SCENE I.-London. A Room in the Palace. Enter King RICHARD, attended; JOHN of Gaunt, and other Nobles, with him.

K. Rich. Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd
Lancaster,

Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,
Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son;
Here to make good the boisterous late appeal,
Which then our leisure would not let us hear,
Against the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ?
Gaunt. I have, my liege.

K. Rich. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him,

If he appeal the duke on ancient malice,
Or worthily, as a good subject should,
On some known ground of treachery in him?
Gaunt. As near as I could sift him on that argu-
ment,

On some apparent danger seen in him,
Aim'd at your highness; no inveterate malice.
K. Rich. Then call them to our presence: face
to face,

And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear
Th' accuser, and th' accused, freely speak.-
[Exeunt some Attendants.
High-stomach'd are they both, and full of ire,
In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.

Re-enter Attendants with BOLINGBROKE, and

NORFOLK.

Boling. Many years of happy days befal My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege! Nor. Each day still better other's 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 flat

ters us,

As well appeareth by the cause you come;
Namely, to 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,

Tendering the precious safety of my prince,
And free from other misbegotten 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 heaven.
Thou art a traitor, and a miscreant;
Too good to be so, and too bad to live,
Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,
The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.
Once more, the more to aggravate the note,
With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat;
And wish, (so please my sovereign,) ere I move,
What my tongue speaks, my right-drawn sword

may prove.

Nor. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal.
'Tis not the trial 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 hush'd, and nought at all to say.
First, the fair reverence 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 doubled down his throat.
Setting aside his high blood's royalty,
And let him be no kinsman to my liege,
I do defy 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 tied to run a-foot
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground inhabitable
Where ever Englishman durst set his foot.
Mean time, let this defend my loyalty :-
By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie.
Boling. Pale trembling coward, there I throw

my gage,

Disclaiming here the kindred of the king;
And lay aside my high blood's royalty,

Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except:
If guilty dread have left thee so much strength,
As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop.
By that and all the rites of knighthood else,
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
What I have spoke, or thou canst worst devise.

Nor. 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 trial:
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 speak, 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 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 Gloster's death;
Suggest his soon-believing adversaries,
And, consequently, like a traitor coward,
Sluic'd out his innocent 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?
Nor. O! let my sovereign turn away his face,
And bid his ears a little while be deaf,
Till I have told this slander 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, my kingdom's heir,
As he is but my father's brother's son,
Now by my sceptre's awe I make a vow,
Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood
Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize
The unstooping firmness of my upright soul.
He is our subject, Mowbray, so art thou:
Free speech and fearless, I to thee allow.

Nor. 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,
Disburs'd I duly to his highness' soldiers:
The other part reserv'd I by consent;
For that my sovereign 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 Gloster'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 did I 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 rancour of a villain,
A recreant and most degenerate traitor;
Which in myself I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot,
To prove myself 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 trial day.

The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away,

me.

Let's purge this choler 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 month to bleed.-
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.

Nor. Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot.
My life thou shalt command, but not my shame :
The one my duty owes; but my fair name,
Despite 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 balm 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. Nor. Yea, but not change his spots: take but my shame,

And I resign my gage. My dear, dear lord,

Enter GAUNT, and Duchess of GLOSTER.
Gaunt. Alas! the part I had in Gloster's blood
Doth more solicit me, than your exclaims,
To stir 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 heaven;
Who when He sees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.
Duch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper
spur?

Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
Were as seven phials of his sacred blood,

Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,
Some of those branches by the destinies cut;
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloster,
One phial 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 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 suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter'd,
Thou show'st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we entitle patience,
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
The best way is to venge my Gloster'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 heaven revenge, for I may never lift
An angry arm against his minister.

Duch. Where then, alas! may I complain myself?

Gaunt. To God, the widow's champion and defence.

Duch. Why then, I will.-Farewell, old Gaunt. 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 caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford.
Farewell, old Gaunt: thy sometimes brother's wife
With her companion grief must end her life.

Gaunt. Sister, farewell: I must to Coventry.
As much good stay with thee, as go with me!
Duch. 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, 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-O! what?-
With all good speed at Plashy visit me.

SCENE III.-Gosford Green, near Coventry. Lists set out, and a Throne. Heralds, Sr., attending.

Enter the Lord Marshal, and AUMERLE. Mar. My lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd?

Aum. Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in. Mar. The duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold, Stays but the summons of the appellant's trumpet. Aum. Why then, the champions are prepar'd, and stay

For nothing but his majesty's approach.

Flourish. Enter King RICHARD, who takes his seat on his Throne; GAUNT, BUSHY, BAGOT, GREEN, and others, who take their places. A trumpet is sounded, and answered by another trumpet within. Then enter NORFOLK, in armour, preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich. Marshal, demand of yonder champion The cause of his arrival here in arms: Ask him his name; and orderly proceed To swear him in the justice of his cause.

Mar. In God's name, and the king's, say who thou art,

And why thou com'st thus knightly clad in arms: Against what man thou com'st, and what thy

quarrel.

Speak truly, on thy knighthood, and thine oath,
As so defend thee heaven, and thy valour!

Nor. My name is Thomas Mowbray, duke of
Norfolk;

Who hither come engaged by my oath,
(Which, God defend, a knight should violate!)
Both to defend my loyalty and truth,
To God, my king, and my succeeding issue,
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 heaven!

Trumpets sound. Enter BOLINGBROKE, in armour, preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich. Marshal, ask 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, Depose him in the justice of his cause.

Mar. What is thy name, and wherefore com'st thou hither,

Before King Richard in his royal lists?

Against whom com'st thou? and what is thy quarrel?

Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!
Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and
Derby,

Am I; who ready here do stand in arms,
To prove by God's grace, and my body's valour,

In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk,
That he's a traitor, foul and dangerous,
To God of heaven, king Richard, and to me;
And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

Mar. On pain of death no person be so bold,
Or daring hardy, as to touch the lists;
Except the marshal, and such officers
Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Boling. Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's hand,

And bow my knee before his majesty:
For Mowbray and myself are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;
Then let us take a ceremonious leave,
And loving farewell of our several friends.
Mar. The appellant in all duty greets your high-

ness,

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.
Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

Boling. O! let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear.
As confident as is the falcon's flight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.-
My loving lord, I take my leave of you;-
Of you, my noble cousin, lord Aumerle;—
Not sick, although I have to do with death,
But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.
Lo! as at English feasts, so I regreet

The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet:
O! thou,-[To GAUNT.]-the earthly author of
my blood,-

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 of Gaunt,
Even in the lusty 'haviour of his son.

Gaunt. God in thy good cause 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:

Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live. Boling. Mine innocence, and Saint George to thrive!

Nor. However God, or fortune, cast my lot, There lives or dies, true to king Richard's throne, A loyal, just, and upright gentleman. Never did captive with a freer heart Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement, More than my dancing soul doth celebrate This feast of battle with mine adversary.Most mighty liege, and my companion peers, 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 breast.

K. Rich. Farewell, my lord: securely I espy Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.Order the trial, marshal, and begin.

Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Receive thy lance; and God defend the right! Boling. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry, amen.