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.

Previous section

Next section