Bol.
Bring forth those men.—
Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls,
(Since presently your souls must part your bodies),

With too much urging your pernicious lives;
For 'twere no charity: yet, to wash your blood
From off my hands, here in the view of men,
I will unfold some causes of your death.
You have misled a prince, a royal king;
You have, in manner, with your sinful hours,
“Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him;
“Broke the possession of a royal bed,
“And stain'd the beauty of a fair queen's cheeks,
“With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs:”
Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth,
Near to the king in blood, and near in love,
Till you did make him misinterpret me,—
Have stoop'd my neck under your injuries,
And sigh'd my English breath in foreign clouds,
Eating the bitter bread of banishment;
While you have fed upon my signories,
Dispark'd my parks, and fell'd my forest woods;
From my own windows torn my household coat,
Raz'd out my impress, leaving me no sign,
Save men's opinions, and my living blood,
To shew the world I am a gentleman.
This, and much more, condemns you to the death.
See them delivered
To execution and the hand of death.

Bush.
More welcome is the stroke of death to me,
Than Bolingbroke to England.—Lords, farewell.

Bol.
My lord Northumberland, see them dispatch'd [Exeunt Northumberland and Prisoners.
Uncle, you say the queen is at your house;
For heav'n's sake, fairly let her be intreated;
Tell her, I send to her my kind commends;
Take special care my greetings be deliver'd.

York.
A gentleman of mine I'll straight dispatch
With letters of your love to her at large. [Exit York.

Bol.
Thanks, gentle uncle.
Now, Henry, steel thy fearful thoughts,
And change misdoubt to resolution:
Be what thou hop'st to be: or what thou art
Resign to death; it is not worth enjoying:
Let pale-fac'd fear keep with the mean-born man,
And find no harbour in a royal heart.
Faster than spring-time showers, comes thought on thought,
And not a thought, but thinks on dignity.
My brain, more busy than a labouring spider,
Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
Now, whilst Richard safely is in Ireland,
I have stirr'd up in England this black storm,
By which I shall perceive the commons' minds:
And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage
Until the golden circuit on my head,
Like to the glorious sun's transparent beams,
Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw:
Come, my lords, away,
Awhile to work, and, after, holiday. [Flourish.] [Exeunt.

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