Mar.
My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd?

Aum.
Yea, at all Points, and longs to enter in.

Mar.
The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,
Stays but the Summons of the Appealant's Trumpet.

Aum.
Why then the Champions are prepar'd, and stay
For nothing but his Majesty's Approach. [Flourish. Enter King Richard, Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Green, and others; then Mowbray in Armour, and an Herald.

K. Rich.
Marshal, demand of yonder Champion
The Cause of his Arrival here in Arms;
Ask him his Name, and orderly proceed
To swear him in the Justice of his Cause.

Mar.
In God's Name and the King's, say who thou art? [To Mowb.
And why thou com'st, thus knightly clad in Arms?
Against what Man thou com'st, and what's thy Quarrel;
Speak truly on thy Knighthood, and thine Oath,
And so defend thee Heaven, and thy Valour.

Mowb.
My Name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
Who hither come, engaged by my Oath,
Which Heav'n defend a Knight should viola
Both to defend my Loyalty and Truth,
To God, my King, and his succeeding Issue,
Against the Duke of Hereford, that appeals me;
And by the Grace of God, and this mine Arm,
To prove him, in defending of my self,
A Traitor to my God, my King, and me;
And as I truly fight, defend me Heav'n. A Tucket sounds. Enter Bullingbroke, and an Herald.

K. Rich.
Marshal; ask yonder Knight in Arms,
Both who he is, and why he cometh hither,
Thus placed in Habiliments of War:
And formally according to our Law
Depose him in the Justice of his Cause.

Mar.
What is thy Name, and wherefore com'st thou hither
Before King Richard, in his Royal Lists? [To Bulling.
Against whom com'st thou? And what's thy Quarrel?
Speak like a true Knight, so defend thee Heav'n.

Bulling.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Am I, who ready here do stand in Arms,
To prove, by Heav'n's Grace, and my Body's Valour,
In Lists on Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolk,
That he's a Traitor foul and dangerous,
To God of Heav'n, King Richard, and to me;
And as I truly fight, defend me Heav'n.

Mar.
On pain of Death, no Person be so bold,
Or daring hardy, as to touch the Lists,
Except the Marshal, and such Officers
Appointed to direct these fair Designs.

Bulling.
Lord Marshal, let me kiss my Soveraign's Hand,
And bow my Knee before his Majesty:
For Mowbray and my self are like two Men
That vow a long and weary Pilgrimage,
Then let us take a ceremonious Leave
And loving Farewel of our several Friends.

Mar.
The Appealant in all duty greets your Highness, [To K. Rich.
And craves to kiss your Hand, and take his leave,

K. Rich.
We will descend and fold him in our Arms.
Cousin of Hereford, as thy Cause is just,
So be thy Fortune in this Royal Fight:
Farewel, my Blood, which if to Day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not Revenge thee dead.

Bulling.
Oh let no noble Eye prophane a Tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's Spear:
As confident, as is the Faulcon's flight
Against a Bird, do I with Mowbray fight.
My loving Lord, I take my leave of you,
Of you, my noble Cousin, Lord Aumerle;
Not sick, although I have to do with Death,
But lusty, young, and chearly drawing breath.
Lo, as at English Feasts, so I regreet
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.
Oh thou the Earthy Author of my Blood,
Whose youthful Spirit in me regenerate,
Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up
To reach at Victory above my Head,
Add proof unto mine Armour with thy Prayers,
And with thy Blessings steel my Lance's Point,
That it may enter Mowbray's Waxen Coat,
And furnish new the Name of John a Gaunt
Even in the lusty 'haviour of his Son.

Gaunt.
Heav'n in thy good Cause make thee prosperous,
Be swift like Lightning in the Execution,
And let thy Blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing Thunder on the Cask

Of thy amaz'd pernicious Enemy.
Rouze up thy youthful Blood, be valiant, and live.

Bulling.
Mine Innocence, and St. George to thrive.

Mowb.
However Heav'n or Fortune cast my Lot,
There lives, or dies, true to King Richard's Throne,
A loyal, just, and upright Gentleman:
Never did Captain with a freer Heart
Cast off his Chains of Bondage, and embrace
His golden uncontroul'd Enfranchisement,
More than my dancing Soul doth celebrate
This feast of Battel, with mine Adversary.
Most mighty Liege, and my Companion Peers,
Take from my Mouth the wish of happy Years;
As gentle, and as jocond, as to jest,
Go I to fight: Truth hath a quiet Breast.

K. Rich.
Farewel, my Lord, securely I espy
Virtue with Valour, couched in thine Eye.
Order the Trial, Marshal, and begin.

Mar.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Receive thy Launce, and Heav'n defend thy Right.

Bulling.
Strong as a Tower, in hope, I cry Amen.

Mar.
Go bear this Launce to Thomas Duke of Norfolk.

1 Her.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Stands here for God, his Soveraign, and himself,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A Traitor to his God, his King, and him,
And dares him to set forward to the fight.

2 Her.
Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
Both to defend himself, and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
To God, his Soveraign, and to him disloyal:
Couragiously, and with a free Desire,
Attending but the Signal to begin. [A charge sounded.

Mar.
Sound Trumpets, and set forward Combatants.
Stay, the King hath thrown his Warder down.

K. Rich.
Let them lay by their Helmets, and their Spears,
And both return back to their Chairs again:
Withdraw with us, and let the Trumpets sound,

While we return these Dukes what we decree. [A long Flourish.
Draw near, and list
What with our Council we have done.
For that our Kingdom's Earth should not be soil'd
With that dear Blood which it hath fostered,
And for our Eyes do hate the dire aspect
Of civil Wounds plough'd up with Neighbours Swords,
Which so rouz'd up with boisterous untun'd Drums,
With harsh resounding Trumpets dreadful bray,
And grating shock of wrathful Iron Arms,
Might from our quiet Confines fright fair Peace,
And make us wade even in our Kindreds Blood:
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,

Bulling.
Your will be done: This must my Comfort be,
That Sun that warms you here, shall shine on me:
And those his golden Beams to you here lent,
Shall point on me, and gild my Banishment.

K. Rich.
Norfolk; for thee remains a heavier Doom,
Which I with some unwillingness pronounce,
The sly 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.

Mowb.
A heavy Sentence, my most Soveraign Liege,
And all unlook'd for from your Highness Mouth:
A dearer Merit, not so deep a Maim,
As to be cast forth in the common Air
Have I deserved at your Highness Hands.
The Language I have learn'd these forty Years,
Ny native English, now I must forgo,
And now my Tongue's use is to me no more,
Than an unstringed Viol, or a Harp,
Or like a cunning Instrument cas'd up,
Or being open, put into his Hands
That knows no touch to tune the Harmony.

Within my Mouth you have engoal'd my Tongue,
Doubly percullis'd with my Teeth and Lips,
And dull, unfeeling, barren Ignorance,
Is made my Goaler to attend on me.
I am too old to frown upon a Nurse,
Too far in Years to be a Pupil now:
What is thy Sentence then, but speechless Death,
Which robs my Tongue from breathing native Breath?

K. Rich.
It boots thee not to be compassionate;
After our Sentence, plaining comes too late.

Mowb.
Then thus I turn me from my Country's light,
To dwell in solemn Shades of endless Night.

K. Rich.
Return again, and take an Oath with ye.
Lay on our Royal Sword your banish'd Hands;
Swear by the Duty that you owe to Heav'n,
(Our part therein we banish with your selves,)
To keep the Oath that we administer:
You never shall, so help you Truth, and Heav'n,
Embrace each others Love in Banishment,
Nor ever look upon each others Face,
Nor ever write, regreet, or reconcile
This lowring 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.

Bulling.
I swear.

Mowb.
And I, to keep all this.

Bulling.
Norfolk, so far, as to mine Enemy,
By this time, had the King permitted us,
One of our Souls had wandred in the Air,
Banish'd this frail Sepulchre of our Flesh,
As now our Flesh is banish'd from this Land.
Confess thy Treasons, e'er thou fly this Realm,
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty Soul.

Mowb.
No, Bullingbroke; if ever I were Traitor,
My Name be blotted from the Book of Life,
And I from Heav'n banish'd, as from hence;
But what thou art, Heav'n, thou, and I do know,
And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue.

Farewel, my Liege; now no way can I stray,
Save back to England; all the World's my way. [Exit.

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 spent,
Return with welcome home from Banishment.

Bulling.
How long a time lyes 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 e'er the six Years that he hath to spend,
Can change the Moons, and bring their times about,
My Oil-dry'd Lamp, and time-bewasted Light,
Shall be extinct with Age, and endless Night:
My inch of Taper will be burnt, and done,
And blindfold Death not let me see my Son.

K. Rich.
Why Uncle? Thou hast many Years to live.

Gaunt.
But not a Minute, King, that thou canst give;
Shorten my Days thou canst with sudden Sorrow,
And pluck Nights from me, but not lend a Morrow:
Thou canst help Time to furrow me with Age,
But stop no Wrinkle in his Pilgrimage:
Thy word is currant with him, for my Death;
But dead, thy Kingdom cannot buy my Breath.

K. Rich.
Thy Son is banish'd upon good advice,
Whereto thy Tongue a party-verdict gave;
Why at our Justice seem'st thou then to lowr?

Gaunt.
Things sweet to taste, prove in digestion sowr:
You urg'd me as a Judge, but I had rather
You would have bid me argue like a Father.
Alas, I look'd when some of you should say,
I was too strict to make mine own away:
But you gave leave to my unwilling Tongue,
Against my will, to do my self this wrong.

K. Rich.
Cousin, farewel; and, Uncle, bid him so:
Six Years we banish him, and he shall go. [Exit.

Flourish.

Aum.
Cousin, farewel, what presence must not know,
From where you do remain, let Paper show.

Mar.
My Lord, no leave take I, for I will ride
As far as Land will let me, by your side,

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

Bulling.
I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the Tongue's Office should be prodigal,
To breathe th' abundant dolour of the Heart.

Gaunt.
Thy Grief is but thy Absence for a time.

Bulling.
Joy absent, Grief is present for that time.

Gaunt.
What is six Winters, they are quickly gone?

Bulling.
To Men in joy; but grief makes one Hour ten.

Gaunt.
Call it a Travel that thou tak'st for pleasure.

Bulling.
My Heart will sigh, when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an inforced Pilgrimage.

Gaunt.
The sullen Passage of thy weary Steps
Esteem a Soil, wherein thou art to set
The precious Jewel of thy home return.

Bulling.
Oh who can hold a Fire in his Hand
By thinking on the Frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of Appetite,
By bare imagination of a Feast?
Or wallow naked in December Snow
By thinking on fantastick Summer's Heat?
Oh no, the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse;
Fell Sorrow's Tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.

Gaunt.
Come, come, my Son, I'll bring thee on thy way;
Had I thy Youth, and Cause, I would not stay.

Bulling.
Then England's Ground farewel; sweet Soil adieu,
My Mother and my Nurse, which bears me yet:
Where-e'er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banish'd, yet a true-born Englishman. [Exeunt.

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