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Thomas of Norfolk, what fay'ft thou to this?
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-nearnefs to our facred blood Should nothing priv❜lege him, nor partialize Th' unstooping firmnefs of my upright foul. He is our Subject, Mowbray, fo art thou; Free speech, and fearlefs, I to thee allow.

Mowb. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, Through the falfe paffage of thy throat, thou lieft! Three parts of that Receipt I had for Calais, Difburft I to his Highnefs' foldiers; The other part referv'd I by confent, For that my fovereign Leige was in my debt; Upon remainder of a dear account, Since laft I went to France to fetch his Queen. Now, fwallow down that Lie.-For Gloucester's death, I flew him not; but, to mine own difgrace, Neglected my fworn 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 foul; But ere I laft receiv'd the Sacrament, I did confefs it, and exactly begg'd Your Grace's pardon; and, I hope, I had it. This is my fault; as for the reft appeal'd, It iffues from the rancor of a villain, A recreant and most degen'rate traitor; Which in my felf I boldly will defend,

3 My Scepter's awe.]

The reverence due to my Scepter.

B 4


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And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot;
To prove my felf a loyal gentleman,
Even in the beft blood chamber'd in his bofom.
In hafte whereof, moft heartily I pray
Your Highness to affign our tryal-day.

K. Rich. 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 incifion :
Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed;
Our Doctors fay, 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 fhall 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 fhould not bid again.

K. Rich. Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot.*

Mowb. My felf I throw, dread Sovereign, at thy

My life thou fhalt command, but not my Shame;
The one my duty owes; but my fair Name,
Defpight of death, That lives upon my Grave,
To dark difhonour's ufe thou fhalt not have.
I am difgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here,

4 This we preferibe, though no thyfician, &c.] I must make one Remark, in general, on the Rhymes throughout this whole play; they are fo 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 inferted rhymes, except in a very few places; and juft there

too, the rhyming verses are of a
much better taste than all the
others, which rather strengthens
my conjecture.
No boot.] That is, no ad-
vanta e, no ufe, in delay or re-

5 My fair Name, &c.] That is, My name that lives on my grave in delight of death. This eafy paffage moft of the Editors feem to have mistaken.


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Pierc'd to the foul with flander's venom'd fpear:
The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath'd this poison.

K. Rich. Rage must be withstood.
Give me his gage. Lions make Leopards tame.
Mowb. Yea, but not change their spots. Take but
my fhame,

And I refign my gage. My dear, dear Lord,
The pureft treasure mortal times afford,
Is fpotless Reputation; That away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times-barr'd-up chest,
Is a bold fpirit in a loyal breaft.

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.

K. Rich. Coufin, throw down your gage;

do you


Boling. Oh, heav'n defend my foul from such foul fin! Shall I feem creft-fall'n in my father's fight, • Or with pale beggar face impeach my height, Before this out-dar'd Daftard? Ere my tongue Shall wound my Honour with fuch feeble wrong, Or found fo base a parle, my teeth shall tear 7 The flavish motive of recanting fear, And spit it bleeding, in his high difgrace, Where shame doth harbour, ev'n in Mowbray's face. [Exit Gaunt.

K. Rich. We were not born to fue, but to command, Which fince we cannot do to make you friends, Be ready, as your lives fhall anfwer it, At Coventry upon Saint Lambert's day.

6 Or with pale beggar face-] i.e. with a face of fupplication. But this will not fatisfy the Oxford Editor, he turns it to baggard jear. WARBURTON.


7 The flavish motive-] Motive, for inftrument. Rather that which fear puts in motion.


There fhall your Swords and Lances arbitrate
The fwelling diff'rence of your fettled hate.
Since we cannot atone you, you shall fee
Juftice decide the Victor's Chivalry.
Lord Marfhal, bid our officers at Arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms.




Changes to the Duke of Lancaster's Palace.
Enter Gaunt and Dutchefs of Gloucester.



Las! * the part I had in Glo'fter's blood Doth more follicit me, than your Exclaims,

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 it fees the hours ripe on earth,
Wiil rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.

Dutch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper fpur? Hath love in thy old blood no living fire? Edward's fev'n fons, whereof thy felf art one, Were as fov'n vials of his facred blood; Or fev'n fair branches, fpringing from one root: Some of tho'e fev'n are dry'd by Nature's Course; Some of thofe branches by the Deft'nies cut: But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Glofter, 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 fummer leaves all faded, By Envy's hand and Murder's bloody axe. Ah, Geunt! his blood was thine; that bed, that womb, That metal, that felf-mould that fashion'd thee;


The part I had] That is, my relation of confanguinity to

Made him a man; and though thou liv'ft and breath'st,
Yet art thou flain in him; thou doft confent
In fome large measure to thy father's death;
In that thou feest thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father's life;
Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is defpair.
In fuff'ring thus thy brother to be flaughter'd,
Thou fhew'it the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching ftern murther how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we entitle Patience,
Is pale cold Cowardife in noble breasts,
What shall I say? to fafeguard thine own life,
The best way is to 'venge my Glo'fter's death.

Gaunt. God's is the Quarrel; for God's Subftitute,
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 Minifter.

Dutch. Where then, alas, may I complain my self? 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 miss 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 caitiff recreant to my coufin Hereford! Farewel, old Gaunt; thy fometime brother's wife With her companion Grief muft end her life.

A caitif recreant-] Caitif originally fignified a prifoner; next a flave, from the condition of prifoners; then a Scoundrel, from the qualities of a flave.

Ημισυλῆς ἀρετῆς αποαΐνεται δόλιον


In this paffage it partakes of all thefe fignifications.


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