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

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

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

Enter Fitzwater. ^note

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

Boling.
Thy pains, Fitzwater ^note, shall not be forgot;
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. Enter ^note Percy, and 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;
But here is Carlisle living, to ^note abide
Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride.

Boling.
Carlisle, this is ^note your doom:
Choose out some secret place, some reverend ^note room,
More than ^note thou hast, and with it joy thy life ^note;
So as thou livest in peace, die free from strife:
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen. Enter ^note Exton, with persons bearing a coffin.

Exton.
Great king, within this coffin I present
Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of thy greatest ^note enemies,
Richard of Bordeaux ^note, by me hither brought.

Boling.
Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought

A deed of slander ^note, with thy fatal hand,
Upon my head and all this famous land.

Exton.
From your own mouth, my lord ^note, 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 thorough shades ^note of night,
And never show thy head by day nor ^note light.
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me to make ^note me grow:
Come, mourn with me for that ^note I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent: ^note
I'll make a voyage to the Holy ^note Land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand:
March sadly after; grace my mournings ^note here;
In weeping after ^note this untimely bier. [Exeunt. ^note

NOTES. ^note