K. Rich.
Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd Lancaster,
Hast thou, according to thy oath and bond,
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?

Gau.
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?

Gau.
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, [Exeunt attendants.
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear
The 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. Re-enter Attendants, with Bolingbroke(C)8Q0120 and Norfolk.

Bol.
Full many years of happy days befal
My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!

Nor.
Each day still better other's happiness;
Until the heavens, 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;^{5 note}
Namely, to appeal^{6 note} each other of high treason.—
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Bol.
First (heaven be the record to my speech!)
In the devotion of a subject's love,
And free from wrath or misbegotten hate,
Come I appellant 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 this earth.
Thou art a traitor, and a miscreant;

Too good to be so, and too bad to live.
And wish (so please my sovereign), ere I move,
What my tongue speaks, my right-drawn^{7 note} sword may prove.

Nor.
Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal:
First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me
From giving rein and spur to my free speech;
Which else would post, until it had return'd
These terms of treason doubled down his throat.
Setting aside his high blood's royalty,
And let him be no kinsman to my liege,
I do defy him, and I spit at him;
Call him—a slanderous coward, and a villain:
Which to maintain, I would allow him odds.

Bol.
Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage,
Disclaiming here the kindred of a king.
If guilty dread hath left thee so much strength,
As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop;
By that, and all the rites of knighthood else,
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise.

Nor.
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.

K. Rich.
What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge?

Bol.
Look, what I speak 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 lew'd^{8 note} employments,
Like a false traitor, and injurious villain.
Besides I say, and will in battle prove,
That all the treasons, for these eighteen years,
Complotted and contrived in this land,
Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.
Further I say,—and further will maintain—
That he did plot the Duke of Gloster's death.(D)8Q0121

And, by the glorious worth of my descent,
This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

Nor.
Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,
Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest!
Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais,
Disburs'd I duly to his highness' soldiers:
The other part reserv'd I by consent;
For that my sovereign liege was in my debt,
Upon remainder of a clear account,
Since last I went to France to fetch his queen:
For Gloster's death, I slew him not.
As for the rest appeal'd,^{9 note}
It issues from the rancour of a villain,
A recreant and most degenerate traitor:
Which in myself I boldly will defend;
And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening^{10 note} traitor's foot,
To prove myself 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.
Forget, forgive; conclude, and be agreed.
Good uncle, let this end where it begun;
We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.

Gau.
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.

Nor.
Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot:
My life thou shalt command, but not my shame.
I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here;
Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear;
The purest treasure mortal times afford,
Is—spotless reputation; that away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
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.

Bol.
Heaven defend my soul from such foul sin!
Shall I seem crest-fallen in my father's sight?
Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height
Before this outdar'd dastard? Ere my tongue
Should wound mine 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.

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 St. Lambert's day:
There shall your swords and lances arbitrate
The swelling difference of your settled hate.
Marshal, command our officers at arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms.(E)8Q0122 [Flourish of Trumpets. Scene II. —A ROOM IN THE DUKE OF LANCASTER'S PALACE,(F)8Q0123 Enter Gaunt,^{11 note} and Duchess of Gloster.(G)8Q0124

Gau.
Alas! the part^{12 note} I had in Gloster's 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 he sees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain not vengeance on offender's heads.

Duch.
Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's seven sons,(H)8Q0125 whereof thyself art one,
Were as seven phials 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 Gloster,—
One phial 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 all faded,
By envy's hand, and murder's bloody axe.
Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine;
That mettle, that self mould, that fashion'd thee,
Made him a man; and though thou liv'st and breath'st,
Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent^{13 note}
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 show'st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee:
That which in mean men we entitle—patience,
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
The best way is—to 'venge my Gloster's death.

Gau.
Heaven's is the quarrel; for heaven's substitute,
His deputy anointed in his sight,
Hath caus'd his death: the which if wrongfully,
Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift
An angry arm against his minister.

Duch.
Where then, alas! may I complain myself?^{14 note}

Gau.
To heaven, the widow's champion to defence.

Duch.
Why, then, I will. Farewell: farewell old Gaunt.
Thou go'st to Coventry, there to behold
Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear,
That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast!
Or, if misfortune miss the first career,
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^{15 note} recreant^{16 note} to my cousin Hereford!
Farewell, old Gaunt; thy sometime brother's wife,
With her companion grief must end her life.

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

Duch.
I take my leave before I have begun;
For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.
Commend me to my brother, Edmund York;
Bid him with speed at Plashy^{17 note} visit me.
Alack, and what shall good old York there see,
But empty lodgings and unfurnish'd walls,^{18 note}
Unpeopled offices,^{19 note} untrodden stones?
And what cheer there for welcome, but my groans?
Therefore commend me; let him not come there,
To seek out sorrow that dwells every where:
Desolate, desperate, will I hence, and die;
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt.

Scene III. —GOSFORD GREEN, NEAR COVENTRY. Lists set out. King Richard seated on his Throne;^{20 note} Gaunt, and several Noblemen with him. The Lord Marshal(I)8Q0126 and Aumerle(K)8Q0127, Heralds, Pages, Soldiers, &c., attending. Chairs placed on opposite sides for the Combatants. (Flourish of Trumpets.)

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 appellant's trumpet.

Aum.
Why, then, the champion's are prepar'd, and stay
For nothing but his majesty's command. A Trumpet is sounded, answered by another Trumpet within. Then enter Norfolk, in armour, preceded by a 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 Heaven's name, and the King's, say who thou art,
And why thou com'st, thus knightly clad in arms?
Speak truly, on thy knighthood, and thy oath;
And so defend thee heaven, and thy valour!

Nor.
My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk;
Who hither come engaged by my oath,
Both to defend my loyalty and truth,
Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me;
And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven! [He takes his seat.

Trumpet sounds. Enter Bolingbroke, in armour; preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich.
Marshal, demand of yonder knight in arms,
Both who he is, and why he cometh hither
Thus plated 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?
Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!

Bol.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Am I; who ready here do stand in arms,
To prove, by heaven's grace, and my body's valour,
In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
That he's a traitor, foul and dangerous,
And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven! [He takes his seat.

King-at-arms.
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.

Bol.
Lord Marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's hand,
And bow my knee before his majesty:
For Mowbray, and myself, are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;
Then let us take a ceremonious leave,
And loving farewell, of our several friends.

Mar.
The appellant in all duty greets your highness,
And craves to kiss your hand, and take his leave.

K. Rich.
We will descend, and fold him in our arms. [Flourish of Trumpets. Bolingbroke rises, and kneels to the King.
Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right,
So be thy fortune in this royal fight!

Bol.
As confident, as is the falcon's flight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight—
My loving lord, [To Lord Marshal] I take my leave of you;
Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle:—
O thou, the earthly author of my blood,— [To Gaunt.
Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers;
And with thy blessings steel my lance's point.

Gau.
Heaven in thy good cause make thee prosperous!
Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant, and live.

Bol.
Mine innocency, and St. George to thrive! [He takes his seat.

Nor. (kneeling to the King.)
However heaven or fortune cast my lot,
There lives or dies, true to King Richard's throne,
A loyal, just and upright gentleman:
Most mighty liege,—and my companion peers,—
Take from my mouth the wish of happy years;
As gentle and as jocund, as to jest,^{21 note}
Go I to fight; Truth hath a quiet breast.

K. Rich.
Farewell, my lord: securely I espy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.—
Order the trial, Marshal, and begin. [Flourish of Trumpets—The King and the Lords return to their seats, and the Combatants mount their horses.

Mar.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Receive thy lance; heaven defend the right!

Bol.
Strong as a tower in hope, I cry—amen.

Mar.
Go bear this lance [To an Officer.] To Thomas, Duke of Norfolk.

1 Her.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Stands here,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A traitor to heaven, his king, and him,
And dares him to set forward to the fight.

2 Her.
Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
Both to defend himself, and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
To heaven, his sovereign, and to him, disloyal.

Mar.
Sound, trumpets; and set forward, combatants. [A Charge sounded.
Stay, the king hath thrown his warder^{22 note} 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—Combatants dismount, and resume their chairs.
Draw near, [To the Combatants]
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;^{23 note}
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspéct
Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours' swords;
Therefore, we banish you our territories:—
You, couzin 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.

Bol.
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 hopeless word of—never to return
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.(L)8Q0128

Nor.
A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
And all unlook'd for from your highness' mouth:
The language I have learn'd these forty years,
My native English, now I must forego:
And now my tongue's use is to me no more,
Than an unstringed viol or a harp.
What is thy sentence then, but speechless death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?
Then thus I turn me from my country's light,
To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. [Retiring.

K. Rich.
Return again, and take an oath with thee.
Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands;
Swear by the duty that you owe to heaven,
To keep the oath that we administer:—

You never shall (so help you truth and heaven!)
Embrace each other's love in banishment;
Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile
This lowering tempest of your home-bred hate;
Nor never by advised^{24 note} purpose meet,
To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,
'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.

Bol.
I swear.

Nor.
And I, to keep all this.
If ever I were traitor,
My name be blotted from the book of life,
And I from heaven banish'd, as from hence!
But what thou art, heaven, thou, and I do know;
And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue.
Farewell, my liege.—Now no way can I stray;
Save back to England, all the world's my way.(M)8Q0129 [Exit.

K. Rich.
Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspéct
Hath from the number of his banish'd years
Pluck'd four away;—Six frozen winters spent,
Return [to Bolingbroke] with welcome home from banishment.

Bol.
How long a time lies in one little word!
Four lagging winters, and four wanton springs,
End in a word; such is the breath of kings.

Gau.
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, ere the six years, that he hath to spend,
Can change their moons, and bring their times about,
My oil-dried lamp, and time-bewasted light,
Shall be extinct with age, and endless night.

K. Rich.
Thy son is banish'd upon good advice,^{25 note}
Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lower?
Cousin, farewell:—and, uncle, bid him so;
Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [Flourish. Exeunt King Richard and Train.

Aum.
Cousin, farewell: 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.

Gau.
O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends?

Bol.
I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the tongue's office should be prodigal
To breathe the abundant dolour^{26 note} of the heart.

Gau.
What is six winters?—They are quickly gone.
Call it a travel that thou tak'st for pleasure.

Bol.
My heart will sigh, when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.

Gau.
All places that the eye of heaven visits,
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens:
Teach thy necessity to reason thus;
There is no virtue like necessity.
Think not, the king did banish thee;
But thou the king: Woe doth the heavier sit,
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.
For gnarling^{27 note} sorrow has less power to bite
The man that mocks at it, and sets it light.

Bol.
O, 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 fantastic summer's heat?
O, no! the apprehension of the good,
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.

Gau.
Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way.

Bol.
Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu;
My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet:
Wheree'er I wander, boast of this I can,—
Though banish'd, yet a trueborn Englishman.(N)8Q0130 [Exeunt. END OF ACT FIRST.

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