Gaunt.
Alas, the part I had in Glo'ster's blood,
Doth more sollicit 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 correct,
Put we our quarrel to the will of heav'n;
Who when it sees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders heads.

Dutch.
Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's sev'n sons, whereof thy self art one,
Were as sev'n vials of his sacred blood;
Or sev'n fair branches springing from one root:
Some of those sev'n are dry'd by nature's course;
Some of those branches by the dest'nies cut:
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Glo'ster,
(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 hackt down, and his summer leaves all faded,
By envy's hand, and murder's bloody axe!

Ah Gaunt! his blood was thine; that bed, that womb,
That metal, 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 seest thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father's life.
Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair.
In suff'ring 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 entitle patience,
Is pale cold cowardise in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Glo'ster's death.

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

Dutch.
Where then, alas, may I complain my self?

Gaunt.
To heav'n, the widow's champion and defence.

Dutch.
Why then I will: farewel, old Gaunt farewel.
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 caytiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!

Farewel, old Gaunt; thy † ^notesometime brother's wife
With her companion grief, must end her life.

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

Dutch.
Yet one word more; grief boundeth where it falls,
Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:
I take my leave, before I have begun;
For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
Commend me to my brother, ^{h note}Edmund 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—oh, what?
With all good speed at Plashie visit me.
Alack, and what shall good old York see there
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Un-peopled offices, untrodden stones?
And what hear there for welcome, but my groans?
Therefore commend me, let him not come there
To seek out sorrow that dwells every where;
All desolate, will I from hence, and die;
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt.

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