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At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day;
There shall your swords and lances arbitrate
The swelling difference of your settled hate,
Since we cannot atone' you, we shall see
Justice design” the victor's chivalry.—
Lord marshal, command our officers at arms
Be ready to direct these home alarms. [Exeunt.

SCENE II. The same. A Room in the Duke of

Lancaster’s Palace.

Enter GAUNT, and Duchess of Gloster.”

Gaunt. Alas! the part” I had in Gloster'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,
Put we our quarrel to the will of Heaven;
Who, when he sees" the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders’ heads.

Duch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur P
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire P
Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
Were as seven phials 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;
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloster, L
One phial full of Edward's sacred blood,
One flourishing branch of his most royal root, -
Is cracked, and all the precious liquor spilt ;
Is hacked down, and his summer leaves all faded,

1 i. e. make them friends, reconcile them.

2 To design is to mark out, to show by a token. It is the sense of the Latin designo. ~ - .

3 The £ies of Gloster was Eleanor Bohun, widow of duke Thomas, son of Edward III.

4 i. e. my relationship of consanguinity to Gloster.
5 The old copy erroneously reads “Who, when they see.”

By envy’s hand, and murder's bloody axe.
Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine; that bed, that
That mettle, that self-mould, that fashioned thee,
Made him a man; and though thou liv'st, and
Yet art thou slain in him; thou dost consent
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 suffering thus thy brother to be slaughtered,
Thou show'st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we entitle—patience,
Is pale, cold cowardice in noble breasts.
What shall I say? To safeguard thine own life,
The best way is—to 'venge my Gloster's death.
Gaunt. Heaven's is the quarrel; for Heaven's sub-
stitute, . . .
His deputy anointed in his sight,
Hath caused his death; the which, if wrongfully,
Let Heaven revenge; for I may never lift
An angry arm against his minister.
Duch. Where then, alas! may I complain myself?"
Gaunt. To Heaven, the widow’s champion and de-
Duch. Why, then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.
Thou go'st to Coventry, there to behold
Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight;
O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford'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,
That they may break his foaming courser's back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
A caitiff, recreant to my cousin Hereford

1. To complain is commonly a verb neuter; but it is here used as a verb active. It is a literal translation of the old French phrase me complaindre, and is not peculiar to Shakspeare.

Farewell, old Gaunt; thy sometime brother's wife,
With her companion grief must end her life.
Gaunt. Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry.
As much good stay with thee, as go with me !
Duch. Yet one word more.—Grief boundeth where

it falls,
Not with the empty hollowness, but weight.
I take my leave before I have begun;
For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.
Commend me to my 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—O, what?—
With all good speed at Plashy" visit me. -
Alack, and what shall good old York there see,
But empty lodgings and unfurnished walls,”
Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones P
And what cheer there for welcome, but my groans ?
Therefore commend me; let him not come there,
To seek out sorrow that dwells every where.
Desolate, desolate, will I hence, and die;
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.

- .* [Exeunt.

SCENE III. Gosford Green, near Coventry. - Lists set out, and a throne. Heralds, &c. attending.

Enter the Lord Marshal, and AUMERLE.”

Mar. My lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford armed? Aum. Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in.

1 Her house in Essex. .

2 In our ancient castles the naked stone walls were only covered with tapestry or arras, hung upon tenterhooks, from which it was easily taken down on every removal of the family.

3 The duke of Norfolk was earl marshal of England; but being himself one of the combatants, the duke of Surry (Thomas ...) officiated. Shakspeare has made a slight mistake by introducing that nobleman as a distinct person from the marshal in the present drama. Edward, duke of .Aumerle (so created by his cousin-german, Richard II., in 1397), was the eldest son of Edward, duke of York, fifth son of Edward III., officiated as high constable at the lists of Coventry. He was killed at the battle of Agincourt, in 1415. - v

Mar. The duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold, Stays but the summons of the appellant's trumpet. Aum. Why then, the champions are prepared, and stay For nothing but his majesty's approach.

Flourish of trumpets. Enter KING RICHARD, who takes his seat on his throne; GAUNT, and several Noblemen, who take their places. A trumpet is sounded, and answered by another trumpet within.

Then enter NoFFolk, in armor, preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich. 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. Mar. In God's name, and the king's, say who thou art, . - r And why thou com'st, 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 valor! Nor. My name is Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk;" Who hither come engaged by my oath, . o Heaven defend a knight should violate 1) oth to defend my loyalty and truth, , To God, my king, and my” succeeding issue, 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 Heaven! [He takes his seat. Trumpet sounds. Enter, BoLINGBROKE, in armor;

1 The duke of Hereford, being the appellant, entered the lists first, according to the historians.

* “His succeeding issue” is the reading of the first folio: the quartos all read my.

WOL. III. 47

preceded by a Herald.

R. Rich. Marshal, ask 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. Mar. What is thy name P and wherefore com'st thou hither, Before king Richard, in his royal lists? Against whom com'st thou? and what's thy quarrel; Speak like a true knight, so defend thee Heaven! Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Am I; who ready here do stand in arms, g To prove, by Heaven's grace, and my body's valor, 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: And, as I truly fight, defend me Heaven! Mar. 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. Boling. 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, And loving farewell, of our several friends. Mar. The appellant in all duty greets your highness, And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave. R. Rich. We will descend, and fold him in our arms. Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right, So be thy fortune in this royal fight! Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed, Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead. Boling. O, let no noble eye profane a tear For me, if I be gored with Mowbray's spear;

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