Shakespeare's First Folio Part 271

I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffel'd heere, Pierc'd to the soule with slanders venom'd speare: The which no balme can cure, but his heart blood Which breath'd this poyson

King. Rage must be withstood: Giue me his gage: Lyons make Leopards tame

Mo. Yea, but not change his spots: take but my shame, And I resigne my gage. My deere, deere Lord, The purest treasure mortall times afford Is spotlesse reputation: that away, Men are but gilded loame, or painted clay.

A Iewell in a ten times barr'd vp Chest, Is a bold spirit, in a loyall brest.

Mine Honor is my life; both grow in one: Take Honor from me, and my life is done.

Then (deere my Liege) mine Honor let me trie, In that I liue; and for that will I die

King. Coosin, throw downe your gage, Do you begin

Bul. Oh heauen defend my soule from such foule sin.

Shall I seeme Crest-falne in my fathers sight, Or with pale beggar-feare impeach my hight Before this out-dar'd dastard? Ere my toong, Shall wound mine honor with such feeble wrong; Or sound so base a parle: my teeth shall teare The slauish motiue of recanting feare, And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace, Where shame doth harbour, euen in Mowbrayes face.

Exit Gaunt.

King. We were not borne to sue, but to command, Which since we cannot do to make you friends, Be readie, (as your liues shall answer it) At Couentree, vpon S[aint]. Lamberts day: There shall your swords and Lances arbitrate The swelling difference of your setled hate: Since we cannot attone you, you shall see Iustice designe the Victors Chiualrie.

Lord Marshall, command our Officers at Armes, Be readie to direct these home Alarmes.

Exeunt.

Scaena Secunda.

Enter Gaunt, and Dutchesse of Gloucester.

Gaunt. Alas, the part I had in Glousters blood, Doth more solicite me then your exclaimes, To stirre against the Butchers of his life.

But since correction lyeth in those hands Which made the fault that we cannot correct, Put we our quarrell to the will of heauen, Who when they see the houres ripe on earth, Will raigne hot vengeance on offenders heads

Dut. Findes brotherhood in thee no sharper spurre?

Hath loue in thy old blood no liuing fire?

Edwards seuen sonnes (whereof thy selfe art one) Were as seuen violles of his Sacred blood, Or seuen faire branches springing from one roote: Some of those seuen are dride by natures course, Some of those branches by the destinies cut: But Thomas, my deere Lord, my life, my Glouster, One Violl full of Edwards Sacred blood, One flouris.h.i.+ng branch of his most Royall roote Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt; Is hackt downe, and his summer leafes all vaded By Enuies hand, and Murders b.l.o.o.d.y Axe.

Ah Gaunt! His blood was thine, that bed, that wombe, That mettle, that selfe-mould that fas.h.i.+on'd thee, Made him a man: and though thou liu'st, and breath'st, Yet art thou slaine in him: thou dost consent In some large measure to thy Fathers death, In that thou seest thy wretched brother dye, Who was the modell of thy Fathers life.

Call it not patience (Gaunt) it is dispaire, In suffring thus thy brother to be slaughter'd, Thou shew'st the naked pathway to thy life, Teaching sterne murther how to butcher thee: That which in meane men we int.i.tle patience Is pale cold cowardice in n.o.ble brests: What shall I say, to safegard thine owne life, The best way is to venge my Glousters death

Gaunt. Heauens is the quarrell: for heauens subst.i.tute His Deputy annointed in his sight, Hath caus'd his death, the which if wrongfully Let heauen reuenge: for I may neuer lift An angry arme against his Minister

Dut. Where then (alas may I) complaint my selfe?

Gau. To heauen, the widdowes Champion to defence Dut. Why then I will: farewell old Gaunt.

Thou go'st to Couentrie, there to behold Our Cosine Herford, and fell Mowbray fight: O sit my husbands wrongs on Herfords speare, That it may enter butcher Mowbrayes brest: Or if misfortune misse the first carreere, Be Mowbrayes sinnes so heauy in his bosome, That they may breake his foaming Coursers backe, And throw the Rider headlong in the Lists, A Caytiffe recreant to my Cosine Herford: Farewell old Gaunt, thy sometimes brothers wife With her companion Greefe, must end her life

Gau. Sister farewell: I must to Couentree, As much good stay with thee, as go with mee

Dut. Yet one word more: Greefe boundeth where it falls, Not with the emptie hollownes, but weight: I take my leaue, before I haue begun, For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.

Commend me to my brother Edmund Yorke.

Loe, this is all: nay, yet depart not so, Though this be all, do not so quickly go, I shall remember more. Bid him, Oh, what?

With all good speed at Plas.h.i.+e visit mee.

Alacke, and what shall good old Yorke there see But empty lodgings, and vnfurnish'd walles, Vn-peopel'd Offices, vntroden stones?

And what heare there for welcome, but my grones?

Therefore commend me, let him not come there, To seeke out sorrow, that dwels euery where: Desolate, desolate will I hence, and dye, The last leaue of thee, takes my weeping eye.

Exeunt.

Scena Tertia.

Enter Marshall, and Aumerle.

Mar. My L[ord]. Aumerle, is Harry Herford arm'd

Aum. Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in

Mar. The Duke of Norfolke, sprightfully and bold, Stayes but the summons of the Appealants Trumpet

Au. Why then the Champions, are prepar'd, and stay For nothing but his Maiesties approach.

Flourish.

Enter King, Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Greene, & others: Then Mowbray in Armor, and Harrold.

Rich. Marshall, demand of yonder Champion The cause of his arriuall heere in Armes, Aske him his name, and orderly proceed To sweare him in the iustice of his cause

Mar. In G.o.ds name, and the Kings say who y art, And why thou com'st thus knightly clad in Armes?

Against what man thou com'st, and what's thy quarrell, Speake truly on thy knighthood, and thine oath, As so defend thee heauen, and thy valour

Mow. My name is Tho[mas]. Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, Who hither comes engaged by my oath (Which heauen defend a knight should violate) Both to defend my loyalty and truth, To G.o.d, my King, and his succeeding issue, Against the Duke of Herford, that appeales me: And by the grace of G.o.d, and this mine arme, To proue him (in defending of my selfe) A Traitor to my G.o.d, my King, and me, And as I truly fight, defend me heauen.

Tucket. Enter Hereford, and Harold.

Rich. Marshall: Aske yonder Knight in Armes, Both who he is, and why he commeth hither, Thus placed in habiliments of warre: And formerly according to our Law Depose him in the iustice of his cause

Mar. What is thy name? and wherfore comst y hither Before King Richard in his Royall Lists?

Against whom com'st thou? and what's thy quarrell?

Speake like a true Knight, so defend thee heauen

Bul. Harry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derbie, Am I: who ready heere do stand in Armes, To proue by heauens grace, and my bodies valour, In Lists, on Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolke, That he's a Traitor foule, and dangerous, To G.o.d of heauen, King Richard, and to me, And as I truly fight, defend me heauen

Mar. On paine of death, no person be so bold, Or daring hardie as to touch the Listes, Except the Marshall, and such Officers Appointed to direct these faire designes

Bul. Lord Marshall, let me kisse my Soueraigns hand, And bow my knee before his Maiestie: For Mowbray and my selfe are like two men, That vow a long and weary pilgrimage, Then let vs take a ceremonious leaue And louing farwell of our seuerall friends

Mar. The Appealant in all duty greets your Highnes, And craues to kisse your hand, and take his leaue

Rich. We will descend, and fold him in our armes.

Cosin of Herford, as thy cause is iust, So be thy fortune in this Royall fight: Farewell, my blood, which if to day thou shead, Lament we may, but not reuenge thee dead

Bull. Oh let no n.o.ble eye prophane a teare For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbrayes speare: As confident, as is the Falcons flight Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.

My louing Lord, I take my leaue of you, Of you (my n.o.ble Cosin) Lord Aumerle; Not sicke, although I haue to do with death, But l.u.s.tie, yong, and cheerely drawing breath.

Loe, as at English Feasts, so I regreete The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.

Oh thou the earthy author of my blood, Whose youthfull spirit in me regenerate, Doth with a two-fold rigor lift mee vp To reach at victory aboue my head, Adde proofe vnto mine Armour with thy prayres, And with thy blessings steele my Lances point, That it may enter Mowbrayes waxen Coate, And furnish new the name of Iohn a Gaunt, Euen in the l.u.s.ty hauiour of his sonne