The best way is to 'venge my Glo'fler's death.

Gaunt. God's is the quarrel; for God's fubstitute,
His deputy anointed in his fight,

Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully,
Let God revenge, for I may never lift

An angry arm against his minister.

Dutch. Where then, alas, may I complain myself? Gaunt. To Heav'n, the widow's champion and defence. Dutch. Why then, I will: Farewel, old Gaunt, farewel. Thou go'ft to Coventry, there to behold

Our coufin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
O, fit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's fpear,
That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast!
Or if misfortune mifs the first career,

Be Mowbray's fins fo heavy in his bosom,
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 fometime brother's wife
With her companion grief muft end her life.

[falls,

Gaunt. Sifter, farewel; I muft to Coventry.
As much good ftay with thee, as go with me!
Dutch. Yet one word more; grief boundeth where it
Not with the empty hollownefs, but weight:
I take my leave, before I have begun;
For forrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
Commend me to my brother, Edmund 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-oh, what?
With all good speed at Plafbie vifit me.
Alack, and what fhall good old York fee there
But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls,
Un-peopled offices, untrodden ftones?

And what hear there for welcome, but my groans?
Therefore commend me, let him not come there
To feek out forrow that dwells every where;
All defolate, will I from hence, and die;

The laft leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt.

SCENE,

SCENE, the Lifts, at Coventry.

Enter the Lord Marshal, and the Duke of Aumerle.

Mar. M

Y 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 fummons of th' appellant's trumpet.

Aum. Why, then the champions are prepar'd, and stay For nothing but his Majetty's approach. [Flourish

The trumpets found, and the King enters with his Nobles: when they are fet, Enter the Duke of Norfolk in arms, Defendant.

K. Rich. Marfhal, demand of yonder champion
The caufe of his arrival here in arms;
Afk 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 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 should violate!)
Both to defend my loyalty and truth,

To God, my King, and my 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 myself,
A traitor to my God, my King, and me;
And as I truly fight, defend me heav'n !

The trumpets found. Enter Bolingbroke, Appellant in

armour.

K. Rich. Marthal afk 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 juftice of his cause.

Mar. What is thy name, and wherefore com'ft thou hither, Before King Richard, in his royal lifts?

[To Boling.
Against whom comeft thou? and what's thy quarrel ?
Speak like a true Knight, fo defend thee heav'n!
Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby
Am I, who ready here do stand 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 fo bold,
Or dearing-hardy, as to touch the lifts,
Except the marshal, and fuch officers
Appointed to direct these fair defigns.

Boling. Lord Marshal, let me kifs 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 farewel of our feveral friends.

Mar. Th' appellant 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 right,
So be thy fortune in this royal fight;

Farewel, my blood; which if to-day thou shed, (4)
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

(4) Farewel, my blood;] i. e. my kinfman. purely claffical.

Projice tela manu, Sanguis meus.

-Tu Sanguinis ultimus auctor.
Clarus Anchifa Venerifque Sanguis.
-Vos O`

Pompilius Sanguis.

-tenet, longumque tenebit Tarpeias arces Sanguis tuus.

Boling.

This appellation is

Virg. Æn. vi. ver. 836.
Id. En. v11. ver. 49.
Horat. Carm. Sæcul.

Id. Art. Poet. ver. 292.

Sil. Italicus. lib. 3.

Boling. Oh, let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's fpear:
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 feasts, fo I regreet

The daintieft last, to make the end most sweet:
Oh thou! the earthly author of my blood, [To Gaunt.
Whofe youthful fpirit, 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 ftcel my lance's point,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat,
And furbish new the name of John o' Gaunt

Even in the lufty 'haviour of his fon.

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 cafque

Of thy adverfe pernicious enemy.

Rouze up thy youthful blood, be brave and live.

Boling. Mine innocence, God and St. George to thrive !
Mobw. However heav'n or fortune cat my lot,
There lives, or dies, true to King Richard's throne,
A loyal, juft and upright gentleman;
Never did captive with a freer heart

Caft off his chains of bondage, and embrace
His golden uncontroul'd enfranchisement,
More than my dancing foul doth celebrate
This feast 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 jocund, as to jeft,
Gol to fight: Truth hath a quiet breast.

Ne pugnate odiis.

&c. &c. &c.

vos, O Superi, meus, ordine Sanguis,

Statius. Theb. lib. 3.
K. Rich.

K. Rich. Farewel, my Lord; fecurely I efpy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye
Order the trial, Marshal, and begin.

Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Receive thy lance; and heav'n defend thy right!
Boling. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry Amen.
Mar. Go bear this lance to Thomas Duke of Norfolk.
1 Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,
Stands here for God, his Sovereign and him elf,
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 ftandeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, On pain to be found falfe and recreant, Both to defend himself, and to approve Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, To God, his Sovereign, and to him, difloyal: Courageously, and with a free defire, Attending but the fignal to begin.

[A Charge founded.
Mar. Sound, trumpets; and fet forward, combatants.
-But ftay, 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,
While we return these Dukes what we decree.

[Along Flourish; after which, the King Speaks to the
Combatants.

Draw near;

And lift, what with our council we have done.
For that our kingdom's earth fhould not be foil'd
With that dear blood, which it hath foftered;
And, for our eyes do hate the dire afpect

Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbour fwords;
And for we think, the eagle-winged pride
Of fky-afpiring and ambitious thoughts
With rival-hating envy fet you on,

To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle
Draws the fweet infant breath of gentle fleep;

(Which thus rouz'd up with boift'rous untun'd drums,

And