There fhall your Swords and Lances arbitrate
The fwelling diff'rence of your fettled hate.
Since we cannot atone you, you fhall fee
Juftice decide the Victor's Chivalry.
Lord Marthal, bid our officers at Arms
Be ready to direct thefe home-alarms.
Changes to the Duke of Lancaster's Palace.
Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucester.
Las! the part I had in Glo'fter's blood
*
Doth more follicit me, than your Ex-
claims,
To ftir against the butchers of his life.
But fince correction lyeth in thofe hands,
Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our Quarrel to the Will of heav'n;
Who when it fees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.
Dutch. Finds brotherhood in thee no fharper fpur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's fev'n fons, whereof thy felf art one,
Were as fev'n vials of his façred blood;
Or fev'n fair branches, fpringing from one root:
Some of those fev'n are dry'd by Nature's Course;
Some of those branches by the Deft'nies cut:
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Glofter,
One vial, full of Edward's facred blood,
One flourishing branch of his moft royal root,
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor fpilt;
Is hackt down, and his fummer 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;
The part I had.] That is, my relation of confanguinity to Gloucefter.
Made him a man; and though thou liv'ft and breath'st,
Yet art thou flain in him; thou doft confent
In fome large measure to thy father's death;
In that thou feeft thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father's life;
Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair.
In fuff'ring thus thy brother to be flaughter'd,
Thou fhew'ft the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching ftern murther how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we entitle Patience,
Is pale cold Cowardife in noble breafts,
What fhall I fay? to fafeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Glofter's death.
Gaunt. God's is the Quarrel; for God's Subftitute, His Deputy anointed in his fight,
Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully,
Let God revenge, for I may never lift
An angry arm against his Minifter.
Dutch. Where then, alas, may I complain myself? 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 Coufin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
O, fit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's fpear,
That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breaft!
Or, if misfortune mifs the firft career,
Be Mowbray's fins fo heavy in his bofom,
That they may break his foaming Courfer's back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lifts,
A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!
Farewel, old Gaunt; thy fometime brother's wife
With her companion Grief muft end her life.
8 A caitiff recreant-] Caitiff originally fignified a prifoner; next a flave, from the condition of prisoners; then a Scoundrel, from the qualities of a flave.
Ημισυ τῆς ἀρελῆς ἀποαίνυται δόλιον ήμαρ.
In this paffage it partakes of all these fignifications.
Gaunt. Sifter, 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 hollownefs, but weight:
I take my leave, before I have begun;
For Sorrow ends not, when it feemeth done.
Commend me to my brother, Edmund York:
Lo, this is all-nay, yet depart not fo;
Though this be all, do not fo quickly go:
I fhall remember more. Bid him
oh, what?
With all good speed at Plafbie vifit me.
Alack, and what fhall good old York fee there
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Unpeopled offices, untrodden ftones?
And what hear there for welcome, but my groans?
Therefore commend me,-let him not come there
To feek out forrow that dwells every where;
All defolate, will I from hence, and die;
The laft Leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt.
Enter the Lord-Marshal, and Aumerle.
Y lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd? Aum. Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.
Mar. The Duke of Norfolk, fprightfully and bold, Stays but the Summons of th' Appellant's trumpet. Aum. Why, then the Champions are prepar'd, and
For nothing but his Majefty's approach.
The trumpets found, and the King enters with Gaunt, Bufhy, Bagot, and others: when they are fet, Enter the Duke of Norfolk in armour.
K. Rich. Marfhal, demand of yonder Champion
The caufe of his arrival here in arms;
Aik him his name, and orderly proceed
To fwear him in the juftice of his Caufe.
Mar. In God's name and the King's, fay who thou art? [To Mowbray. And why thou com'ft, thus knightly clad in arms? Against what man thou com'ft, and what thy quarrel? Speak truly on thy Knighthood, and thine Oath, And fo defend thee heaven, and thy valour!
Mowb. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
Who hither come engag'd by my oath,
(Which, heav'n defend, a Knight fhould violate!)
Both to defend my Loyalty and Truth,
To God, my King, and his fucceeding Iffue",
Against the Duke of Hereford, that appeals me;
And by the grace of God, and this mine arm,
To prove him, in defending of myself,
A traitor to my God, my King, and me;
And, as I truly fight, defend me heav'n!
The trumpets found. Enter Bolingbroke, Appellant,
K. Rich. Marshal, afk yonder Knight in arms,
Both who he is, and why he cometh hither,
Thus plated in habiliments of war;
And formally, according to our Law,
bis fucceeding fue,] Such is the reading of the first folio; the later editions read my Iffue. Mowbray's Ifue was, by this accufation, in danger of an attaind
er, and therefore he might come among other reafons for their fake, but the old reading is more juft and grammatical.
Depose him in the juftice of his Cause.
Mar. What is thy name, and wherefore com'ft thou
hither,
Before King Richard, in his royal Lifts? [To Boling.
Against whom comeft thou? and what's thy Quarrel?
Speak like a true Knight, fo defend thee heav'n!
Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Am I, who ready here do ftand in arms,
To prove, 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 perfon be fo bold,
Or daring-hardy, as to touch the Lifts,
Except the Marshal, and fuch officers
Appointed to direct these fair designs.
Boling. Lord Marfhal, let me kifs my Sovereign's
hand,
And bow my knee before his Majesty :
For Mowbray and myfelf are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;
Then let us take a ceremonious Leave,
And loving Farewel, of our feveral friends.
Mar. Th' Appellant in all duty greets your High
[To K. Rich. And craves to kiss your hand, and take his leave.
K. Rich. We will defcend and fold him in our arms.
Coufin of Hereford, as thy Caufe is right,
So be thy Fortune in this royal fight!
Farewel, my Blood; which if to-day thou fhed,
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.
Boling. Oh, let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's fpear.
As confident, as is the Faulcon's flight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.
My loving lord, I take my leave of you,
Of you, my noble Coufin, lord Aumerle.
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