Gaunt. I have, my Liege.

K. Rich. Tell me moreover, haft thou founded him, If he appeal the Duke on ancient malice,

*

Or worthily, as a good fubject fhould,

On fome known ground of treachery in him?

Gaunt. As near as I could fift him on that argument, On fome apparent danger feen in him.

Aim'd at your Highnefs; no invet'rate malice.

K. Rich. Then call them to our prefence; face to face, And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear Th' accufer and th' accufed freely speak: · High-ftomach'd are they both, and full of ire; In rage, deaf as the fea; hafty as fire,

Enter Bolingbroke, and Mowbray.

Boling. May many years of happy days befal
My gracious Sovereign, my moft loving Liege!
Mowb. Each day ftill better other's happiness;
Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap,
Add an immortal title to your crown!

K. Rich. We thank you both, yet one but flatters us, As well appeareth by the cause you come;

Namely, t'appeal each other of high treafon.

Coufin of Hereford, what doft thou object
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?
Beling. Firft, (Heaven be the record to my speech!),
In the devotion of a fubject's love,

Tend'ring the precious fafety of my prince,
And free from other mifbegotten hate,
Come I appellant to this princely presence.
Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee;
And mark my greeting well; for what I speak,
My body fhall make good upon this earth,
Or
my divine foul anfwer it in heav'n.
Thou art a traitor and a mifcreant †.

* i. e. call, demand, challenge, from appello. Mr Pope. a mifcreant;

+

Too good to be fo, and too bad to live;
Since the more fair and cryftal is the sky
The uglier feem the clouds that in it fly.

Mob. Let not my cold words here accufe my 'Tis not the trial of a woman's war,

zeal;

The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,
Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;
The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this:
Yet can I not of fuch tame patience boaft,
As to be hufh'd, and nought at all to fay.
First, the fair rev'rence of your Highnefs curbs me,
From giving reins and fpurs to my free fpeech;
Which else would post, until it had return'd
These terms of treason doubled down his throat,
Setting afide his high blood's royalty,
And let him be no kinfman to my Liege,
I do defy him, and I fpit at him;

Call him a fland'rous coward, and a villain;
Which to maintain, I would allow him odds,
And meet him, were I ty'd to run a-foot
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground unhabitable,
Where never Englishman durft fet his foot.
Mean time, let this defend my loyalty;
By all my hopes, moft falfely doth he lye.

[gage,

Boling. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my
Difclaiming here the kindred of a King,
And lay afide my high blood's royalty;
(Which fear, not rev'rence, makes thee to except):
If guilty dread hath left thee so much strength,
As to take up mine honour's pawn, then floop.
By that, and all the rights of knighthood elfe,
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
What I have fpoken, or thou canst devise.

Mowb. I take it up, and by that fword I swear,
Which gently laid my knighthood on my fhoulder,
I'll anfwer thee in any fair degree,

Or chivalrous defign of knightly trial;
And when I mount, alive may I not light,

If I be traitor, or unjustly fight!

Once more, the more to aggravate the note,
With a foul traitor's name ftuff I thy throat;

And wish, so please my Sov'reign, ere I move,

What my tongue fpeaks, my right-drawn fword may prove
Mowb. Let not, &c.

K. Rich. What doth our coufin lay to Mowbray's It must be great, that can inhabit us [charge?

So much as of a thought of ill in him.

Boling. Look what I faid, my life fhall prove it true, That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thoufand nobles, In name of lendings for your Highnefs' foldiers, The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments; Like a falfe traitor and injurious villain. Befides, I fay, and will in battle prove, Or here, or elsewhere, to the furtheft verge That ever was furvey'd by English eye, That all the treafons for thefe eighteen years, Complotted and contrived in this land,

Fetch from falfe Mowbray their first head and spring. Further, I fay, and further will maintain

Upon his bad life to make all this good,

That he did plot the Duke of Gloucefter's death;
Suggeft his foon-believing adverfaries;

And confequently, like a traitor-coward,

Sluc'd out his inn'cent foul through ftreams of blood;
Which blood, like facrificing Abel's, cries
Even from the tonguslefs caverns of the earth,
To me, for justice, and rough chaftifement.
And, by the glorious worth of my defcent,
This arm fhall do it, or this life be spent.

K. Rich. How high a pitch his refolution foars!
Thomas of Norfolk, what fay'ft thou to this?

Alsb. O, let my Sovereign turn away his face,
And bid his ears a little while be deaf,
Till I have told this flander of his blood,

How God and good men hate fo foul a lyar.

K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears,
Were he our brother, nay, our kingdoin's heir,
As he is but our father's brother's fon;

Now by my fceptre's awe, I make a vow,
Such neighbour-nearnefs to our facred blood
Should nothing priv'lege him, nor partialize
Th'unftooping firmnefs of my upright.foul.
He is our fubject, Mowbray, fo art thou;
Free fpeech and fearlefs I to thee allow.

Mowb. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart Through the falfe paffage of thy throat, thou lycft!

Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais,
Diburs'd I to his Highnefs' foldiers;
The other part referv'd I by confent,
For that my Sovereign Liege was in my debt,
Upon remainder of a dear account,

Since laft I went to France to fetch his Queen.
Now, fwallow down that lye.-For Gloucefter'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 trefpafs that doth vex my grieved foul;
But ere I last receiv'd the facrament,
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 rancour of a villain,
A recreant and moft degen'rate traitor :
Which in myself I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot,
To prove myfelf a loyal gentleman,

Even in the beft blood chamber'd in his bofom.
In hafte whereof, moft heartily I pray

Your Highnefs to aflign our trial-day.

K. Rich. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul'd by me;
Let's purge this choler without letting blood *.
Good uncle, let this end where it begun;

We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your fon.
Gaunt. To be a make-peace fhall become my age
Throw down, my fon, the Duke of Norfolk's gage.
K. Rich. And, Norfolk, throw down his.
Gaunt. When, Harry, when?
Obedience bids I should not bid again.

-without letting blood.

This we preferibe, though no phyfician;
Deep malice makes too deep incifion :
Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed:
Our doctors fay, this is no time to bleed.
Good uncle, &c...

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

boot.

Mowb. Myfelf I throw, dread Sovereign, at thy My life thou shalt command, but not my fhame; [foot. The one my duty owes; but my fair name, (Defpite 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, Pierc'd to the foul with flander's venom'd spear: 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 fpotlefs reputation; that away,

Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times-barr'd up cheft,
Is a bold fpirit, 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.

K. Rich. Coufin, throw down your gage; do

gin.

you

be

Boling. Oh, heaven defend my foul from fuch 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
The slavish motive* of recanting fear,
And fpit it bleeding, in his high difgrace,

Where fhame 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 answer it,
At Coventry upon Saint Lambert's day.

Motive for inftrument