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Thus plated in habiliments of war:
And formally, according to our Law,
Depose him in the justice of his Caufc.
Mar. What is thy name, and wherefore com'it thou

Before King Richard, in his royal Lists? [To Boling.
Against whom comest thou? and what's thy Quarrel
Speak like a true Knight, so defend thee heav'n!

Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby
Am I, who ready here do stand in arms,
To proves by heav'n's grace and my body's valour,
In Lifts, on Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolk,
That he's a traitor foul and dangerous,
To God of heav'n, King Richard, and to me;
And as I truly fight, defend me heav'n!

Mar. On pain of death, no person be so bold,
Or daring-hardy, as to touch the Lifts,
Except the Marshal, and such Officers
Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Baling. Lord Marshal, let me kiss my Soveraign's hand,
And bow my knee before his Majesty :
For Mowbray and my self are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;
Then let us take a ceremonious Leave
And loving Farewel of our several friends.
Mar. Tü'Appellant in all duty greets your Highness.

[To K. Rich. And craves to kiss your hand, and take his leave.

K. Rich. We will descend and fold him in our arms. Cousin of Hereford, as thy Cause is right, So be thy Fortune in this royal fight; Farewel, my Blood; which if to day thou shed, (4) Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

Boling (4) Farewel, my blood ;] i.e. my Kinsman. This Appellation is purely classical. Projice tela manu, Sanguis meus. Virg. Æn. vi. ver. 836. - Tu Sanguinis ultimus auctor.

Id. Æn. VII. ver. 49
Clarus Archija Venerisq; Sanguis,

Horat. Carm. Sæcul.
Vos Q
Pompilius Sanguis.

Id. Art. Poet. ver. 292.


Boling. Oh, let no noble eye profane a tear For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear : As confident, as is the Faulcon's fight Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. My loving lord, I take my leave of you, Of you, my noble Cousin, lord. Aumerlé. Not sick, although I have to do with Death ; But lusty, young, and chearly drawing Breath. Lo, as at English Feafts, so I regreet The daintieft last, to make the end most sweet; Oh thou! the earthly author of my blood, [To Gaunt, Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up To reach at Victory above my head, Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers ; And with thy Blessings steel my Lance's point, That it may enter Mowbray's waxen Coat, And furbish new the Name of John o'Gaunt Even in the lusty 'haviour of his son.

Gaunt. Heav'n in thy goodCause make thee prosperous! Be swift like Lightning in the execution, And let thy blows, doubly redoubled, Fall like amazing thunder on the Casque Of thy adverse pernicious enemy. Rouze up thy youthful blood, be brave and live.

Boling. Mine Innocence, God and St. George to thrive!

Mowb. However heav'n or fortune cast There lives, or dies, true to King Richard's Throne, A loyal, just and upright Gentleman ; Never did Captive with a freer heart Caft off his chains of bondage, and embrace His golden uncontrould enfranchisement, More than my dancing soul doth celebrate This Feast of battel, with mine adverfary. Most mighty Liege, and my companion Peers,

my lot,

tenet, longumg; tenebit Tarpeias årces Sanguis tuus.

Şil. Italicus. Lib. 3: vos, o Superi, meus, ordine Sanguis, Ne pugnate cdiis.

Statius. Theb. lib. 3. &c. &c. &c.


Take from my mouth the wish of happy years;
As gentle and as jocund, as to jest,
Go i to fight: Truth hath a quiet breaft.

K. Rich. Farewel, my lord ; securely I espy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.
Order the tryal, Marshal, and begin.

Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Receive thy Lance; and heav'n defend thy Right!

Boling. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry Amen.
Mar. Go bear this Lance to Thomas Duke of Norfolk.

i Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Stands here for God, his Soveraign and Himself,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A traitor to his God, his King, and him
And dares him to fet forward to the fight.

2 Her. Here ftandeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
On pain to be found false and recreant,
Both to defend himself, and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
To God, his Soveraign, and to him, disloyal :
Courageously, and with a free desire,
Attending but the Signal to begin. [A Charge founded.

Mar. Sound, Trumpets; and ler forward, Combatants.
-But ftay, the King hach thrown his warder down.
K. Rich. Let them lay by their helmets, and their

And Both return back to their chairs again :
Withdraw with us, and let the trumpets found,
While we return these Dukes what we decree.

[A long Flourish; after which, the King

Speaks to the Combatants.
Draw near;
And list, what with our Council we have done.
For that our Kingdom's earth should not be foil'd
With that dear blood, which it hath fostered ;
And, for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbour fwords ;
And for we think, the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts

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With rival-hating Envy set you on,
To wake our Peace, which in our country's cradle
Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep ;
(Which thus rouz'd up with boist'rous untun'd drums,
And harsh-resounding trumpets dreadfal Bray,
And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,
Might from our quiet Confines fright fair Peace,
And make us wade even in our kindreds blood :)
Therefore, we banish you our Territories.
You cousin Hereford, on pain of death,
Till twice five Summers have enrich'd our fields,
Shall not re-greet our fair Dominions,
But tread the stranger paths of Banishment.

Boling. Your will be done: this must my comfort be,
That Sun, that warms you here, shall shine on me :
And those his golden beams, to you here lent,
Shall point on me, and gild my Banishment.

K. Rich. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier Doom, Which I with some unwillingness pronounce. The fly-flow hours shall not determinate The dateless limit of thy dear exile : The hopeless word, of never to return, Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

Mowb. A heavy Sentence, my most soveraign Liege, And all unlook'd for from your Highness' mouth; A dearer merit, not so deep a maim, As to be cast forth in the common air, Have I deserved at your Highness' hands. The language I have learn'd these forty years, My native English, now I must forgo; And now my tongue's use is to me no more, Than an unstringed viol, or a harp, Or, like a cunning Instrument cas'd up, Or being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony. Within my mouth you have engoald my tongue, (5),

Doubly (5] Within my Mouth you have engoald my Tongue,

Doubly portcullisd with my Teeth and Lips :) These Verses Mr. Pope has degraded and thrown out of the Text, on Account of the Image convey'd in the second Line, as I presure. I am far from


Doubly port-cullis'd with my Teeth and Lips :
And duls, unfeeling, barren Ignorance
Is made my Goaler to attend on me.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a Pupil now:
What is thy Sentence then, but speechless death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate ;
After our Sentence, Plaining comes too late.

Mowb. Then thus I turn me from my country's light. To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.

K. Rich. Return again, and take an oath with ye.
Lay on our royal Sword your banish'd hands;
Swear by the duty that you owe to heav'n,
(Our part therein we banish with your selves,)
To keep the oath that we administer:
You never fall, (so help you truth, and heaven!)
Embrace each other's love in Banishment;
Nor ever look upon each other's face,
Nor ever write, re-greet, or reconcile
This low'ring tempest of your home-bred hate;
Nor ever by advised purpose meet,
To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,
Gainst us, our State, our Subjects, or our Land.

Boling. I swear.
Mowb. And I, to keep all this.

Boling. Norfolk, so far, as to mine enemy:--
By this time, had the King permitted us,
One of our souls had wandred in the air,
Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our flesh,
As now our Aesh is banish'd from this Land.
Confess thy treasons, ere thou fly this Realm;
Şince thou haft far to go, bear not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty soul.

Mowb. No, Bolingbroke ; if ever I were traitor, praising the Metaphor; but, perhaps, the Usage might be defended for once from the Example of our Master Homer.

'Ατρείδη, ποϊόν σε επG φύγεν έρκα δόνων.. Iliad. Δ. ν. 35ο. The špx öfórw here, methinks, approaches very nigh to the Idea of a Port-cullife.


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