King Rich.
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 boisterous late appeal
Which then, our leisure would not let us hear,
Against the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Gaunt.
I have, my liege.

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 on that argument,
On some apparent danger seen in him,
Aim'd at your highness, no invet'rate malice.

K. Rich.
Then call them to our presence; face to face,
The frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear
Th' accuser, and the accused, freely speak.

High stomach'd are they both, and full of ire;
In rage, deaf as the sea; hasty as fire. Enter Norfolk and Bolingbroke, &c. from opposite sides.

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

Norf.
Each day still better other's happiness;
Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap,
Add an immortal title to your crown.

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?

Bol.
First (Heaven be the record of 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 heav'n.
Thou art a traitor and a miscreant;
Too good to be so, and too bad to live.
Once more, the more to aggravate thy soul,
With a soul traitor's name, stuff I thy throat,
And wish (so please my sovereign) ere I part,
What my tongue speaks, my right drawn sword may prove.

Norf.
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
The terms of treason doubl'd down his throat.
Setting aside his high blood, and his royalty.
And let him be no kinsman to my liege,
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,
And meet him, were I ty'd to run afoot,
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground inhabitable,
Where ever Englishman durst set his foot.
Meantime, let this defend my loyalty:
By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie.

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.

Norf.
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.

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?

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,
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, that he did plot the duke
Of Gloster's death; and further will maintain
Upon his bad life, to make all this good:
“And, by the glorious worth of my descent,
“This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

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

“Norf.
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 soul a liar.

“K. Rich.
Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears;
“Were he our brother, nay, our kingdom's heir,
“As he is but our 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.”

Norf.
Then. Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,
Through the false passage of thy throat, thou ly'st!

Three parts of that receipt I had from Calais,
Disburs'd I duly to his highness' soldiers;
The other part reserv'd I by consent,
For that my Sovereign was in my debt,
Upon remainder of a dear account,
Since last I went to France to fetch his queen:
For Gloster's death,—
I slew him not; but, to my own disgrace,
Neglected my sworn duty in that case:
As for the rest appeal'd,
It issues from the rancour of a villain,
A recreant and most degenerate traitor:
Which in myself I boldly will defend,—
And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this over-weening 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 day of trial.

K. Rich.
Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul'd by me,
Let's purge this choler without letting blood:
Forget, forgive; conclude, and be agreed.
Good uncle, let this end where it arose;
We'll calm the duke of Norfolk, you your son.

Gaunt.
To be a make-peace, best my age becomes:
Throw down, my son, the duke of Norfolk's gage.

K. Rich.
And, Norfolk, throw down his.

Norf.
Myself, I throw, dread sovereign, at your feet,
My life thou shalt command, but not my shame:
I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here,
Pierc'd to the soul, with slander's venom dart;
The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath'd this poison.

K. Rich.
Rage must be withstood:
Give me his gage:—lions make leopards tame.

“Norf.
Yea, but not change his spots—take my disgrace,
“And I resign my gage.—My dearest sire,
“The purest treasure mortal times afford,
“Is—spotless reputation; that once lost,
“Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
“Mine honour is my life: both grow in one;
“Take honour from me, and my life is gone.

“K. Rich.
Cousin, do you begin throw up your gage.

“Bol.
O heaven defend me from so deep a sin!
“Shall I seem crest-fall'n in my father's presence,
“Or with pale beggar fear impeach my height,
“Before this out-dar'd dastard? Ere my lips
“Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong,
“Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear
“The slavish motive of recanting fear,
“And spit it bleeding, even in Mowbray's face.”

K. Rich.
We were not born to sue, but to command;
Which since we cannot do to make you friends,
Draw near, and list what, with our council, we have done,
For that our kingdom's earth shall not be soil'd,
With that dear blood which it hath foster'd;
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
Of civil wounds, plough'd up with neighbour swords,
And for we think the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,
With rival hating envy, set you on
To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle
Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep,
Therefore we banish you our territories:
You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of death,
Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields,

Shall not regreet our fair dominions,
But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

Bol.
Your will be done: this must be my comfort,
That sun that warms you here, shall shine on me;
And those his golden beams here lent to you,
Shall point on me, and gild my banishment.

K. Rich.
Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,
Which I with some unwillingness pronounce.
The fly-slow hours shall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear exile.
The hopeless word of—never to return—
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

Norf.
A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
And all unlook'd-for from your highness' mouth:
The language I have learnt these forty years,
My native English, I must now forego;
And now my tongue's use is to me no more
Than an unstringed viol or a harp.
A dearer merit, not so deep a maim,
As to be cast forth in the common air,
Have I deserved at your highness' hand;
Then thus I turn me from my country's light,
To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. [Going.]

K. Rich.
Return again, and take an oath with thee—
Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands—
Swear by the duty that you owe to heaven,
To keep the oath that we administer:
You never shall (so help you Truth and Heaven)
Embrace each other's love in banishment;
Nor ever write, regreet, nor reconcile,
This low'ring tempest of your home-bred hate,
Nor ever by advised purpose meet,

To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,
'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.

Bol.
I swear.

Norf.
And I, to keep all this.
Farewell, my liege—if ever I were traitor,
My name be blotted from the book of life,
And I from heaven banish'd, as from hence.
Now no way can I stray,—
Save back to England, all the world's my way. [Exit Norfolk.

K. Rich.
Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect
Hath from the number of his banish'd years
Pluck'd four away: six frozen winters o'er,
Return with welcome home from banishment.

Bol.
How long a time lies in one little word;
Four lagging winters, and four wanton springs,
End in a word—such is the breath of kings.

Gaunt.
I thank my liege, that, in regard of me,
He shortens four years of my son's exile;
But little vantage shall I reap thereby:
For ere the six years that he hath to spend
Can change their moons, and bring their times about,
My oil-dry'd lamp, and time-bewasted light,
With age and endless night shall be extinct.

K. Rich.
Thy son is banish'd upon good advice;
Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lour?
Cousin, farewell, and, uncle, bid him so—
Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [Flourish.] [Exit King, &c.

Aumerle.
Cousin, farewell;
From where you do remain, let paper show.

Mar.
My lord, no leave take I, for I will go
As far as land will let me by your side.

Gaunt.
O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends?

Bol.
I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the tongue's office should be prodigal
To breathe the abundant dolour of my heart.

Gaunt.
What is six winters? they are quickly gone:
Call it a travel that thou tak'st for pleasure.

Bol.
My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.

Gaunt.
The sullen passage of thy weary steps
Esteem a foil, wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home return.

Bol.
Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make
Will but remind me what a deal of world
I wander from the jewels that I love.

Gaunt.
All places that the eye of heaven visits,
Are to a wise man, ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus:
There is no virtue like necessity.
Think not the king did banish thee, my son,
But thou the king: Woe doth the heavier sit,
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne:
And gnarling sorrow hath less power to hurt
The man that mocks at it, and holds it light.

Bol.
O, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry eye of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastick summer's heat?
O, no! the apprehension of the good,
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.

Gaunt.
Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way.

Bol.
Then, England's ground, farewell, sweet soil, adieu!
My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet!
Where'er I wander, boast of this I can,—
Though banish'd, yet a true-born Englishman. [Exeunt.

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