Gau.
Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's blood ^note
Doth more solicit me, than your exclaims,
To stir against the butchers of his life.
But, since correction lyeth in those hands
Which made the fault that we cannot ^note correct,
Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;
Who, when they see ^note the hours ^note ripe on earth,
Will rain ^note hot vengeance on offenders' heads.

Dut.
Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
Were as seven vials of his sacred blood,
Or seven fair branches springing from one root:
Some of those seven are dry'd by nature's course,
Some of those branches by the destinies cut;
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloster,—
One vial 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 ^note all faded ^note,
By envy's hand, and murder's bloody axe.
Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine; that bed, that womb,
That metal ^note, 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

In some large measure to thy father's death,
In that thou see'st 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 shew'st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murther how to butcher thee:
That which in mean men we intitle—patience,
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own ^note life,
The best way is—to 'venge my Gloster's death.

Gau.
Heaven's is the quarrel; for heaven's ^note 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.

Dut.
Where then, alas ^note, may I complain ^note myself?

Gau.
To heaven ^note, the widow's champion and defence ^note.

Dut.
To heaven? why then, I will. Farewel, old Gaunt.
Thou go'st to Coventry, there to behold
Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight:
O, sit ^note 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 recreant to my cousin Hereford!
Farewel, old Gaunt; thy sometime ^note brother's wife,
With her companion grief must end her life.

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

Dut.
Yet one word more; Grief boundeth where it ^note falls,
Not with the empty ^note hollowness, but weight:
I take my leave before I have begun;
For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
Commend me to my ^note brother, Edmund ^note York.
Lo, this is all:—Nay, yet depart not so;
Though this be all, do not so quickly go;
I shall remember more. Bid him—O, what ^note?—
With all good speed at Plashy visit me.
Alack, and what shall good old York there see,
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Unpeopl'd offices, untrodden stones?
And what hear ^note there for welcome, but my groans?
Therefore commend me; let him not come there,
To seek out sorrow, that dwells every where:
Desolate, desolate, will I hence, and die;
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt, severally. 14Q0574 III.

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