, Edmund York.
&blquo;Lo, this is all:—Nay, yet depart not so;
&blquo;Though this be all, do not so quickly go;
&blquo;I shall remember more. Bid him—O, what?—
&blquo;With all good speed at Plashy visit me.
&blquo;Alack, and what shall good old York there see,
&blquo;But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
&blquo;Unpeopl'd offices, untrodden stones?
&blquo;And what hear there for welcome, but my groans?
&blquo;Therefore commend me; let him not come there,
&blquo;To seek out sorrow, that dwells every where:
&blquo;Desolate, desolate, will I hence, and die;
&blquo;The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. &blquo;[Exeunt severally.

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