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

Duch.
Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
Were as ^note seven vials of his sacred blood,
Or seven fair branches springing from one root:
Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,
Some of those branches by the Destinies cut;
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester,
One vial full of Edward's sacred blood,
One flourishing branch of his most royal root,
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt,
Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves ^note all faded ^note,
By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe.
Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! that bed, that womb,

That metal ^note, that self-mould, that fashion'd thee
Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest ^note,
Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent
In some large measure to thy father's death,
In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father's life.
Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair:
In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,
Thou showest ^note the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee:
That which in mean men we intitle patience
Is pale cold cowardice ^note in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine ^note own life,
The best way is to venge ^note my Gloucester's death.

Gaunt.
God's is the quarrel; for God's ^note substitute,
His deputy anointed in His sight,
Hath caused his death: the which if wrongfully,
Let heaven ^note revenge; for I may never lift
An angry arm against His minister.

Duch.
Where then, alas, may I complain ^note myself?

Gaunt.
To God ^note, the widow's ^note champion and defence ^note.

Duch.
Why, then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt. ^note
Thou goest ^note to Coventry, there to behold
Our cousin Hereford ^note and fell Mowbray fight:
O, sit ^note my husband's wrongs on Hereford ^note's spear,

That it may enter butcher ^note Mowbray's breast!
Or, if misfortune miss the first career ^note,
Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom,
That they may break his foaming courser's back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
A caitiff ^note recreant to my cousin Hereford ^note!
Farewell, old Gaunt: thy sometimes ^note brother's wife
With her companion grief must end her life.

Gaunt.
Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry:
As much good stay with thee as go with me!

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

^note

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