The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (moboreader .TXT) 📕

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.

KING RICHARD. And, Norfolk, throw down his.

GAUNT. When, Harry, when?

Obedience bids I should not bid again.

KING RICHARD. Norfolk, throw down; we bid.

There is no boot.

MOWBRAY. 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 baffl’d 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.

KING RICHARD. Rage must be withstood:

Give me his gage-lions make leopards tame.

MOWBRAY. Yea, but not change his spots. Take but my shame, And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away,

Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.

A jewel in a tentimes barr’d-up chest Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.

Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done: Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try; In that I live, and for that will I die.

KING RICHARD. Cousin, throw up your gage; do you begin.

BOLINGBROKE. O, God defend my soul from such deep sin!

Shall I seem crest-fallen in my father’s sight?

Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height Before this outdar’d dastard? Ere my tongue Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear The slavish motive of recanting fear, And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace, Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray’s face.

Exit GAUNT

KING RICHARD. 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.

There shall your swords and lances arbitrate The swelling difference of your settled hate; Since we can not atone you, we shall see Justice design the victor’s chivalry.

Lord Marshal, command our officers-at-arms Be ready to direct these home alarms. Exeunt

SCENE 2.

London. The DUKE OF LANCASTER’S palace

Enter JOHN OF GAUNT with the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER

GAUNT. Alas, the part I had in Woodstock’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 they see the hours ripe on earth, Will rain hot vengeance on offenders’ heads.

DUCHESS. 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 vials of his sacred blood, Or seven fair branches springing from one root.

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 Gloucester, 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 mettle, that self mould, that fashion’d thee, Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest, 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 slaught’red, Thou showest 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 Gloucester’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.

DUCHESS. Where then, alas, may I complain myself?

GAUNT. To God, the widow’s champion and defence.

DUCHESS. Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.

Thou goest 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!

DUCHESS. 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 thy 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-ah, what?-

With all good speed at Plashy visit me.

Alack, and what shall good old York there see But empty lodgings and unfurnish’d walls, Unpeopled 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.

Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die; The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. Exeunt

SCENE 3.

The lists at Coventry

Enter the LORD MARSHAL and the DUKE OF AUMERLE

MARSHAL. My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm’d?

AUMERLE. Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in.

MARSHAL. The Duke of Norfolk, spightfully and bold, Stays but the summons of the appelant’s trumpet.

AUMERLE. Why then, the champions are prepar’d, and stay For nothing but his Majesty’s approach.

The trumpets sound, and the KING enters with his nobles, GAUNT, BUSHY, BAGOT, GREEN, and others. When they are set, enter MOWBRAY, Duke of Nor folk, in arms, defendant, and a HERALD

KING RICHARD. 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.

MARSHAL. In God’s name and the King’s, say who thou art, And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms; Against what man thou com’st, and what thy quarrel.

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

MOWBRAY. 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!

The trumpets sound. Enter BOLINGBROKE, Duke of Hereford, appellant, in armour, and a HERALD

KING RICHARD. 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.

MARSHAL. What is thy name? and wherefore com’st thou hither Before King Richard in his royal lists?

Against whom comest thou? and what’s thy quarrel?

Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!

BOLINGBROKE. 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 is a traitor, foul and dangerous, To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me.

And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

MARSHAL. 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.

BOLINGBROKE. 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.

MARSHAL. The appellant in all duty greets your Highness, And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave.

KING RICHARD. 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.

BOLINGBROKE. 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, the earthly author of my blood, Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, Doth with a twofold 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. 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.

BOLINGBROKE. Mine innocence and Saint George to thrive!

MOWBRAY. 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.

KING RICHARD. Farewell, my lord, securely I espy Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.

Order the trial, Marshal, and begin.

MARSHAL. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Receive thy lance; and God defend the right!

BOLINGBROKE. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen.

MARSHAL. [To an officer] Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk.

FIRST HERALD. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Stands here for God, his sovereign, 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 set forward to the fight.

SECOND HERALD. Here standeth 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 sovereign, and to him disloyal, Courageously and with a free desire

Attending but the signal to begin.

MARSHAL. Sound trumpets; and set forward, combatants.

[A charge