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· K. Rich. What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's It must be great, that can inhabit us [charge ? So much as of a thought of ill in him.
Boling. Look what I said, my life shall prove it true, That Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles, In name of lendings for your Highness' foldiers, The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments; Like a false traitor and injurious villain. Besides, I say, and will in battle 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 Upon his bad life to make all this good, That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death; Suggest his foon-believing adversaries; And consequently, like a traitor-coward, Sluce'd out his inn'cent soul through streams of blood; Which blood, like facrificing 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 defcent, This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.
K. Rich. How high a pitch his resolution foars !
Mowb. O, let my Sovereign turn away his face,
K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears.
Mowh. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart Through the false pallage of thy throat thou lyest!
Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais,
K. Rich. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruld by me;
fon. Gaunt. To be a make-peace shall become my age; Throw down, my fon, the Duke of Norfolk's gage.
K. Rich. And, Norfolk, throw down his.
Gaunt. When, Harry, when ? Obedience bids I should not bid again.
without letting blood. This we prescribe, though no physician; Deep malice makes too deep incision : Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed : Our doctors say, this is no time to bleedi Good uncle, &c.
K. Richa Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no
boot. Morb.Myself I throw, dread Sovereign, at thy foot. My life thou shalt command, but not my shame; The one my duty owes ;
my (Despight of death, that lives upon my grave), To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have. I am disgrace'd, impeach'd, and baffled here, Pierce'd to the soul with slander's venom'd fpear: The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood Which breath'd this poison.
K. Rich. Rage must be withstood :
you begin. Boling. Oh, heaven defend my soul from such foul fin ! Shall I seem crest-fall’n in my father's sight, Or with pale beggar face impeach my height, Before this out-dar'd daftar'd? Ere my tongue Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong, Or found fo base a parle, my teeth shall tear The flavilh motive * of recanting fear, And spit it bleeding, in his high disgrace, Where shame doth harbour, ev'n 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. * Motive, tor inftrument,
in one ;
There shall your swords and lances arbitrate
Changes to the Duke of Lancaster's palace.
Enter Gaunt, and Duchess of Gloucester. Gaunt. Alas! the part I had in Glo'ster's blood ** Doth more folicit me than your exclaims, To ftir 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 Heav'n; Who when it sees the hours ripe on earth, Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.
Duch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper fpur? Hath love in thy old blood no living fire ? Edward's sev'n fons, whereof thyself art one, Were as fev’n vials of his sacred blood; Or sev'n fair branches springing from one root: Some of those fev'n are dry'd by Nature's course; Some of those branches by the deit’nies cut: B;ut 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 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 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 con;ent In some large measure to thy father's death; In that thou leeft thy wretched brother die, Who was the model of thy father's life. Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair,
• Meaning the relation he had to it. VOL.IV. B
In suff'ring thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,
Gaunt. God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute,
Duch. Where then, alas, may I complain myself?
Gaunt. Siiter, farewel; I must to Coventry.
Duch. Yet one word more; grief boundeth where it
- nay, yet depart not fo;
* i. e. formerly.