To ftir against the Butchers of his Life.
But fince Correction lyeth in those Hands
Which made the Fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our Quarrel to the Will of Heav'n;
Who when they fee the Hours ripe on Earth,
Will rain hot Vengeance on Offenders Heads.
Dutch. Finds Brotherhood in thee no fharper Spur ?
Hath Love in thy old Blood no living Fire?
Edward's feven Sons, whereof thy felf art one,
Were as feven Vials of his facred Blood;
Or feven fair Branches fpringing from one Root:
Some of thofe feven are dry'd by Nature's Courfe;
Some of thofe Branches by the Deftinies cut:
But Thomas, my dear Lord, my Life, my Glo'fter;
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 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 felf-Mould that fashion'd thee,
Made him a Man; and though thou liv'ft and breath'ft,
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 fuffering 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 intitle Patience,
Is pale cold Cowardife in noble Breafts.
What fhall I fay? to fafeguard thine own Life,
The best way is to venge my Glo'fter's Death.
Gaunt. Heav'n's is the Quarrel; for Heav'n's Subftitute,
His Deputy anointed in his Sight,
Hath caus'd his Death; the which if wrongfully
Let Heav'n revenge, for I may never lift
An angry Arm against his Minifter.
Dutch. Where then, alas, may I complain my felf?
Gaunt. To Heav'n, the Widow's Champion and defence.
Dutch. Why then I will: Farewel; old Gaunt;
Thou go'ft to Coventry, there to behold
Our Coufin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
O fit my Husband's Wrongs on Hereford's Spear,
That it may enter Butcher Mowbray's Breaft:
Or if Misfortune mifs the firft Career,
Be Mowbray's Sins fo heavy in his Bofom,
That they may break his foaming Courfer's Back,
And throw the Rider headlong in the Lifts,
A Caytiff recreant to my Coufin Hereford.
Farewel, old Gaunt; thy fometimes Brother's Wife,
With her Companion Grief, must end her Life.
Gaunt. Sifter, farewel; I must to Coventry.
As much good stay with thee, as go with me.
Dutch. Yetone 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 feemeth done.
Commend me to my Brother, Eward 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
With all good Speed at Plafbie vifit me.
Alack, and what shall good old York there see,
But empty Lodgings, and unfurnish'd Walls,
Un-peopl❜d Offices, untrodden Stones?
And what hear there for Welcome, but my Groans?
Therefore commend me, let him not come there
To feek out Sorrow that dwells every where;
Defolate, defolate will I hence, and die;
The laft Leave of thee, takes my weeping Eye. [Exeunt.
Enter 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, fprightfully and bold, Stays but the Summons of the Appealant's Trumpet.
Aum. Why then the Champions are prepar'd, and ftay For nothing but his Majefty's Approach.
[Flourish. Enter King Richard, Gaunt, Bufhy, Bagot, Green, and others; then Mowbray in Armour, and an Herald. K. Rich. Marthal, demand of yonder Champion The Caufe of his Arrival here in Arms; Ask 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 Mowb. And why thou com'ft, thus knightly clad in Arms? Against what Man thou com'ft, and what's 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, engaged by my Oath,
Which Heav'n defend a Knight fhould viola
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 my felf,
A Traitor to my God, my King, and me;
And as I truly fight, defend me Heav'n.
A Tucket founds. Enter Bullingbroke, and an Herald.
K. Rich. Marthal; ask yonder Knight in Arms,
Both who he is, and why he cometh hither,
Thus placed in Habiliments of War:
And formally according to our Law
Depofe him in the Juftice of his Caufe.
Mar. What is thy Name, and wherefore com'ft thou hither Before King Richard, in his Royal Lifts?
[To Bulling.
Against whom com'ft thou? And what's thy Quarrel?
Speak like a true Knight, fo defend thee Heav'n.
Bulling. 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 so bold,
Or daring hardy, as to touch the Lifts,
Except the Marshal, and fuch Officers
Appointed to direct these fair Defigns.
Bulling. Lord Marshal, let me kifs my Soveraign's Hand,
And bow my Knee before his Majefty:
For Mowbray and my felf 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. The Appealant in all duty greets your Highness,
[To K. Rich. And craves to kifs your Hand, and take his leave,
K. Rich. We will defcend and fold him in our Arms.
Coufin of Hereford, as thy Caufe is just,
So be thy Fortune in this Royal Fight:
Farewel, my Blood, which if to Day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not Revenge thee dead.
Bulling. Oh let no noble Eye prophane a Tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's Spear:
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;
Not fick, although I have to do with Death,
But lufty, young, and chearly drawing breath..
Lo, as at English Feafts, fo I regreet
The daintieft laft, to make the end moft fweet.
Oh thou the Earthy Author of my Blood,
Whofe 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 Bleffings fteel my Lance's Point,
That it may enter Mowbray's Waxen Coat,
And furnish new the Name of John a Gaunt
Even in the lufty 'haviour of his Son.
Gaunt. Heav'n in thy good Caufe make thee profperous, Be fwift like Lightning in the Execution,
And let thy Blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing Thunder on the Cask
Of thy amaz'd pernicious Enemy.
Rouze up thy youthful Blood, be valiant, and live.
Bulling. Mine Innocence, and St. George to thrive.
Mowb. However Heav'n or Fortune caft my Lot,
There lives, or dies, true to King Richard's Throne,
A loyal, juft, and upright Gentleman:
Never did Captain with a freer Heart
Caft off his Chains of Bondage, and embrace
His golden uncontroul'd Enfranchisement,
More than my dancing Soul doth celebrate
This feaft of Battel, with mine Adverfary.
Moft mighty Liege, and my Companion Peers,
Take from my Mouth the wifh of happy Years;
As gentle, and as jocond, as to jeft,
Go I to fight: Truth hath a quiet Breaft.
K. Rich. Farewel, my Lord, fecurely I efpy Virtue with Valour, couched in thine Eye. Order the Trial, Marfhal, and begin.
Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Receive thy Launce, and Heav'n defend thy Right.
Bulling. Strong as a Tower, in hope, I cry Amen.
Mar. Go bear this Launce to Thomas Duke of Norfolk
1 Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Stands here for God, his Soveraign, and himself,
On pain to be found falfe 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 standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, On pain to be found falfe and recreant, Both to defend himself, and to approve Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
To God, his Soveraign, and to him difloyal:
Couragiously, and with a free Defire,
Attending but the Signal to begin.
Mar. Sound Trumpets, and fet forward Combatants.
Stay, the King hath thrown his Warder down.
K. Rich. Let them lay by their Helmets, and their Spears, And both return back to their Chairs again:
Withdraw with us, and let the Trumpets found,
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