Bolingbroke.
Bring forth these men.—
Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls
(Since presently your souls must part your bodies)
With too much urging your pernicious lives;
For 'twere no charity: yet to wash your blood
From off my hands, here, in the view of men,
I will unfold some causes of your deaths.
You have mis-led a Prince, a royal King,
A happy Gentleman in blood and lineaments,
By you unhappy'd, and disfigur'd clean.
You have, in manner, with your sinful hours
Made a divorce betwixt his Queen and him;
Broke the Possession of a royal Bed,
And stain'd the Beauty of a fair Queen's cheeks
With tears drawn from her eyes, with your foul wrongs.
My self, a Prince, by fortune of my birth,
Near to the King in blood, (and near in love,
Till you did make him mis-interpret me,)
Have stoopt my neck under your injuries;
And sigh'd my English breath in foreign clouds,
Eating the bitter bread of Banishment:
While you have fed upon my Signiories;
Dis-park'd my Parks, and fell'd my forest-woods;
From mine own windows torn my houshold Coat;
Raz'd out my Impress; leaving me no sign,
Save mens' opinions, and my living blood,
To shew the world I am a gentleman.
This, and much more, much more than twice all this,

Condemns you to the death. See them deliver'd
T'execution, and the hand of death.

Bushy.
More welcome is the stroak of death to me,
Than Bolingbroke to England.—Lords, farewel.

Green.
My comfort is, that heav'n will take our souls,
And plague injustice with the pains of hell.

Boling.
My lord Northumberland, see them dispatch'd.
Uncle, you say the Queen is at your house;
For heav'n's sake, fairly let her be intreated;
Tell her, I send to her my kind Commends;
Take special care, my Greetings be deliver'd.

York.
A gentleman of mine I have dispatch'd
With letters of your love to her at large.

Boling.
Thanks, gentle Uncle: come, my lords, away,
To fight with Glendower and his Complices;
A while to Work; and, after, Holy-day. [Exeunt.

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