KING RICHARD.
Old John of Gaunt, time honour'd Lancaster,
Hast thou, according to thy Oathand Band,
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 him on that Argument,

On some apparent Danger seen in him,
Aim'd at your Highness, no inveterate Malice.

K. Rich.
Then call them to our Presence, Face to Face,
And frowning Brow to Brow, our selves 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 Bullingbroke and Mowbray.

Bulling.
Many Years of happy Days befal
My gracious Soveraign, my most loving Liege.

Mowb.
Each Day still better others Happiness;
Until the Heav'ns 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?

Bulling.
First Heaven be the Record to my Speech,
In the Devotions of a Subject's Love,
Tendring the precious Safety of my Prince,
And free from other mis-begotten Hate,
Come I Appealant 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 the 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 too live.
Since the more fair and crystal is the Sky,
The uglier seem the Clouds that in it fly:
Once more, the more to aggravate the Note,
With a foul Traitor's Name stuff I thy Throat,
And wish, so please my Soveraign, e'er I move,
What my Tongue speaks, my right drawn Sword may prove.

Mowb.
Let not my cool 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 husht, 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 doubly down his Throat.
Setting aside his high Blood's Royalty,
And let him be no Kinsman to my Liege,
I do defie 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 tide 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 fasly doth he lie.

Bulling.
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 lest thee so much Strength,
As to take up mine Honour's Pawn, then stoop.
By that, and all the Rights of Knighthood else,
Will I make good against thee Arm to Arm,
What I have spoken, or thou canst devise.

Mowb.
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.

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.

Bulling.
Look what I said, 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 Imployments;
Like a false Traitor and injurious Villain;
Besides, I say, and will in Battel 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,
Fetcht 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 Gloucester's Death,
Suggest his soon believing Adversaries,
And consequently, like a Traitor Coward,
Sluc'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.

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

Mowb.
O let my Soveraign turn away his Face,
And bid his Ears a little while be deaf,
'Till I have told this Slander of his Blood,
How God and good Men hate so foul a Liar.

K. Rich.
Mowbray, impartial are our Eyes and Ears.
Were he my Brother, nay, our Kingdom's Heir,
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.

Mowb.
Then, Bullingbroke, as low as to thy Heart,
Through the false Passage of thy Throat, thou liest:
Three parts of that Receipt I had for Callice,
Disburst I to his Highness Soldiers;
The other part reserv'd I by consent,
For that my Soveraign Liege was in my Debt,
Upon remainder of a dear Account,
Since last I went to France to fetch his Queen:
Now swallow down that Lie. For Gloucester's Death,
I slew him not; but, to mine own Disgrace,
Neglected my sworn Duty in that Case.

For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,
The honourable Father to my Foe,
Once I did lay an Ambush for your Life,
A Trespass that doth vex my grieved Soul;
But e'er I last receiv'd the Sacrament,
I did confess it, and exactly begg'd
Your Grace's Pardon; and I hope I had it.
This is my Fault; as for the rest appeal'd,
It issues from the Rancor of a Villain;
A Recreant and most dangerous Traitor,
Which in my self I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurle down my Gage,
Upon this overweening Traitor's Foot,
To prove my self 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.

K. Rich.
Wrath-kindled Gentlemen, be rul'd by me;
Let's purge this Choler without letting Blood:
This we prescribe, though no Physician.
Deep Malice makes too deep Incision.
Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed,
Our Doctors say, this is no time bleed.
Good Uncle, let this end where it begun,
We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your Son.

Gaunt.
To be a Make-peace shall become my Age;
Throw down, my Son, the Duke of Norfolk's Gage.

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

Gaunt.
When Harry, when? Obedience bids,
Obedience bids, I should not bid again,

K. Rich.
Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot.

Mowb.
My self I throw, dread Soveraign, at thy Foot.
My Life thou shalt command, but not my Shame;
The one my Duty owes; but my fair Name,
Despight of Death that lives upon my Grave,
To dark Dishonours use, thou shalt not have.
I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffl'd here,
Pierc'd to the Soul, with Slanders venom'd Spear.
The which no Blame 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.

Mowb.
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 guilded 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.
Then, dear my Liege, mine Honour let me try,
In that I live, and for that will I die.

K. Rich.
Cousin, throw down your Gage; do you begin.

Bulling.
Oh Heav'n defend my Soul from such foul Sin.
Shall I seem Crest-fall'n in my Father's Sight,
Or with pale beggar'd Fear impeach my hight
Before this out-dar'd Bastard? E'er my Tongue
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 in his high Disgrace,
Where Shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's Face. [Exit Gaunt.

K. Rich.
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 you settled Hate:
Since we cannot attone you, you shall see
Justice design the Victor's Chivalry.
Lord Marshal command our Officers at Arms,
Be ready to direct these home Alarms. [Exeunt.

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