The Arden Shakespeare Complete Works
Page 292
The other part reserv’d I by consent,
For that my sovereign liege was in my debt
Upon remainder of a dear account
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Since last I went to France to fetch his queen:
Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester’s death,
I slew him not, but to my own disgrace
Neglected my sworn duty in that case.
For you, my noble lord of Lancaster,
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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
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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,
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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
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Your Highness to assign our trial day.
RICHARD Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul’d by me,
Let’s purge this choler without letting blood –
This we prescribe, though no physician;
Deep malice makes too deep incision.
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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.
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Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s gage.
RICHARD And, Norfolk, throw down his.
GAUNT When, Harry, when?
Obedience bids I should not bid again.
RICHARD Norfolk, throw down we bid, there is no boot.
MOWBRAY Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot;
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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,
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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.
RICHARD Rage must be withstood:
Give me his gage; lions make leopards tame.
MOWBRAY
Yea, but not change his spots. Take but my shame,
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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 ten-times barr’d-up chest
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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.
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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 out-dar’d dastard? Ere my tongue
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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.
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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
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The swelling difference of your settled hate.
Since we cannot atone you, we shall see
Justice design the victor’s chivalry.
Marshal, command our officers-at-arms
Be ready to direct these home alarms. Exeunt.
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1.2 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,
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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?
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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;
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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,
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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 fashioned thee
Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest,
Yet art thou slain in him; thou dost consent
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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,
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Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we intitle patience
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
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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
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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
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Our cousin Herford and fell Mowbray fight.
O, sit my husband’s wrongs on Herford’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
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That they may break his foaming courser’s back
And throw the rid
er headlong in the lists,
A caitive recreant to my cousin Herford!
Farewell, old Gaunt; thy sometimes brother’s wife
With her companion, grief, must end her life.
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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,
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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? –
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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?
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Therefore commend me; let him not come there
To seek out sorrow that dwells everywhere.
Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die:
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. Exeunt.
1.3 Enter Lord Marshal and the DUKE AUMERLE.
MARSHAL My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Herford arm’d?
AUMERLE Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.
MARSHAL The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,
Stays but the summons of the appellant’s trumpet.
AUMERLE
Why then, the champions are prepar’d, and stay
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For nothing but his Majesty’s approach.
The trumpets sound and the KING enters with his nobles;
when they are set, enter MOWBRAY in arms, defendant.
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.
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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!
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MOWBRAY
My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
Who hither come ingaged 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,
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Against the Duke of Herford 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!
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The trumpets sound. Enter BOLINGBROKE, appellant, in armour.
RICHARD Marshal, demand of 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.
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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 Herford, Lancaster and Derby
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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 –
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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.
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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
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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.
RICHARD We will descend and fold him in our arms.