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Mowb. 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 fo foul a liar.
K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears. Were he our brother, nay, our Kingdom's heir, As he is but our father's brother's fon; Now by my Scepter's awe, I make a vow, Such neighbour-nearness to our facred blood Should nothing priv'lege him, nor partialize Th’unstooping firmness of my upright soul. He is our Subject, Mowbray, so art thou; Free speech, and fearless, I to thee allow.
Mowb. 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, Disburst I to his Highness' foldiers; The other part reserv'd I by confent, 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 Gloucester's death, I few him not; but, to mine own disgrace, Neglected my sworn duty in that cafe. 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 rancor of a villain, A recreant and most degen'rate traitor: Which in my self I boldly will defend, And interchangeably hurle down my gage Upon this overweening traitor's foot;
To prove my self a loyal gentleman,
K. Rich. Wrath-kindled Gentlemen, be rul'd by me; Let's purge
this Choler without letting blood : 3 This we prescribe, though no physician ; Deep malice makes too deep incision : Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed ; Our Doctors say, this is no time 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. Mowb. My self 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, (Despight 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 flander's venom'd spear : The which no balme can cure, but his heart-blood Which breath'd this poison.
3. This we prescribe, though no physician, &c.] I must make one remark, in general, on the Rhymes throughout this whole play ; they are so much inferior to the rest of the writing, that they appear to me of a different hand. What confirms this, is, that the context does every where exactly (and frequently much better) connect without the inserted rhymes, except in a very few places ; and just there too, the rhyming verses are of a much better, tastę than all the o:hers, which rather strengthens my conjecture.
K. Rich. Rage must be withstood:
4 Or with pale beggar face-] 1. e. with a face of fupplication.
Since we cannot atone you, you fhall fee
S CE N E NIE.
Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucester.
A Doch me pe follicit me, than your Exclaims, To stir against the butchers of his life. But since 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 it sees the hours ripe on earth, Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.
Dutch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur? Hath love in thy old blood no living fire ? Edward's fev'n fons, whereof thy self art one, Were as sev’n vials of his sacred blood; Or sev’n fair branches, springing from one root: Some of those sev'n are dry'd by Nature's Course ; Some of those branches by the Dest'nies cut : But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Glofter, (One vial, full of Edward's facred blood ; One flourishing branch of his most royal root ;) Is crack’d, and all the precious liquor spilt ; 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 metal, that self-mould that fashion'd thee; Made him a man ; and though thou liv'st and breath'ft, Yet art thou Nain 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 ;
Gaunt. God's is the Quarrel ; for God's Substitute,
Dutch. Where then, alas, may I complain my self? Gaunt. To heav'n, the widow's Champion and Defence.
[wel. Dutch. Why then, I will: farewel, old Gaunt, fareThou 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 fins so heavy in his bosom, That they may break his foaming Courser's back, And throw the rider headlong in the lifts, A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford ! Farewel, old Gaunt; thy sometime brother's wife With her companion Grief must end her life.
Gaunt. Sister, farewel ; I must to Coventry.