Boling.
May many years of happy days befal
My gracious soveraign, my most loving liege.

Mowb.
Each day still better others 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;
Namely t'appeal each other of high treason.
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Boling.
First, Heaven be the record to my speech.
In the devotion of a subject's love,
Tend'ring the precious safety of my Prince,
And free from other mis-begotten 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,

Or my divine soul answer it in heav'n.
Thou art a traitor and a miscreant.* ^note

Mowb.
Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal;
'Tis not the tryal of a woman's war,
The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,
Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;
The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this.
Yet can I not of such tame patience boast,
As to be husht, and nought at all to say.
First the fair rev'rence of your highness curbs me
From giving reins and spurs to my free speech,
Which else would post, until it had return'd
These terms of treason ^{a note}doubled down his throat.
Setting aside his high blood's royalty,
Let him but be no kinsman to my liege,
And I defie him, and I spit at him,
Call him a slanderous coward, and a villain;
Which to maintain, I would allow him odds,
And meet him, were I ty'd to run a-foot
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground inhabitable,
Where ^{b note}never Englishman durst set his foot.
Mean time, let this defend my loyalty,
By all my hopes most falsly doth he lie.

Boling.
Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage,
Disclaiming here the kindred of a King,

And lay aside my high blood's royalty,
(Which fear, not rev'rence, makes thee to except:)
If guilty dread hath left thee so much strength,
As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop.
By that, and all the ^{c note}rites of knighthood else,
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
What I have spoken, or thou canst devise.

Mowb.
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 tryal;
And when I mount, alive may I not light,
If I be traitor, or unjustly fight.

K. Rich.
What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge?
It must be great that can inherit us
So much as of a thought of ill in him.

Boling.
Look what I said, 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 lewd imployments;
Like a false traitor and injurious villain.
Besides, I say, and will in battel prove,
Or here, or elsewhere, to the furthest verge
That ever was survey'd by English eye;
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 Gloucester's death,
Suggest his soon-believing adversaries,
And consequently, like a traitor-coward,
Sluc'd out his inn'cent soul through streams of blood;
Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries

Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,
To me, for justice, and rough chastisement.
And by the glorious worth of my descent,
This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

K. Rich.
How high a pitch his resolution soars!
Thomas of Norfolk, what say'st thou to this?

Mowb.
O let my soveraign turn away his face,
And bid his ears a little while be deaf,
'Till I have told this ^{d note}sland'rer of his blood,
How God and good men hate so foul a liar.

K. Rich.
Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears.
Were he my brother, nay, our kingdom's heir,
As he is but my father's brother's son;
Now by my scepter's awe, I make a vow,
Such neighbour-nearness to our sacred blood
Should nothing priv'lege him, nor partialize
Th'unstooping firmness of my upright soul.
He is our subject, Mowbray, so art thou,
Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.

Mowb.
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,
Disburst I to his highness' soldiers;
The other part reserv'd I by consent,
For that my soveraign liege was in my debt,
Upon remainder of a dear account,
Since last I went to France to fetch his Queen.
Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester's death,
I slew him not, but to mine own disgrace,
Neglected my sworn duty in that case.
For you, my noble lord of Lancaster,
The honourable father to my foe,
Once I did lay an ambush for your life,
A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul;

But ere I last receiv'd the sacrament,
I did confess it, and exactly begg'd
Your grace's pardon; and I hope I had it.
This is my fault; as for the rest appeal'd,
It issues from the rancor of a villain,
A recreant and most degen'rate traitor:
Which in my self I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurle down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot,
To prove my self 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 tryal-day.

K. Rich.
Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul'd by me;
Let's purge this choler without letting blood:* ^note






Good uncle, let this end where it begun,
We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.

Gaunt.
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.

Gaunt.
When, Harry, when?
Obedience bids, I should not bid again.

K. Rich.
Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot.

Mowb.
My self I throw, dread soveraign, at thy foot.
My life thou shalt command, but not my shame,
The one my duty owes; but my fair name,
Despight of death that lives upon my grave,
To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have.

I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here,
Pierc'd to the soul, with slander's venom'd spear:
The which no balme can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath'd this poison.

K. Rich.
Rage must be withstood:
Give me his gage: Lions make Leopards tame.

Mowb.
Yea, but not change their spots: take but my shame,
And I resign my gage. My dear, dear lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford,
Is spotless reputation; that away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times barr'd up chest,
Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.
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.

Boling.
Oh heav'n defend my soul from such foul sin.
Shall I seem crest-fall'n in my father's sight,
Or with pale ^{e note}beggar face impeach my height,
Before this out-dar'd ^{f note}dastard? Ere my tongue
Shall wound my 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. [Exit Gaunt.

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 Saint Lambert's day.

There shall your swords and lances arbitrate
The swelling diff'rence of your settled hate:
Since we cannot attone you, you shall see
Justice decide the victor's chivalry.
Lord Marshal, ^{g note}bid our officers at arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms. [Exeunt.

Previous section

Next section