+ + + OVld Iohn of Gaunt time honoured Lancaster, Hast thou according to thy oath and bande Brought hither Henrie Herford thy bolde sonne, Here to make good the boistrous late appeale, Which then our leysure would not let vs heare Against the Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Moubray? I haue my Leige. Tell me moreouer hast thou sounded him, If he appeale the Duke on ancient malice, Or worthily as a good subiect should On some knowne ground of treacherie in him. As neere as I could sift him on that argument, On some apparent daunger seene in him, Aimde at your highnes, no inueterate malice. Then call them to our presence face to face, And frowning brow to brow our selues will heare, The accuser and the accused freely speake: High stomackt are they both and full of ire, In rage, deafe as the sea, hastie as fire. Manie yeares of happie daies befall, My gratious soueraigne my most louing liege.

+ Each day still better others happines, Vntill the heauens enuying earths good hap, Adde an immortall title to your Crowne. We thanke you both, yet one but flatters vs, As well appeareth by the cause you come, Namely to appeale each other of high treason: Coosin of Herford, what dost thou obiect Against the Duke of Norffolke Thomas Mowbray? First, heauen be the record to my speech, In the deuotion of a subiects loue, Tendring the pretious safetie of my Prince, And free from other misbegotten hate, Come I appellant to this princely presence. Now Thomas Mowbray do I turne to thee, And marke my greeting well: for what I speake My body shall make good vpon this earth, Or my diuine soule answer it in heauen: Thou art a traitour and a miscreant, Too good to be so, and too bad to liue, Since the more faire and cristall is the skie, The vglier seeme the cloudes that in it flie: Once more, the more to aggrauate the note, With a foule traitors name stuffe I thy throte, And wish (so please my Soueraigne) ere I moue, What my tong speaks, my right drawen sword may proue. Let not my cold wordes here accuse my zeale, Tis not the triall of a womans warre, The bitter clamour of two eger tongues Can arbitrate this cause betwixt vs twaine, The bloud is hote that must be coold for this, Yet can I not of such tame patience boast, As to be huisht, and naught at all to say. First the faire reuerence of your Highnesse curbs me, From giuing reines and spurres to my free speech, Which else would post vntill it had returnd, These termes of treason doubled downe his throat: Setting aside his high blouds royaltie,

+ And let him be no kinsman to my Liege, I do defie him, and I spit at him, Call him a slaunderous coward, and a villaine, Which to maintaine, I would allow him ods, And meete him were I tied to runne afoote, Euen to the frozen ridges of the Alpes, Or any other ground inhabitable, Where euer Englishman durst set his foote, Meane time, let this defend my loyaltie, By all my hopes most falsly doth he lie. Pale trembling coward there I throw my gage, Disclaiming here the kinred of the King, And lay aside my high bloudes royaltie, Which Feare, not Reuerence makes thee to except. If guilty dread haue left thee so much strength, As to take vp mine honours pawne, then stowpe, By that, and all the rites of Knighthoode else, Will I make good against thee arme to arme, What I haue spoke, or thou canst worse deuise. I take it vp, and by that sword I sweare, Which gently laid my Knighthood on my shoulder, Ile answer thee in any faire degree, Or chiualrous designe of knightly triall: And when I mount, aliue may I not light, If I be traitor or vniustly fight. What doth our cousin lay to Mowbraies charge? It must be great that can inherit vs, So much as of a thought of #ill in him. Looke what I speake, my life shall proue it true, That Mowbray hath receiude eight thousand nobles In name of Lendings for your Highnes souldiours, The which he hath detaind for lewd imployments, Like a false traitour, and iniurious villaine: Besides I say, and will in battle proue, Or here, or elsewhere to the furthest Verge That euer was surueyed by English eye, That all the treasons for these eighteene yeares,

+ Complotted and contriued in this land: Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring. Further I say and further will maintaine Vpon his bad life to make all this good, That he did plotte the Duke of Glocesters death, Suggest his soone beleeuing aduersaries, And consequently like a traitour coward, Slucte out his innocent soule through streames of bloud, Which bloud, like sacrificing Abels cries, Euen from the tounglesse Cauernes of the earth, To me for iustice and rough chastisement: And by the glorious worth of my descent, This arme shall do it, or this life be spent. How high a pitch his resolution soares, Thomas of Norfolke what saist thou to this? Oh let my soueraigne turne awaie his face, And bid his eares a little while be deafe. Till I haue tolde this slaunder of his bloud, How God and good men hate so foule a lier. Mowbray impartiall are our eies and eares, Were he my brother, nay, my kingdomes heire, As he is but my fathers brothers sonne, Now by scepters awe I make a vowe, Such neighbour neerenes to our sacred bloud Should nothing priuiledge him nor partialize The vnstooping firmenesse of my vpright soule, He is our subiect Mowbray so art thou, Free speech and fearelesse I to thee allowe. Then Bullingbrooke as lowe as to thy heart Through the false passage of thy throate thou liest. Three partes of that receipte I had for Callice, Disburst I duely to his highnesse souldiers, The other part reserude I by consent, For that my soueraigne liege was in my debt, Vpon remainder of a deare account: Since last I went to France to fetch his Queene: Now swallow downe that lie. For Glocesters death,

+ I slewe him not but to my own disgrace, Neglected my sworne duety in that case: For you my noble Lord of Lancaster, The honourable father to my foe, Once did I lay an ambushe for your life, A trespasse that doth vex my grieued soule: Ah but ere I last receiude the Sacrament, I did confesse it, and exactly begd Your graces pardon, and I hope I had it. This is my fault, as for the rest appeald It issues from the rancour of a villaine, A recreant and most degenerate traitour, Which in my selfe I boldly will defende, And enterchangeably hurle downe my gage Vpon this ouerweening traitors foote, To proue my selfe a loyal Gentleman, Euen in the best bloud chamberd in his bosome, In haste wherof most hartily I pray Your highnes to assigne our triall day. Wrath kindled gentleman be ruled by me, Lets purge this choler without letting bloud, This we prescribe though no Phisition, Deepe malice makes too deepe incision, Forget, forgiue, conclude and be agreed, Our doctors say, this is no month to bleede: Good Vnckle let this ende where it begonne, Weele calme the Duke of Norfolke, you your sonne. To be a make-#peace shal become my age, Throw downe (my sonne) the Duke of Norfolkes gage. And Norfolke throw downe his. When Harry? when obedience bids, Obedience bids I should not bid againe. Norfolke throw downe we bid, there is no boote. My selfe I throw dread soueraigne at thy foote, My life thou shalt command, but not my shame, The one my duety owes, but my faire name Despight of death that liues vpon my graue,

+ To darke dishonours vse thou shalt not haue: I am disgraste, impeacht, and baffuld heere, Pierst to the soule with Slaunders venomd speare, The which no balme can cure but his heart bloud Which breathde this poyson. Rage must be withstoode, Giue me his gage; Lions make Leopards tame. Yea but not change his spots: take but my shame, And I resigne my gage, my deare deare Lord, The purest treasure mortall times afford, Is spotlesse Reputation that away Men are but guilded loame, or painted clay, A iewell in a ten times bard vp chest, Is a bold spirit in a loyall breast: Mine honour is my life, both grow in one, Take honour from me, and my life is done: Then (deare my Liege) mine honour let me trie, In that I liue, and for that will I die. Coosin, throw vp your gage, do you beginne. O God defend my soule from such deepe sinne, Shall I seeme Crest-#fallen in my fathers sight? Or with pale beggar-#feare impeach my height, Before this out-#darde Dastard? ere my tong Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong, Or sound so base a parlee, my teeth shall teare The slauish motiue of recanting feare, And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace, Where Shame doth harbour euen in Mowbraies face. We were not borne to sue, but to commaund, Which since we cannot do, to make you friends, Be ready as your liues shall answere it, At Couentry vpon saint Lamberts day, There shall your swords and launces arbitrate The swelling difference of your setled hate, Since we cannot atone you, we shall see Iustice designe the Victors chiualrie, Lord Marshal, commaund our Officers at Armes,

+ Be ready to direct these home allarmes. + Alas, the part I had in Woodstockes bloud, Doth more sollicite me than your exclaimes, To stirre against the butchers of his life, But since correction lieth in those hands, Which made the fault that we cannot correct: Put we our quarrell to the #will of heauen, Who when they see the houres ripe on earth, Will raine hot vengeance on offenders heads. Findes brotherhood in thee no sharper spurre? Hath loue in thy old bloud no liuing fire? Edwards seuen sonnes whereof thy selfe art one, Were as seuen viols of his sacred bloud, Or seuen faire branches springing from one roote: Some of those seuen are dried by natures course, Some of those branches by the Destinies cut: But {Thomas} my deare Lord, my life, my Glocester, One violl full of Edwards sacred bloud, One flourishing branch of his most royall roote Is crackt, and all the precious liquor spilt, Is hackt downe, and his summer leaues all faded By Enuies hand, and Murders bloudy axe. Ah Gaunt, his bloud was thine, that bed, that womb, That mettall, that selfe mould, that fashioned thee Made him a man: and though thou liuest and breathest, Yet art thou slaine in him, thou doost consent In some large measure to thy fathers death, In that thou seest thy wretched brother die, Who was the modell of thy fathers life: Call it not patience Gaunt, it is dispaire, In suffring thus thy brother to be slaughtred, Thou shewest the naked pathway to thy life, Teaching sterne Murder how to butcher thee: That which in meane men we intitle Patience, Is pale cold Cowardice in noble breasts.

+ What shall I saie? to safegard thine owne life, The best way is to venge my Glocesters death. Gods is the quarrell for Gods substitute, His deputy annointed in his sight, Hath causd his death, the which if wrongfully, Let heauen reuenge, for I may neuer lift An angry arme against his minister. Where then may I complaine my selfe? To God the widdowes Champion and defence, Why then I will; farewell olde Gaunt, Thou goest to Couentry, there to behold Our Coosen Hereford and fell Mowbray fight. O set my husbands wronges on Herefords speare, That it may enter butchers Mowbraies brest: Or if misfortune misse the first carier, Be Mowbraies sinnes so heauy in his bosome That they may breake his foming coursers backe, And throw the rider headlong in the listes, A caitiue recreant to my Coosen Hereford, Farewell old Gaunt, thy sometimes brothers wife, With her companion Griefe must end her life. Sister farewell, I must to Couentry, As much good stay with thee, as go with me. Yet one word more, griefe boundeth where it fals, Not with the emptines, hollownes, but weight: I take my leaue before I haue begone, For sorrow endes not when it seemeth done: Commend me to thy brother Edmund Yorke, Lo this is all: nay yet depart not so, Though this be al, doe not so quickly go: I shall remember more: Bid him, ah what? With all good speede at Plashie visite me, Alacke and what shall good olde Yorke there see, But empty lodgings and vnfurnisht wals, Vnpeopled offices, vntrodden stones, And what cheere there for welcome but my grones? Therfore commend me, let him not come there,

+ To seeke out sorrow that dwels euery where, Desolate desolate will I hence and die: The last leaue of thee takes my weeping eie. + My Lord Aumerle is Harry Herford armde? Yea at all points, and longs to enter in. The Duke of Norfolke sprightfully and bold, Staies but the summons of the appellants trumpet. Why then the Champions are prepard and stay For nothing but his maiesties approach. Marshall demaunde of yonder Champion, The cause of his arriuall here in armes, Aske him his name, and orderly proceede To sweare him in the iustice of his cause. In Gods name and the Kings say who thou art. And why thou comest thus knightly clad in armes, Against what man thou comst and what thy quarell. Speake truly on thy knighthoode, and thy oth, As so defend #the heauen and thy valour. My name is Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolke, Who hither come ingaged by my oath, (Which God defende a Knight should violate) Both to defend my loyalty and truth, To God, my King, and my succeeding issue, Against the Duke of Herford that appeales me, And by the grace of God, and this mine arme, To proue him in defending of my selfe, A traitour to my God, my King, and me, And as I truely fight, defend me heauen. Marshall aske yonder Knight in armes,

+ Both who he is, and why he commeth hither, Thus plated in habiliments of warre, And formally according to our lawe, Depose him in the iustice of his cause. What is thy name? and wherfore comst thou hither? Before king Richard in his royall lists, Against whom comes thou? and whats thy quarrell? Speake like a true Knight, so defend thee heauen. Harry of Herford, Lancaster and Darbie Am I, who ready here do stand in Armes To proue by Gods grace, and my bodies valour In lists, on {Thomas Mowbray} Duke of Norffolke, That he is a traitour foule and dangerous, To God of heauen, king Richard and to me: And as I truely fight, defend me heauen. On paine of death, no person be so bold, Or daring, hardy, as to touch the listes, Except the Martiall and such officers Appoynted to direct these faire designes. Lord Martiall, let me kisse my Souereignes hand, And bow my knee before his Maiestie, For Mowbray and my selfe are like two men, That vow a long and wearie pilgrimage, Then let vs take a ceremonious leaue, And louing farewell of our seuerall friends. The appellant in all duety greetes your Highnes, And craues to kisse your hand, and take his leaue. We will descend and fold him in our armes, Coosin of Herford, as thy cause is right, So be thy fortune in this royall fight: Farewell my bloud, which if to day thou shead, Lament we may, but not reuenge #the dead. O let no noble eie prophane a teare For me, if I be gorde with Mowbraies speare: As confident as is the Falcons flight Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. My louing Lord, I take my leaue of you:

+ Of you (my noble cousin) Lord Aumarle, Not sicke although I haue to do with death, But lusty, yong and cheerely drawing breth: Loe, as at English feasts so I regreet The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet. Oh thou the earthly Authour of my bloud, Whose youthfull spirite in me regenerate Doth with a two-#fold vigour lift me vp, To reach at Victory aboue my head: Adde proofe vnto mine armour with thy prayers, And with thy blessings steele my launces point, That it may enter Mowbraies waxen cote. And furbish new the name of Iohn #a Gaunt, Euen in the lustie hauiour of his sonne. God in thy good cause make thee prosperous, Be swift like lightning in the execution, And let thy blowes doubly redoubled, Fall like amazing thunder on the caske Of thy aduerse pernitious enemy, Rowze vp thy youthfull bloud, be valiant and liue. Mine innocence and saint George to thriue. How euer God or Fortune cast my lot, There liues or dies true to King Richards throne, A loyall, iust, and vpright Gentleman: Neuer did captiue with a freer heart Cast off his chaines of bondage, and embrace His golden vncontrould enfranchisment, More than my dauncing soule doth celebrate This feast of battle with mine aduersarie, Most mighty Liege, and my companion Peeres, Take from my mouth the wish of happy yeeres, As gentle, and as iocund as to iest Go I to fight, truth hath a quiet brest. Farewell (my Lord) securely I espie, Vertue with Valour couched in thine eie, Order the triall Martiall, and beginne. Harry of Herford, Lancaster and Darby,

+ Receiue thy launce, and God defend the right. Strong as a tower in hope I cry, Amen. Go beare this lance to Thomas Duke of Norfolke. Harry of Herford, Lancaster, and Darby Stands here, for God, his soueraigne, and himselfe, On paine to be found false and recreant, To proue the Duke of Norfolke Thomas Mowbray A traitor to God, his king, and him, And dares him to set forward to the fight. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray [D.]Duke of Norfolk On paine to be found false and recreant, Both to defend himselfe, and to approue Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Darby, To God, his soueraigne, and to him disloyall, Couragiously, and with a free desire, Attending but the signall to beginne. Sound trumpets, and set forward Combatants: Stay, the king hath throwen his warder downe. Let them lay by their helmets, and their speares, And both returne backe to their chaires againe. Withdraw with vs, and let the trumpets sound, While we returne these dukes what we decree. Draw neere and list What with our counsell we haue done: For that our kingdomes earth should not be soild With that deare bloud which it hath fostered: And for our eies do hate the dire aspect Of cruell wounds plowd vp with neighbours sword, And for we thinke the Egle-#winged pride Of skie-#aspiring and ambitious thoughts, With riuall hating enuy set on you To wake our peace, which in our Countries cradle Draw the sweet infant breath of gentle sleepe, Which so rouzde vp with boistrous vntunde drummes, With harsh resounding trumpets dreadfull bray, And grating shocke of harsh resounding armes, Might from our quiet confines fright faire Peace,

+ And make vs wade euen in our kinreds bloud; Therefore we banish you our territories: You cousin Hereford vpon paine of life, Til twice fiue summers haue enricht our fields, Shall not regreete our faire dominions, But treade the stranger paths of banishment. Your #will be done; this must my comfort be, That Sunne that warmes you here, shall shine on me, And those his golden beames to you heere lent, Shall point on me, and guilde my banishment. Norfolke, for thee remaines a heauier doome, Which I with some vnwillingnesse pronounce, The slie slow houres shall not determinate The datelesse limite of thy deere exile, The hoplesse word of #neuer to returne, Breathe I against thee, vpon paine of life. A heauy sentence, my most soueraigne Liege, And all vnlookt for from your Highnesse mouth, A deerer merit not so deepe a maime, As to be cast forth in the common ayre Haue I deserued at your Highnesse hands: The language I haue learnt these forty yeeres, My natiue English now I must forgo, And now my tongues vse is to me, no more Than an vnstringed violl or a harpe, Or like a cunning instrument casde vp, Or being open, put into his hands That knowes no touch to tune the harmonie: Within my mouth you haue engaold my tongue, Doubly portculist with my teeth and lippes, And dull vnfeeling barren ignorance Is made my Gaoler to attend on me: I am too olde to fawne vpon a nurse, Too far in yeeres to be a pupill now, What is thy sentence but speechlesse death? Which robbes my tongue from breathing natiue breath. It bootes thee not to be compassionate,

+ After our sentence playning comes too late. Then thus I turne me from my countries light, To dwel in solemne shades of endlesse night. Returne againe, and take an othe with thee, Lay on our royall sword your banisht hands, Sweare by the duty that y'#owe to God, (Our part therein we banish with your selues,) To keepe the oath that we administer: You neuer shall, so helpe you truth and God, Embrace each others loue in banishment, Nor neuer looke vpon each others face, Nor neuer write, regreete, not reconcile This lowring tempest of your home-#bred hate, Nor neuer by aduised purpose meete, To plot, contriue, or complot any #ill, Gainst vs, our state, our subiects, or our land. I sweare. And I, to keepe al this. Norffolke, so fare as to mine enemy: By this time, had the King permitted vs, One of our soules had wandred in the aire, Banisht this fraile sepulchre of our flesh, As now our flesh is banisht from this land, Confesse thy treasons ere thou flie the realme, Since thou hast far to go, beare not along The clogging burthen of a guiltie soule. No Bullingbrooke, if euer I were traitour, My name be blotted from the booke of life, And I from heauen banisht as from hence: But what thou art, God, thou, and I, do know, And al too soone (I feare) the King shall rew: Farewell (my Liege) now no way can I stray, Saue backe to England al the worlds my way. Vncle, euen in the glasses of thine eyes, I see thy grieued heart: thy sad aspect Hath from the number of his banisht yeeres Pluckt foure away, sixe frozen winters spent,

+ Returne with welcome home from banishment. How long a time lies in one little word, Foure lagging winters and foure wanton springes, End in a word, such is the breath of Kinges. I thanke my liege that in regard of me, He shortens foure yeares of my sonnes exile, But little vantage shall I reape thereby: For eare the sixe yeares that he hath to spend Can change their moones, and bring their times about, My oile-#dried lampe, and time bewasted light Shall be extint with age and endlesse nightes, My intch of taper will be burnt and done, And blindfold Death not let me see my sonne. Why Vnckle thou hast many yeares to liue. But not a minute King that thou canst giue, Shorten my daies thou canst with sullen sorrowe, And plucke nights from me, but not lend a morrow: Thou canst helpe time to furrow me with age, But stoppe no wrinckle in his pilgrimage: Thy word is currant with him for my death, But dead, thy kingdome cannot buy my breath. Thy sonne is banisht vpon good aduise, Whereto thy tong a party verdict gaue, Why at our iustice seemst thou then to lowre? Things sweet to taste, prooue in digestion sowre. You vrgde me as a iudge, but I had rather, You would haue bid me argue like a father: Oh had't beene a stranger, not my child, To smooth his fault I should haue beene more milde: A partiall slaunder ought I to auoide, And in the sentence my owne life destroyed: Alas, I lookt when some of you should say, I was too strict to make mine owne away: But you gaue leaue to my vnwilling tongue, Against my #will to do my selfe this wrong. Coosen farewel, and Vnckle, bid him so, Sixe yeares we banish him and he shall go.

+ Cosin farewel, what presence must not know, From where you doe remaine let paper shew. My Lord, no leaue take I, for I will ride As farre as land will let me by your side. Oh to what purpose doest thou hoard thy words, That thou returnest no greeting to thy friends? I haue too few to take my leaue of you, When the tongues office should be prodigall, To breathe the aboundant dolor of the heart. Thy griefe is but thy absence for a time. Ioy absent, griefe is present for that time. What is sixe winters? they are quickly gone. To men in ioy, but griefe makes one hower ten. Call it a trauaile that thou takst for pleasure. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so, Which findes it an inforced pilgrimage. The sullen passage of thy weary steps, Esteeme as foyle wherein thou art to set, The pretious Iewell of thy home returne. Nay rather euery tedious stride I make, Will but remember me what a deale of world: I wander from the Iewels that I loue. Must I not serue a long apprentishood, To forreine passages, and in the end, Hauing my freedome, boast of nothing else, But that I was a iourneyman to griefe. All places that the eie of heauen visits, Are to a wiseman portes and happie hauens: Teach thy necessity to reason thus, There is no vertue like necessity, Thinke not the King did banish thee, But thou the King. Woe doth the heauier sit, Where it perceiues it is but faintly borne: Go, say I sent thee foorth to purchase honour, And not the King exilde thee; or suppose, Deuouring pestilence hangs in our aire, And thou art flying to a fresher clime:

+ Looke what thy soule holds deare, imagine it To ly that way thou goest, not whence thou comst: Suppose the singing birds musitions, The grasse whereon thou treadst, the presence strowd, The flowers, faire Ladies, and thy steps, no more Then a delightfull measure or a dance, For gnarling sorrow hath lesse power to bite, The man that mocks at it, and sets it light. Oh who can hold a fier in his hand, By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite, By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow, By thinking on fantasticke sommers heate? Oh no, the apprehension of the good, Giues but the greater feeling to the worse: Fell sorrowes tooth doth neuer ranckle more, Then when he bites, but launceth not the soare. Come come my sonne Ile bring thee on thy way, Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay. Then Englands ground farewell, sweet soile adiew, My mother and my nurse that beares me yet, Where eare I wander boast of this I can, Though banisht, yet a true borne English man. + + We did obserue. Coosen Aumarle, How far brought you high Hereford on his way? I brought high Herford, if you call him so, But to the next high way, and there I left him. And say, what store of parting teares were shed? Faith none for me, except the Northeast winde, Which then blew bitterly against our faces, Awakt the sleeping rhewme, and so by chance Did grace our hollow parting with a teare.

+ What said our cousin when you parted with him? Farewel, & for my hart disdained that my tongue Should so prophane the word that taught me craft, To counterfaite oppression of such griefe, That words seemd buried in my sorrowes graue: Marry would the word Farewel haue lengthned howers, And added yeares to his short banishment, He should haue had a volume of farewels: But since it would not, he had none of me. He is our Coosens Coosin, but tis doubt, When time shall call him home from banishment, Whether our kinsman come to see his friends. Our selfe and Bushie, Obserued his courtship to the common people, How he did seeme to diue into their harts, With humble and familiar courtesie, With reuerence he did throw away on slaues, Wooing poore craftsmen with the craft of smiles. And patient vnder-#bearing of his fortune, As twere to banish their affects with him, Off goes his bonnet to an oysterwench, A brace of draimen bid God speed him well, And had the tribute of his supple knee, With thankes my countreymen my louing friendes, As were our England in reuersion his, And he our subiects next degree in hope. Wel, he is gone, and with him go these thoughts, Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland, Expedient mannage must be made my liege, Ere further leysure yeeld them further meanes, For their aduantage and your highnes losse. We will our selfe in person to this warre, And for our coffers with too great a court, And liberall larges are growen somewhat light, We are inforst to farm our royall Realme, The reuenew whereof shall furnish vs, For our affaires in hand if that come short,

+ Our substitutes at home shall haue blanke charters, Whereto, when they shal know what men are rich, They shal subscribe them for large summes of gold, And send them after to supply our wants, For we will make for Ireland presently. Olde Iohn of Gaunt is grieuous sicke my Lord, Sodainely taken, and hath sent post haste, To intreate your Maiestie to visite him. Where lies he? At Ely house. Now put it (God) in the Physitions mind, To help him to his graue immediatly: The lining of his coffers shall make coates To decke our souldiers for these Irish warres. Come gentlemen, lets all go visite him, Pray God we may make haste and come too late, Amen + Wil the King come that I may breathe my last? In holsome counsell to his vnstaied youth. Vex not your selfe, nor striue not with your breath, For all in vaine comes counsell to his eare. Oh but they say, the tongues of dying men, Inforce attention like deepe harmony: Where words are scarce they are seldome spent in vaine, For they breathe truth that breathe their wordes in paine: He that no more must say, is listened more Than they whom youth and ease haue taught to glose, More are mens ends markt than their liues before: The setting Sunne, and Musike at the close, As the last taste of sweetes is sweetest last, Writ in remembrance more than things long past, Though Richard my liues counsell would not heare, My deaths sad tale may yet vndeafe his eare. No, it is stopt with other flattering soundes,

+ As praises of whose taste the wise are found Lasciuious meeters, to whose venome sound The open eare of youth doth alwayes listen, Report of fashions in proude Italie, Whose maners still our tardy apish nation Limps after in base imitation: Where doth the world thrust forth a vanitie, So it be new, theres no respect how vile, That is not quickly buzde into his eares? Then all too late comes Counsell to be heard, Where will doth mutiny with wits regard: Direct not him whose way himselfe wil chuse, Tis breath thou lackst, and that breath wilt thou loose. Me thinkes I am a prophet new inspirde, And thus expiring do foretell of him. His rash fierce blaze of ryot cannot last: For violent fires soone burne out themselues. Small shoures last long, but sodaine stormes are short: He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes With eagre feeding foode doth choke the feeder, Light vanitie insatiate cormorant, Consuming meanes soone praies vpon it selfe: This royall throne of Kings, this sceptred #Ile, This earth of maiestie, this seate of Mars, This other Eden, demy Paradice, This fortresse built by Nature for her selfe, Against infection and the hand of warre, This happy breede of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the siluer sea, Which serues it in the office of a wall, Or as moate defensiue to a house, Against the enuie of lesse happier lands. This blessed plot, this earth, this realme, this England, This nurse, this teeming wombe of royall Kings, Feard by their breed, and famous by theyr byrth, Renowned for theyr deedes as far from home, For christian seruice, and true chiualry,

+ As is the sepulchre in stubburne Iewry, Of the worlds ransome blessed Maries sonne: This land of such deare soules, this deere deere land, Deare for her reputation through the world, Is now leasde out; I dye pronouncing it, Like to a tenement or pelting Farme. England bound in with the triumphant sea, Whose rockie shoare beates backe the enuious siege Of watry Neptune, is now bound in with shame, With inckie blots, and rotten parchment bonds: That England that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shamefull conquest of it selfe: Ah would the scandall vanish with my life, How happy then were my ensuing death? The King is come, deale mildely with his youth, For young hot colts being ragde, do rage the more. How fares our noble vncle Lancaster? What comfort man? how ist with aged Gaunt? O how that name befits my composition! Old Gaunt indeede, and gaunt in being olde: Within me Griefe hath kept a tedious fast. And who abstaines from meate that is not gaunt? For sleeping England long time haue I watcht, Watching breedes leanenesse, leanenesse is all gaunt: The pleasure that some fathers feede vpon Is my strict fast; I meane my childrens lookes, And therein fasting hast thou made me gaunt: Gaunt am I for the graue, gaunt as a graue, Whose hollow wombe inherites naught but bones. Can sicke men play so nicely with their names? No misery makes sport to mocke it selfe, Since thou dost seeke to kill my name in me, I mocke my name (great King) to flatter thee. Should dying men flatter with those that liue? No no, men liuing flatter those that die.

+ Thou now #a dying sayest thou flatterest me. Oh no, thou diest, though I the sicker be. I am in health, I breathe, and see thee #ill. Now he that made me knowes I see thee #ill, #Ill in my selfe to see, and in thee, seeing #ill, Thy death-#bed is no lesser than thy land, Wherein thou liest in reputation sicke, And thou too carelesse pacient as thou art Commitst thy annoynted body to the cure Of those Physitions that first wounded thee, A thousand flatterers sit within thy Crowne, Whose compasse is no bigger than thy head, And yet inraged in so small a verge, The waste is no whit lesser than thy land: Oh had thy grandsire with a Prophets eie, Seene how his sonnes sonne should destroy his sonnes, From forth thy reach he would haue laid thy shame, Deposing thee before thou wert possest, Which art possest now to depose thy selfe: Why cousin wert thou regent of the world, It were a shame to let this land by lease: But for thy world enioying but this land, Is it not more than shame to shame it so? Landlord of England art thou now not, not King, Thy state of lawe is bondslaue to the lawe, And thou A lunatike leane-#witted foole, Presuming on an agues priuiledge, Darest with thy frozen admonition Make pale our cheeke, chasing the royall bloud With furie from his natiue residence. Now by my seates right royall maiestie, Wert thou not brother to great Edwards sonne, This tong that runnes so roundly in thy head, Should runne thy head from thy vnreuerent shoulders. Oh spare me not my brothers Edwards sonne, For that I was his father Edwards sonne,

+ That bloud already like the Pellican, Hast thou tapt out and drunkenly carowst, My brother Glocester plaine well meaning soule, Whom faire befall in heauen mongst happy soules, Maie be a president and witnes good: That thou respectst not spilling Edwards bloud: Ioine with the present sicknes that I haue, And thy vnkindnes be like crooked age, To crop at once a too long withered flower, Liue in thy shame, but die not shame with thee, These words hereafter thy tormentors be, Convay me to my bed then to my graue, Loue they to liue that loue and honour haue. And let them die that age and sullens haue, For both hast thou, and both become the graue. I doe beseech your Maiesty, impute his words To waiward sicklines and age in him, He loues you on my life, and holdes you deere, As Harry Duke of Hereford were he here. Right, you say true, as Herefords loue, so his As theirs, so mine, and all be as it is. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Ma%|iestie. What saies he? Nay nothing, all is said: His tongue is now a stringlesse instrument, Words, life, and al, old Lancaster hath spent. Be Yorke the next that must be bankrout so, Though death be poore, it ends a mortall wo. The ripest fruit first fals, and so doth he, His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be; So much for that. Now for our Irish wars, We must supplant those rough rugheaded kerne, Which liue like venome, where no venome else, But onely they haue priuiledge to liue. And for these great affaires do aske some charge, Towards our assistance we doe seaze to vs:

+ The plate, coine, reuenewes, and moueables Whereof our Vnckle Gaunt did stand possest. How long shal I be patient? ah how long Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong? Not Glocesters death, nor Herefords banishment, Nor Gauntes rebukes, nor Englands priuate wrongs, Nor the preuention of poore Bullingbrooke, About his mariadge, nor my owne disgrace, Haue euer made me sower my patient cheeke, Or bende one wrinckle on my soueraignes face: I am the last of noble Edwards sonnes, Of whom thy father Prince of Wales was first In warre was neuer Lyon ragde more fierce, In peace was neuer gentle lambe more milde, Then was that young and princely Gentleman: His face thou hast, for euen so lookt he, Accomplisht with a number of thy howers; But when he frowned it was against the french, And not against his friends: his noble hand Did win what he did spende, and spent not that Which his triumphant fathers hand had wonne: His hands were guilty of no kinred bloud, But bloudie with the enemies of his kinne: Oh Richard: Yorke is too far gone with griefe, Or else he neuer would compare betweene. Why Vnckle whats the matter? Oh my liege, pardone me if you please, If not I pleasd not to be pardoned, am content with all, Seeke you to seaze and gripe into your hands The roialties and rights of banisht Hereford: Is not Gaunt dead? and doth not Hereford liue? Was not Gaunt iust? and is not Harrie true? Did not the one deserue to haue an heire? Is not his heire a well deseruing sonne? Take Herefordes rightes away, and take from time His charters, and his customarie rightes; Let not to morrow then ensue to daie: Be not thy selfe. For how art thou a King

+ But by faire sequence and succession? Now afore God God forbidde I say true, If you doe wrongfully seaze Herefords rightes, Call in the letters patents that he hath By his attourneies generall to sue His liuery, and deny his offred homage, You plucke a thousand dangers on your head, You loose a thousand well disposed hearts, And pricke my tender patience to those thoughts, Which honour, and alleageance cannot thinke. Thinke what you wil, we cease into our hands His plate, his goods, his money and his landes. Ile not be by the while, my liege farewell, What will ensue hereof thers none can tell: But by bad courses may be vnderstood That their euents can neuer fall out good. Go Bushie to the Earle of Wiltshire straight, Bid him repaire to vs to Ely house, To see this busines: to morrow next We will for Ireland, and tis time I trow, And we create in absence of our selfe, Our Vnckle Yorke Lord gouernour of England; For he is iust, and alwaies loued vs well: Come on our Queene, to morrow must we part, Be merry, for our time of staie is short. Well Lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead. And liuing #to, for now his sonne is Duke. Barely in title, not in reuenewes. Richly in both if iustice had her right. My heart is great, but it must breake with silence, Eart be disburdened with a liberall tongue. Nay speake thy mind, & let him nere speake more That speakes thy words againe to doe thee harme. Tends that thou wouldst speake to the Duke of Her%|ford? If it be so, out with it boldly man, Quicke is mine eare to heare of good towards him.

+ No good at all that I can doe for him, Vnlesse you call it good to pitty him, Bereft, and gelded of his patrimony. Now afore God tis shame such wrongs are borne, In him a royall Prince and many mo, Of noble bloud in this declining land, The King is not himselfe, but basely led By flatterers, and what they will informe, Meerely in hate gainst any of vs all, That will the King seuerely prosecute, Gainst vs, our liues, our children, and our heires. The commons hath he pild with grieuous taxes, And quite lost their hearts. The nobles hath he finde, For ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts. And daily new exactions are deuisde, As blanckes, beneuolences, and I wot not what: But what #a Gods name doth become of this? Wars hath not wasted it, for warrde he hath not, But basely yeelded vpon compromise, That which his noble auncestors atchiued with blowes, More hath he spent in peace then they in wars. The Earle of Wiltshire hath the realme in farme. The King growen banckrout like a broken man. Reproch and dissolution hangeth ouer him. He hath not money for these Irish wars, His burthenous taxations notwithstanding, But by the robbing of the banisht Duke. His noble kinsman most degenerate King, But Lords we heare this fearefull tempest sing, Yet seeke no shelter to auoid the storme: We see the wind sit sore vpon our sailes, And yet we strike not, but securely perish. We see the very wracke that we must suffer, And vnauoided is the danger now For suffering so the causes of our wracke. Not so, euen through the hollow eies of death, I spie life peering but I dare not say.

+ How neere the tidings of our comfort is. Nay let vs share thy thoughts as thou dost ours. Be confident to speake Northumberland We three are but thy selfe, and speaking so Thy words are but as thoughts, therefore be bold. Then thus, I haue from le Port Blan A Bay in Brittaine receiude intelligence, That Harry duke of Herford, Rainold [L.]Lord Cobham That late broke from the Duke of Exeter His brother, archbishop late of Canterburie, Sir Thomas Erpingham, sir Iohn Ramston, Sir Iohn Norbery, sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Coines; All these well furnished by the Duke of Brittaine With eight tall shippes, three thousand men of warre, Are making hither with all due expedience, And shortly meane to touch our Northerne shore: Perhaps they had ere this but that they stay The first departing of the King for Ireland. If then we shall shake off our slauish yoke, Impe out our drowping countries broken wing, Redeeme from Broking pawne the blemisht Crowne, Wipe off the dust that hides our Scepters guilt, And make high Maiestie looke like it selfe, Away with me in post to Rauenspurgh: But if you faint, as fearing to do so, Stay, and be secret, and my selfe will go. To horse, to horse, vrge doubts to them that feare. Holde out my horse, and I will first be there. + Madam, your maiestie is too much sad, You promist, when you parted with the King, To lay aside life-#harming heauines, And entertaine a cheerefull disposition. To please the king I did, to please my selfe I cannot do it; yet I know no cause Why I should welcome such a guest as Griefe,

+ Saue bidding farewell to so sweete a guest, As my sweete Richard: yet agayne me thinkes Some vnborne sorrow ripe in Fortunes wombe, Is comming towardes me and my inward soule, With nothing trembles, at something it grieues, More then with parting from my Lord the King. Each substance of a griefe hath twenty shadowes, Which shewes like griefe it selfe, but is not so: For Sorrowes eyes glazed with blinding teares, Diuides one thing entire to many obiects, Like perspectiues, which rightly gazde vpon Shew nothing but confusion; eyde awry, Distinguish forme: so your sweet maiestie, Looking awry vpon your Lords departure, Finde shapes of griefe more than himselfe to waile, Which lookt on as it is, is naught but shadows Of what it is not; then thrice (gracious Queene) More then your Lords departure weep not, more is not seen Or if it be, tis with false Sorrowes eye, Which for things true, weepes things imaginarie. It may be so; but yet my inward soule Perswades me it is otherwise: how ere it be, I cannot but be sad: so heauie sad, As thought on thinking on no thought I thinke, Makes me with heauy nothing faint and shrinke. Tis nothing but conceit my gratious Lady. Tis nothing lesse: conceit is still deriude, From some forefather griefe, mine is not so, For nothing hath begot my something griefe. Or something hath the nothing that I grieue, Tis in reuersion that I do possesse, But what it is that is not yet knowen what, I cannot name, tis namelesse woe I wot. God saue your maiesty, and well met Gentlemen, I hope the King is not yet shipt for Ireland. Why hopest thou so? tis better hope he is, For his designes craue haste, his haste good hope: Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipt?

+ That he our hope might haue retirde his power, And driuen into despaire an enemies hope, Who strongly hath set footing in this land, The banisht Bullingbrooke repeales himselfe, And with vplifted armes is safe ariude at Rauenspurgh. Now God in heauen forbid. Ah Madam! tis too true, and that is worse: The lord Northumberland, his son yong [H.]Harry Percie, The lords of Rosse, Beaumond, and Willoughby, With all their powerful friends are fled to him. Why haue you not proclaimd Northumberland And al the rest reuolted faction, traitours? We haue, whereupon the earle of Worcester Hath broken his Staffe, resignd his Stewardship, And al the houshold seruants fled with him to Bullingbrook So Greene, thou art the midwife to my woe, And Bullingbrooke my sorowes dismall heire, Now hath my soule brought forth her prodigie, And I a gasping new deliuerd mother, Haue woe to woe, sorow to sorow ioynde Dispaire not Madam. Who shall hinder me? I will dispaire and be at enmitie With cousening Hope, he is a flatterer, A parasite, a keeper backe of Death, Who gently would dissolue the bands of life, Which false Hope lingers in extremitie. Here comes the Duke of Yorke. With signes of war about his aged necke, Oh ful of carefull busines are his lookes! Vncle, for Gods sake speake comfortable wordes. Should I do so I should bely my thoughts, Comfort's in heauen, and we are on the earth, Where nothing liues but crosses, cares and griefe: Your husband, he is gone to saue far off, Whilst others come to make him loose at home: Heere am I left to vnderprop his land,

+ Who weake with age cannot support my selfe, Now comes the sicke houre that his surfet made, Now shall he trie his friends that flatterd him. My Lord, your son was gone before I came. He was; why so go all which way it will: The nobles they are fled, the commons they are colde, And will (I feare) reuolt on Herefords side. Sirra, get thee to Plashie to my sister Glocester, Bid her send me presently a thousand pound, Hold take my ring. My Lord, I had forgot to tel your Lordship: To day as I came by I called there, But I shall grieue you to report the rest. What ist knaue? An houre before I came the Dutchesse died. God for his mercy, what a tide of woes Comes rushing on this wofull land at once! I know not what to do: I would to God, (So my vntruth had not prouokt him to it) The King had cut off my head with my brothers. What are there no Posts dispatcht for Ireland? How shal we do for money for these wars? Come sister, cousin I would say, pray pardon me: Go fellow get thee home, prouide some cartes, And bring away the armour that is there. Gentlemen, will you go muster men? If I know how or which way to order these affayres Thus disorderly thrust into my hands, Neuer beleeue me: both are my kinsmen, T#one is my soueraigne, whom both my oath And duety bids defend; t#other againe Is my kinsman, whom the King hath wrongd, Whom conscience, and my kinred bids to right. Wel somewhat we must do: Come cousin, Ile dispose of you: Gentlemen, go muster vp your men, And meete me presently at Barkly: I should to Plashie too, but time wil not permit:

+ All is vneuen, and euery thing is left at sixe and seauen. The winde sits faire for newes to go for Ireland, But none returnes. For vs to leuie power Proportionable to the enemy is all vnpossible. Besides our neerenes to the King in loue, Is neare the hate of those loue not the King. And that is the wauering commons, for their loue Lies in their purses, and who so empties them, By so much fils their hearts with deadly hate. Wherein the King stands generally condemnd. If iudgment lie in them, then so do we, Because we euer haue beene neere the King. Well I will for refuge straight to [Brist.]Bristow Castle, The Earle of Wiltshire is already there. Thither will I with you, for little office Will the hatefull commons perfourme for vs, Except like curs to teare vs all to pieces: Will you go along with vs? No, I will to Ireland to his Maiesty, Farewell if hearts presages be not vaine, We three here part that nere shall meete againe. Thats as Yorke thriues to beat backe Bullingbrook. Alas poore Duke the taske he vndertakes, Is numbring sands, and drinking Oceans drie, Where one on his side fights, thousands will flie: Farewell at once, for once, for all, and euer. Well, we may meete againe. I feare me neuer. + How far is it my Lord to Barckly now? Beleeue me noble Lord, I am a stranger here in Glocestershire, These high wild hils and rough vneuen waies, Drawes out our miles and makes them wearisome, And yet your faire discourse hath beene as sugar, Making the hard way sweete and delectable,

+ But I bethinke me what a weary way From Rauenspurgh to Cotshall will be found, In Rosse and Willoughby wanting your company, Which I protest hath very much beguild, The tediousnesse and processe of my trauell: But theirs is sweetned with the hope to haue The present benefit which I possesse, And hope to ioy is little lesse in ioye, Then hope enioyed: by this the weary Lords Shall make their way seeme short as mine hath done, By sight of what I haue, your noble company. Of much lesse value is my company, Then your good wordes. But who comes here? It is my sonne young Harry Persy, Sent from my brother Worcester whencesoeuer. Harry, how fares your Vnckle? + I had thought my Lord to haue learned his health| of you. Why is he not with the Queene? No my good Lord, he hath forsooke the court, Broken his staffe of office and disperst The houshold of the King. What was his reason, he was not so resolude, When last we spake togither? Because your [Lo:]Lord was proclaimed traitor, But he my [Lo:]Lord is gone to Rauenspurgh, To offer seruice to the Duke of Hereford, And sent me ouer by Barckly to discouer, What power the Duke of Yorke had leuied there, Then with directions to repaire to Rauenspurgh. Haue you forgot the Duke of Herefords boy? No my good [Lo:]Lord for that is not forgot, Which nere I did remember, to my knowledge I neuer in my life did looke on him. Then learne to know him now, this is the Duke. My gratious [Lo:]Lord I tender you my seruice, Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young, Which elder daies shal ripen and confirme

+ To more approued seruice and desert. I thanke thee gentle Persy, and be sure, I count my selfe in nothing else so happy, As in a soule remembring my good friends, And as my fortune ripens with thy loue, It shalbe still thy true loues recompence, My heart this couenant makes, my hand thus seales it. How farre is it to Barckly, and what stur Keepes good old Yorke there with his men of war? There stands the Castle by yon tuft of trees, Mand with 300. men as I haue heard, And in it are the Lords of Yorke Barkly and Seymer, None else of name and noble estimate. Here come the Lords of Rosse and Willoughby, Bloudy with spurring, fiery red with haste. Welcome my Lords, I wot your loue pursues, A banisht traitor: all my treasury Is yet but vnfelt thanks, which more inricht, Shalbe your loue and labours recompence. Your presence makes vs rich, most noble Lord. And far surmounts our labour to attaine it. Euermore thanke's the exchequer of the poore, Which till my infant fortune comes to yeares, Stands for my bounty: but who comes here? It is my Lord of Barkly as I guesse. My Lord of Hereford my message is to you. My Lord my answere is to Lancaster, And I am come to seeke that name in England, And I must find that title in your tongue, Before I make reply to ought you say. Mistake me not my Lord, tis not my meaning, To race one title of your honor out: To you my [Lo:]Lord I come, what [Lo:]Lord you will, From the most gratious regent of this land The Duke of Yorke: to know what prickes you on, To take aduantage of the absent time, And fright our natiue peace with selfeborne armes?

+ I shall not need transport my words by you, Here comes his grace in person, my noble Vnckle. Shew me thy humble heart, and not thy knee, Whose duety is deceiueable and false. My gratious Vnckle. Tut tut, grace me no grace, nor vnckle me no vnckle, I am no traitors Vnckle, and that word Grace In an vngratious mouth is but prophane: Why haue those banisht and forbidden legs, Dard once to touch a dust of Englands ground: But then more why? why haue they dard to march So many miles vpon her peacefull bosome, Frighting her pale fac't villadges with warre, And ostentation of despised armes? Comst thou because the annointed king is hence? Why foolish boy the King is left behinde, And in my loiall bosome lies his power, Were I but now Lord of such hot youth, As when braue Gaunt thy father and my selfe, Rescued the blacke prince that young Mars of men. From forth the ranckes of many thousand french, O then how quickly should this arme of mine, Now prisoner to the Palsie chastise thee, And minister correction to thy fault! My gratious Vnckle let me know my fault, On what condition stands it and wherein? Euen in condition of the worst degree, In grosse rebellion and detested treason, Thou art a banisht man and here art come, Before the expiration of thy time, In brauing armes against thy soueraigne. As I was banisht, I was banisht Hereford, But as I come, I come for Lancaster. And noble Vnckle I beseech your grace, Looke on my wrongs with an indifferent eie: You are my father, for me thinkes in you I see old Gaunt aliue. Oh then my father,

+ Will you permit that I shall stand condemnd A wandering vagabond, my rights and royalties Pluckt from my armes perforce; and giuen away To vpstart vnthrifts? wherefore was I borne? If that my cousin King be King in England, It must be granted I am duke of Lancaster: You haue a sonne, Aumerle, my noble cousin, Had you first died, and he bin thus trod downe, He should haue found his vncle Gaunt a father, To rowze his wrongs and chase them to the baie. I am denyed to sue my Liuery here, And yet my letters pattents giue me leaue. My fathers goods are all distrainde and sold, And these, and all, are all amisse employed. What would you haue me do? I am a subiect; And I challenge law, Atturnies are denied me, And therefore personally I lay my claime To my inheritance of free descent. The noble Duke hath bin too much abused. It stands your Grace vpon to do him right. Base men by his endowments are made great. My Lords of England, let me tell you this: I haue had feeling of my cousins wrongs, And labourd all I could to do him right: But in this kind to come, in brauing armes Be his owne caruer, and cut out his way, To finde out right wyth wrong it may not be: And you that do abette him in this kinde, Cherish rebellion, and are rebells all. The noble Duke hath sworne his comming is, But for his owne; and for the right of that, We al haue strongly sworne to giue him ayde: And let him neuer see ioy that breakes that oath. Wel wel, I see the issue of these armes, I cannot mend it I must needes confesse, Because my power is weake and all #ill left: But if I could, by him that gaue me life,

+ I would attach you all, and make you stoope Vnto the soueraigne mercie of the king; But since I cannot, be it knowen vnto you, I do remaine as newter, so fare you well, Vnlesse you please to enter in the castle, And there repose you for this night. An offer vncle that we will accept, But we must winne your Grace to go with vs, To Bristow castle, which they say is held By Bushie, Bagot, and their complices, The caterpillers of the commonwealth, Which I haue sworne to weede and plucke away. It may be I will go with you, but yet Ile pawse. For I am loath to breake our countries lawes, Nor friends, nor foes to me welcome you are: Things past redresse, are now with me past care. + My lord of Salisbury, we haue stayed ten dayes, And hardly kept our countrymen together, And yet we heare no tidings from the King, Therefore we will disperse our selues, farewell. Stay yet an other day, thou trustie Welchman. The King reposeth all his confidence in thee. Tis thought the King is dead; we wil not stay, The bay trees in our country are al witherd, And Meteors fright the fixed starres of heauen, The pale-#facde moone lookes bloudie on the earth, And leane-#lookt prophets whisper fearefull change, Rich men looke sad, and ruffians daunce and leape, The one in feare to loose what they enioy, The other to enioy by rage and warre: These signes forerunne the death or fall of Kings. Farewell, our countrymen are gone and fled, As well assured Richard their King is dead. Ah Richard! with the eies of heauy mind I see thy glory like a shooting starre

+ Fall to the base earth from the firmament, Thy sunne sets weeping in the lowly west, Witnessing stormes to come, wo, and vnrest, Thy friends are fled to wait vpon thy foes, And crosly to thy good all fortune goes. + Bring forth these men. Bushie and Greene, I will not vex your soules, Since presently your soules must part your bodies With too much vrging your pernitious liues, For twere no charitie; yet to wash your bloud From off my hands, heere in the view of men I will vnfold some causes of your deaths: You haue misled a Prince, a royall King, A happy Gentleman in bloud and lineaments, By you vnhappied, and disfigured cleane, You haue in manner with your sinfull houres Made a diuorce betwixt his Queene and him, Broke the possession of a royall bed, And stainde the beutie of a faire Queenes cheekes With teares, drawen from her eies by your fowle wrongs, My selfe a Prince, by fortune of my birth, Neere to the King in bloud, and neere in loue, Till you did make him misinterpret me, Haue stoopt my necke vnder your iniuries, And sigh't my English breath in forren cloudes, Eating the bitter bread of banishment, Whilst you haue fed vpon my segniories, Disparkt my parkes, and felld my forrest woods, From my owne windowes torne my houshold coate, Rac't out my impreese, leauing me no signe, Saue mens opinions, and my liuing bloud, To shew the world I am a gentleman. This and much more, much more then twice all this Condemns you to the death: see them deliuered ouer To execution and the hand of death.

+ More welcome is the stroke of death to me, Than Bullingbrooke to England, Lords farewell. My comfort is, that heauen will take our soules, And plague iniustice with the paines of #hell. My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatcht: Vncle, you say the Queene is at your house, For Gods sake fairely let her be intreated, Tel her I send to her my kinde commends; Take special care my greetings be deliuered. A gentleman of mine I haue dispatcht, With letters of your loue to her at large. Thankes (gentle vncle:) Come Lords, away, To fight with Glendor and his complices, #A while to worke, and after holiday. + Barkloughly castle call they this at hand? Yea my Lord, How brookes your Grace the ayre After your late tossing on the breaking seas? Needes must I like it well, I weepe for ioy, To stand vpon my kingdome once againe: Deere earth I do salute thee with my hand, Though rebels wound thee with their horses hoofes: As a long parted mother with her childe Playes fondly with her teares and smiles in meeting; So weeping, smiling greete I thee my earth, And do thee fauours with my royall hands; Feede not thy Soueraignes foe, my gentle earth, Nor with thy sweetes comfort his rauenous sence, But let thy Spiders that sucke vp thy venome, And heauy-#gated toades lie in theyr way, Doing annoyance to the treacherous feete, Which with vsurping steps do trample thee, Yeelde stinging nettles to mine enemies: And when they from thy bosome plucke a flower, Guard it I pray thee with a lurking Adder, Whose double tongue may wyth a mortall touch,

+ Throwe death vpon thy soueraignes enemies, Mocke not my senceles coniuration Lords, This earth shall haue a feeling, and these stones, Proue armed souldiers ere her natiue King, Shall faulter vnder foule rebellions armes. Feare not my Lord, that power that made you king, Hath power to keepe you king in spight of all, The meanes that heauens yeeld must be imbrac't And not neglected. Else heauen would, And we will not, heauens offer, we refuse, The profered meanes of succors and redresse. He meanes my [Lo:]Lord that we are too remisse, Whilst Bullingbrooke through our security, Growes strong and great in substance and in power. Discomfortable Coosen knowst thou not, That when the searching eie of heauen is hid, Behinde the globe that lights the lower world, Then theeues and robbers range abroad vnseene, In murthers and in outrage bouldy here, But when from vnder this terrestriall ball, He fires the proud tops of the easterne pines, And dartes his light through euery guilty hole, Then murthers, treasons and detested sinnes, The cloake of night being pluckt from off their backs, Stand bare and naked trembling at themselues? So when this thiefe, this traitor Bullingbrooke, Who all this while hath reueld in the night, Whilst we were wandring with the Antipodes, Shall see vs rising in our throne the east, His treasons will sit blushing in his face, Not able to endure the sight of day, But selfe affrighted tremble at his sinne, Not all the water in the rough rude sea, Can wash the balme off from an annointed King, The breath of worldly men cannot depose, The deputy elected by the Lord, For euery man that Bullingbrooke hath prest,

+ To lifte shrewd steele against our golden crowne, God for his [Ric.]Richard hath in heauenly pay, A glorious Angell; then if Angels fight, Weake men must fall, for heauen still gardes the right. Welcome my [Lo:]Lord how far off lies your power? Nor neare nor farther off my gratious [Lo:]Lord Than this weake arme; discomfort guides my tongue, And bids me speake of nothing but Despaire, One day too late I feare me noble [Lo:]Lord Hath clouded all thy happy daies on earth: O call backe yesterday, bid Time returne, And thou shalt haue twelue thousand fighting men, To day to day vnhappie daie too late, Ouerthrowes thy ioies friends, fortune and thy state, For all the Welshmen hearing thou wert dead, Are gone to Bullingbrooke disperst and fled. Comfort my liege, why lookes your grace so pale. But now the bloud of 20000. men, Did triumph in my face, and they are fled: And till so much bloud thither come againe, Haue I not reason to looke pale and dead? All soules that wilbe safe, flie from my side, For time hath set a blot vpon my pride. Comfort my liege remember who you are. I had forgot my selfe, am I not King? Awake thou coward Maiesty thou sleepest, Is not the Kings name twenty thousand names? Arme arme, my name a puny subiect strikes, At thy great glorie, looke not to the ground, Ye fauourites of a King, are we not high? High be our thoughts, I know my Vnckle Yorke, Hath power enough to serue our turne: but who comes here? More health and happines betide my liege, Then can my care tunde tongue deliuer him. Mine eare is open, and my hart prepard,

+ The worst is worldly losse thou canst vnfold, Say, is my kingdome lost? why twas my care, And what losse is it to be rid of care? Striues Bullingbrooke to be as great as we, Greater he shall not be, if he serue God, Weele serue him #to, and be his fellow so: Reuolt our subiects, that we cannot mende, They breake their faith to God as well as vs: Crie woe, destruction, ruine, and decay, The worst is death, and death will haue his day. Glad am I, that your highnes is so armde, To beare the tidings of calamity, Like an vnseasonable stormie day, Which makes the siluer riuers drowne their shores, As if the world were all dissolude to teares: So high aboue his limits swels the rage Of Bullingbrooke couering your fearefull land, With hard bright steele, and harts harder then steele, White beards haue armd their thin and haireles scalpes Against thy maiesty: boies with womens voices, Striue to speake big and clap their femal ioints, In stiffe vnweildy armes against thy crowne, Thy very beadsmen learne to bend their bowes, Of double fatall ewe against thy state. Yea distaffe women mannage rustie bils Against thy seate, both young and old rebell, And all goes worse then I haue power to tell. Too well too well thou telst a tale so #ill, Where is the Earle of Wiltshire? where is Bagot? What is become of Bushie? where is Greene? That they haue let the dangerous enemy, Measure our confines with such peacefull steps, If we preuaile, their heads shall pay for it: I warrant they haue made peace with [Bulling]Bullingbrooke. Peace haue they made with him indeed my Lord. Oh villaines, vipers, damnd without redemption, Dogs easily woon to fawne on any man.

+ Snakes in my hart bloud warmd, that sting my hart, Three Iudasses, each one thrise worse then Iudas, Would they make peace? terrible #hel, Make war vpon their spotted soules for this. Sweet loue I see changing his property, Turnes to the sowrest and most deadly hate, Againe, vncurse their soules, their peace is made With heads and not with hands, those whom you curse Haue felt the worst of deathes destroying wound, And lie full low grau'd in the hollow ground. Is Bushie, Greene, and the Earle of Wiltshire dead. #I all of them at Bristow lost their heads. Where is the Duke my father with his power? No matter where, of comfort no man speake: Lets talke of graues, of wormes, and Epitaphs, Make dust our paper, and with rainy eies, Write sorrow on the bosome of the earth. Lets choose executors and talke of wils: And yet not so, for what can we bequeath, Saue our deposed bodies to the ground? Our landes, our liues, and all are Bullingbrookes, And nothing can we call our owne, but death: And that small modle of the barren earth, Which serues as paste, and couer to our bones, For Gods sake let vs sit vpon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of Kings, How some haue beene deposd, some slaine in warre, Some haunted by the ghosts they haue deposed, Some poisoned by their wiues, some sleeping kild; All murthered, for within the hollow crowne That roundes the mortall temples of a king, Keepes death his court, and there the antique sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pompe, Allowing him a breath, a litle sceane, To monarchise be feard, and kil with lookes, Infusing him with selfe and vaine conceit, As if this flesh which wals about our life, Were brasse impregnable: and humord thus,

+ Comes at the last, and with a little pin Boares thorough his Castle wall, and farewell King; Couer your heades, and mocke not flesh and bloud, With solemne reuerence, throw #a way respect, Tradition, forme, and ceremonious duetie, For you haue but mistooke me al this while: I liue with bread like you, feele want, Taste griefe, neede friends, subiected thus, How can you say to me, I am a King? My lord, wisemen nere sit and waile theyr woes, But presently preuent the wayes to waile, To feare the foe, since feare oppresseth strength, Giues in your weakenes strength vnto your foe, And so your follies fight against your selfe: Feare and be slaine, no worse can come to fight, And fight and die, is death destroying death, Where fearing dying, paies death seruile breath. My father hath a power, inquire of him, And learne to make a body of a limme. Thou chidst me well, prowd Bullingbrooke, I come To change blowes with thee for our day of doome: This agew fit of feare is ouerblowne, And easie taske it is to winne our owne. Say Scroope, where lies our vncle with his power? Speake sweetely man although thy lookes be sower. Men iudge by the complexion of the skie, The state and inclination of the day; So may you by my dull and heauy eie: My tongue hath but a heauier tale to say, I play the torturer by small and small To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken: Your vncle Yorke is ioynd with Bullingbrooke, And all your Northerne castles yeelded vp, And all your Southerne Gentlemen in armes Vpon his partie. Thou hast said enough: Beshrew thee cousin which didst leade me foorth

+ Of that sweete way I was in to dispaire. What say you now? what comfort haue we now? By heauen Ile hate him euerlastingly, That bids me be of comfort any more. Go to Flint Castle, there Ile pine away, A King woes slaue shall kingly woe obey: That power I haue, discharge, and let them goe To eare the land that hath some hope to grow, For I haue none, let no man speake againe, To alter this, for counsell is but vaine. My Liege, one word. He does me double wrong, That wounds me with the flatteries of his tong. Discharge my followers, let them hence away, From Richards night, to Bullingbrookes faire day. + So that by this intelligence we learne The Welch men are disperst, and Salisburie Is gone to meete the King, who lately landed With some few priuate friends vpon this coast. The newes is very faire and good my lord, Richard not farre from hence hath hid his head. It would beseeme the Lord Northumberland To say King Richard; alacke the heauy day, When such a sacred King should hide his head. Your Grace mistakes; onely to be briefe Left I his title out. + The time hath bin, would you haue beene so briefe| with him, He would haue bin so briefe to shorten you, For taking so the head, your whole heads length: Mistake not (vncle) further then you should. Take not (good cousin) further then you should, Lest you mistake the heauens are ouer our heads. I know it vncle, and oppose not my selfe, Against their #will. But, who comes here? Welcome Harry; what, will not this castle yeelde? The Castle royally is mand my Lord.

+ Against thy entrance. Royally, why it containes no King. Yes (my good Lord,) It doth containe a King, King Richard lies Within the limites of yon lime and stone, And with him are the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury, Sir Stephen Scroope, besides a cleargie man Of holy reuerence, who I cannot learne. Oh belike it is the bishop of Carleil. Noble Lords, Go to the rude ribbes of that ancient Castle, Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parlee Into his ruinde eares, and thus deliuer. + [H. Bull.]Henry Bullingbrooke on both his knees doth kisse king Richards hand, And sends allegeance and true faith of heart To his most royall person: hither come Euen at his feete to lay my armes and power: Prouided, that my banishment repeald, And lands restored againe be freely granted; If not, Ile vse the aduantage of my power, And lay the summers dust with showres of bloud, Rainde from the wounds of slaughtered English men, The which, how farre off from the minde of [Bulling]Bullingbrooke. It is, such crimson tempest should bedrench The fresh greene lap of faire King Richards land: My stooping duety tenderly shall shew: Go signifie as much while here we march Vpon the grassie carpet of this plaine; Lets march without the noyse of threatning drumme, That from this Castels tottered battlements Our faire appointments may be well perusde. Me thinkes King Richard and my selfe should meete With no lesse terrour than the elements Of fire and water, when their thundring shocke At meeting teares the cloudie cheekes of heauen. Be he the fire, Ile be the yeelding water; The rage be his, whilst on the earth I raigne.

+ My water's on the earth, and not on him, March on, and marke King Richard how he lookes. See see King Richard doth himselfe appeare, As doth the blushing discontented Sunne, From out the fierie portall of the East, When he perceiues the enuious cloudes are bent To dimme his glorie, and to staine the tracke Of his bright passage to the Occident. Yet lookes he like a King, beholde his eye, As bright as is the Eagles, lightens forth Controlling maiestie; alacke alacke for woe, That any harme should staine so faire a shew. We are amazde, and thus long haue we stoode, To watch the feareful bending of thy knee, Because we thought our selfe thy lawful King: And if wee be, howe dare thy ioynts forget To pay their awefull duety to our presence? If we be not, shew vs the hand of God That hath dismist vs from our Stewardship, For well we know no hand of bloud and bone Can gripe the sacred handle of our Scepter, Vnlesse he do prophane, steale, or vsurpe, And though you thinke that all as you haue done Haue torne their soules, by turning them from vs, And we are barren and bereft of friends: Yet know, my maister God omnipotent, Is mustering in his cloudes on our behalfe, Armies of pestilence, and they shall strike Your children yet vnborne, and vnbegot, That lift your vassaile hands against my head, And threat the glorie of my precious crowne. Tell Bullingbrooke, for yon me thinkes he standes, That euery stride he makes vpon my land, Is dangerous treason: he is come to open The purple testament of bleeding warre:

+ But ere the crowne he lookes for, liue in peace, Ten thousand bloudy crownes of mothers sonnes, Shall #ill become the flower of Englands face, Change the complexion of her maid-#pale peace, To scarlet indignation and bedew Her pastors grasse with faithfull English bloud. The King of heauen forbid: our [Lo:]Lord the king Should so with ciuill and vnciuill armes, Be rusht vpon. Thy thrise noble Cosen, Harry Bullingbrooke doth humbly kisse thy hand, And by the honorable tombe he sweares, That stands vpon your roiall grandsires bones, And by the roialties of both your blouds, Currents that spring from one most gratious head, And by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt, And by the worth and honor of himselfe, Comprising all that may be sworne or said, His comming hither hath no further scope, Then for his lineall roialties, and to beg Infranchisement immediate on his knees, Which on thy roiall partie granted once, His glittering armes he will commend to rust, His barbed steeds to stables, and his hart To faithfull seruice of your Maiesty. This sweares he, as he is princesse iust, And as I am a gentleman I credit him. Northumberland, say thus, the King returnes, His noble Cosen is right welcome hither, And all the number of his faire demaunds, Shall be accomplisht without contradiction, With all the gratious vtterance thou hast, Speake to his gentle hearing kind commends. We do debase our selues, Cosen do we not, To looke so poorely, and to speake so faire? Shall we call backe Northumberland and send Defiance to the traitor and so die? No good my [Lo:]Lord lets fight with gentle words,

+ Till time lend friends, and friends their helpfull swords. Oh God oh God that ere this tong of mine That laid the sentence of dread banishment On yon prowde man should take it off againe With words of sooth! Oh that I were as great As is my griefe, or lesser than my name! Or that I could forget what I haue beene! Or not remember what I must be now! Swellst thou (prowd heart) Ile giue thee scope to beate, Since foes haue scope to beate both thee and me. Northumberland comes backe from Bullingbrooke What must the King do now? must he submit? The King shall do it: must he be deposde? The king shall be contented: must he loose The name of King? #a Gods name let it go: Ile giue my iewels for a set of Beades: My gorgeous pallace for a hermitage: My gay apparel for an almesmans gowne: My figurde goblets for a dish of wood: My scepter for a Palmers walking staffe: My subiects for a paire of carued Saintes, And my large kingdome for a little graue, A little little graue, an obscure graue, Or Ile be buried in the Kings hie way, Some way of common trade, where subiects feete May hourely trample on their soueraignes head; For on my heart they treade now whilst I liue: And buried once, why not vpon my head? Aumerle thou weepst (my tender-#hearted coosin) Weele make fowle weather with despised teares; Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corne, And make a dearth in this reuolting land: Or shall we play the wantons with our woes, And make some prety match with sheading teares, As thus to drop them still vpon one place, Till they haue fretted vs a paire of graues Within the earth, and therein laide; there lies

+ Two kinsmen digd their graues with weeping eies: Would not this #ill do well? well well I see, I talke but idlely, and you laugh at me. Most mightie Prince my Lord Northumberland, What saies king Bullingbroke, will his maiestie Giue Richard leaue to liue till Richard dye, You make a leg and Bullingbroke saies #I. My Lord, in the base court he doth attend, To speake with you, may it please you to come downe. Downe, downe I come, like glistring Phaeton: Wanting the manage of vnrulie Iades. In the base court, base court where Kinges growe base, To come at traitors calls, and do them grace, In the base court come downe: downe court, downe King, For nightowles shreeke where mounting larkes should sing. What saies his maiestie? Sorrowe and greife of hart, Makes him speake fondly like a frantike man, Yet he is come. Stand all apart, And shew faire dutie to his Maiestie: My gratious Lord. Faire coosen, you debase your princely knee, To make the base earth proud with kissing it: Me rather had my hart might feele your loue, Then my vnpleased eie see your curtesie: Vp coosen vp, your hart is vp I knowe, Thus high at least, although your knee be lowe. My gratious Lord, I come but for mine owne. Your owne is yours, and I am yours and all. So farre be mine my most redoubted Lord, As my true seruice shall deserue your loue. Well you deserue: they well deserue to haue, That know the strong'st and surest way to get, Vncle giue me your handes, nay drie your eies, Teares shew their loue, but want their remedies. Coosen I am #to yong to be your Father,

+ Though you are old enough to be my heire, What you will haue, Ile giue, and willing #to, For doe we must, what force will haue vs doe: Set on towards London, Cosen is it so? Yea my good Lord: Then I must not say no. + What sport shall we deuise here in this garden, To driue away the heauy thought of care? Madame weele play at bowles. Twil make me thinke the world is full of rubs, And that my fortune runs against the bias. Madame weele daunce. My legs can keepe no measure in delight, When my poore hart no measure keepes in griefe: Therfore no dauncing girle, some other sport. Madame weele tell tales. Of sorrow or of griefe. Of either Madame. Of neither girle: For if of ioy, being altogither wanting, It doth remember me the more of sorrow: Or if of griefe, being altogither had, It adds more sorrow to my want of ioy: For what I haue I need not to repeate, And what I want it bootes not to complaine. Madame Ile sing. Tis well that thou hast cause, But thou shouldst please me better, wouldst thou weepe. I could weepe; Madame would it doe you good? And I could sing would weeping doe me good, And neuer borrow any teare of thee. But stay, here come the gardeners, Lets step into the shadow of these trees, My wretchednes vnto a row of pines,

+ They will talke of state for euery one doth so, Against a change woe is fore-#runne with woe. Go bind thou vp yong dangling Aphricokes, Which like vnruly children make their sire, Stoope with oppression of their prodigall weight, Giue some supportance to the bending twigs, Go thou, and like an executioner Cut off the heads of two fast growing spraies, That looke too loftie in our common-#wealth, All must be euen in our gouernement. You thus employed, I will goe roote away The noysome weedes which without profit sucke The soiles fertilitie from wholsome flowers. Why should we in the compas of a pale, Keepe law and forme, and due proportion, Shewing as in a modle our firme estate, When our sea-#walled garden the whole land Is full of weedes, her fairest flowers choakt vp, Her fruit trees all vnprunde, her hedges ruinde, Her knots disordered, and her holsome hearbs Swarming with caterpillers. Hold thy peace, He that hath suffered this disordered spring, Hath now himselfe met with the fall of leafe: The weedes which his broad spreading leaues did shelter, That seemde in eating him to hold him vp, Are pluckt vp roote and all by Bullingbrooke, I meane the Earle of Wiltshire, Bushie, Greene, What are they dead? They are. And Bullingbrooke hath ceasde the wastefull king, Oh what pitie is it that he had not so trimde, And drest his land as we this garden at time of yeare Do wound the barke, the skinne of our fruit trees, Lest being ouer prowd in sap and bloud, With too much riches it confound it selfe Had he done so to great and growing men,

+ They might haue liude to beare, and he to taste Their fruits of duety: superfluous branches We loppe away, that bearing boughes may liue: Had he done so, himselfe had borne the crowne, Which waste of idle houres hath quite throwne downe. What, thinke you the King shall be deposed? Deprest he is already, and deposde Tis doubt he will be. Letters came last night To a deare friend of the good Duke of Yorkes, That tell blacke tidings. Oh I am prest to death through want of speaking Thou old Adams likenesse set to dresse this garden, How dares thy harsh rude tong sound this vnpleasing news? What Eue? what serpent hath suggested thee To make a second fall of cursed man? Why dost thou say king Richard is deposde? Darst thou thou little better thing than earth Diuine his downefall? say, where, when, and how, Camst thou by this #ill tidings speake thou wretch? Pardon me Madam, little ioy haue I To breathe this newes, yet what I say is true: King Richard he is in the mightie hold Of Bullingbrooke: their fortunes both are weyde In your [Lo:]Lords scale is nothing but himselfe, And some few vanities that make him light: But in the ballance of great Bullingbrooke, Besides himselfe are all the English peeres, And with that oddes he weighs King Richard downe; Post you to London and you will find it so, I speake no more than euery one doth know. Nimble Mischance that arte so light of foote, Doth not thy embassage belong to me, And am I last that knowes it? Oh thou thinkest To serue me last that I may longest keepe Thy sorrow in my breast: come Ladies go To meete at London Londons king in wo. What, was I borne to this that my sad looke

+ Should grace the triumph of great Bullingbrooke? Gardner for telling me these newes of wo, Pray God the plants thou graftst may neuer grow. Poore Queene, so that thy state might be no worse, I would my Skill were subiect to thy curse: Here did she fall a teare, here in this place Ile set a banke of Rew sowre hearb of grace, Rew euen for ruth heere shortly shall be seene, In the remembrance of a weeping Queene. + Call forth Bagot. Now Bagot, freely speake thy mind, What thou doest know of noble Gloucesters death, Who wrought it with the King, and who performde The bloudy office of his timeles end. Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle. Cousin, stand foorth, and looke vpon that man. My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tong Scornes to vnsay what once it hath deliuered. In that dead time when Glocesters death was plotted I heard you say, Is not my arme of length, That reacheth from the restful English court, As farre as Callice to mine vncles head? Amongst much other talke that very time I heard you say, that you had rather refuse The offer of an hundred thousand crownes, Then Bullingbrookes returne to England, adding withall, How blest this land would be in this your cosins death. Princes and noble Lords, What answer shall I make to this base man? Shall I so much dishonour my faire starres On equall termes to giue them chasticement? Either I must, or haue mine honour soild With the attainder of his slaunderous lippes, There is my gage, the manual seale of death,

+ That markes thee out for #hell, I say thou liest, And wil maintaine what thou hast said is false In thy heart bloud, though being all too base To staine the temper of my knightly sword. Bagot, forbeare, thou shalt not take it vp. Excepting one, I would he were the best In all this presence that hath moude me so. If that thy valure stand on simpathie, There is my gage Aumerle, in gage to thine; By that faire Sunne which shews me where thou standst, I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spakst it, That thou wert cause of noble Gloucesters death. If thou deniest it twenty times, thou liest, And I will turne thy falshoode to thy heart, Where it was forged with my rapiers point. Thou darst not (coward) liue to see that day. Now by my soule, I would it were this houre. Fitzwaters, thou art damnd to #hell for this. Aumerle, thou liest, his honour is as true In this appeale as thou art all vniust, And that thou art so, there I throwe my gage, To prooue it on thee to the extreamest point Of mortall breathing, ceaze it if thou darst. And if I do not, may my hands rot off, And neuer brandish more reuengefull steele Ouer the glittering helmet of my foe. + I taske the earth to the like (forsworne Aumerle) And spurre thee on with full as many lies As it may be hollowed in thy treacherous eare From sinne to sinne: there is my honors pawne Ingage it to the triall if thou darest. Who sets me else? by heauen Ile throwe at all, I haue a thousand spirites in one breast, To answer twenty thousand such as you. My lord Fitzwater, I do remember well The very time (Aumerle) and you did talke. Tis very true you were in presence then,

+ And you can witnes with me this is true. As false, by heauen, as heauen it selfe is true. Surrie thou liest. + Dishonorable boy, that lie shall lie so heauie on my| sword, That it shall render vengeance and reuenge, Till thou the lie-#giuer, and that lie do lie, In earth as quiet as thy fathers scull. In proofe whereof there is my honours pawne, Ingage it to the triall if thou darst. How fondly doest thou spurre a forward horse! If I dare eate, or drinke, or breathe, or liue, I dare meet Surry in a wildernes, And spit vpon him whilst I say, he lies, And lies, and lies: there is bond of faith, To tie thee to my strong correction: As I intende to thriue in this new world, Aumerle is guiltie of my true appeale. Besides I heard the banished Norffolke say, That thou Aumerle didst send two of thy men, To execute the noble Duke at Callice. Some honest Christian trust me with a gage, That Norffolke lies, heere do I throwe downe this, If he may be repeald to trie his honour. These differences shall all rest vnder gage, Till Norffolke be repeald, repeald he shallbe, And though mine enimie, restord againe To all his landes and signiories: when he is returnd, Against Aumerle we will inforce his triall. That honourable day shall neuer be seene. Manie a time hath banisht Norffolke fought, For Iesu Christ in glorious Christian feild, Streaming the ensigne of the Christian Crosse, Against blacke Pagans, Turkes, and Saracens, And toild with workes of warre, retird him selfe To Italie, and there at Venice gaue His bodie to that pleasant Countries earth, And his pure soule vnto his Captaine Christ, Vnder whose coulours he had fought so long.

+ Why [B.]Bishop is Norffolke dead? As surely as I liue my Lord. Sweet peace conduct his sweete soule to the bosome, Of good olde Abraham: Lords Appellants, Your differences shall all rest vnder gage, Till we assigne you to your daies of triall. Great Duke of Lancaster I come to thee, From plume-#pluckt Richard, who with willing soule, Adopts #the heire, and his high scepter yeeldes, To the possession of thy royall hand: Ascend his throne, descending now from him, And long liue Henry fourth of that name. In Gods name Ile ascend the regall throne. Mary God forbid. Worst in this royall presence may I speake. Yet best beseeming me to speake the truth, Would God that any in this noble presence, Were enough noble to be vpright iudge Of noble Richard. Then true noblesse would Learne him forbearance from so foule a wrong, What subiect can giue sentence on his King: And who sits here that is not Richards subiect? Theeues are not iudgd but they are by to heare, Although apparant guilt be seene in them, And shall the figure of Gods Maiesty, His Captaine, steward, deputy, elect, Annointed, crowned, planted, many yeares Be iudgd by subiect and inferiour breath, And he himselfe not present? Oh forfend it God, That in a Christian climate soules refinde, Should shew so heinous blacke obsceene a deed I speake to subiects and a subiect speakes, Stird vp by God thus boldly for his King, My Lord of Hereford here whom you call King, Is a foule traitour to proud Herefords King, And if you crowne him let me prophesie, The bloud of English shall manure the ground, And future ages groane for this foule act,

+ Peace shall go sleepe with turkes and infidels, And in this seate of peace, tumultuous warres, Shall kin with kin, and kinde with kind confound: Disorder, horror, feare, and mutiny, Shall heere inhabit, and this land be cald, The field of Golgotha and dead mens sculs. Oh if you raise this house against this house, It will the wofullest diuision proue, That euer fell vpon this cursed earth: Preuent it, resist it, let it not be so, Lest child, childs children, crie against you wo. Well haue you argued sir, and for your paines, Of Capitall treason, we arrest you heere: My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge, To keepe him safely till his day of triall. Let it be so, and loe on wednesday next, We solemnly proclaime our Coronation, Lords be ready all. A wofull Pageant haue we heere beheld. The woe's to come, the children yet vnborne, Shall feele this day as sharp to them as thorne. You holy Clergy men, is there no plot, To ridde the realme of this pernitious blot? My [Lo.]Lord before I freely speake my mind heerein, You shall not onely take the Sacrament, To burie mine intents, but also to effect, What euer I shall happen to deuise: I see your browes are full of discontent, Your harts of sorrow, and your eies of teares: Come home with me to supper, Ile lay a plot, Shall shew vs all a merrie daie. + This way the King will come, this is the way, To Iulius Caesars #ill erected Tower, To whose flint bosome, my condemned Lord, Is doomde a prisoner by proud Bullingbrooke.

+ Heere let vs rest, if this rebellious earth, Haue any resting for her true Kings Queene. But soft, but see, or rather doe not see, My faire Rose wither, yet looke vp, behold, That you in pittie may dissolue to deaw, And wash him fresh againe with true loue teares. Ah thou the modle where olde Troy did stand! Thou mappe of honour, thou King Richards tombe, And not King Richard: thou most beauteous Inne, Why should hard fauourd greife be lodged in thee, When triumph is become an alehouse guest? ioyne not with greife faire woman, doe not so, To make my end too sudden, learne good soule, To thinke our former state a happie dreame, From which awakt the trueth of what we are Shewes vs but this: I am sworne brother (sweet) To grim necessitie, and he and I, Will keepe a league till death. Hie thee to Fraunce, And cloister thee in some religious house, Our holy liues must win a new worlds crowne, Which our prophane houres heere haue throwne downe. what is my Richard both in shape and minde Transformd and weakned? hath Bullingbrooke, Deposde thine intellect? hath he been in thy hart? The Lyon dying thrusteth foorth his pawe, And woundes the earth if nothing else with rage, To be ore-#powr'd, and wilt thou pupill-#like Take the correction, mildly kisse the rod, And fawne on Rage with base humilitie, Which art a Lion and the king of beasts. a King of beasts indeed, if aught but beasts, I had been still a happie King of men. Good (sometimes Queene) prepare thee hence for France, Thinke I am dead, and that euen here thou takest As from my death bed thy last liuing leaue; In winters tedious nights sit by the fire, with good old folkes, and let them tell #the tales, Of woefull ages long agoe betidde:

+ And ere thou bid good night to quite their griefes, Tell thou the lamentable tale of me, And send the hearers weeping to their beds: For why, the senslesse brands will simpathize The heauy accent of thy moouing tong, And in compassion weepe the fire out, And some wil mourne in ashes, some cole blacke, + For the deposing of a rightfull King. My Lord, the minde of Bullingbrooke is changde, You must to Pomfret, not vnto the Tower. And Madam, there is order tane for you, With al swift speede you must away to France. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithall The mounting Bullingbrooke ascends my throne, The time shall not be many houres of age More than it is, ere foule sinne gathering head Shall breake into corruption, thou shalt thinke, Though he diuide the realme and giue thee halfe, It is too little helping him to all. He shall thinke that thou which knowest the way To plant vnrightfull kings, wilt know againe, Being nere so little vrgde another way, To plucke him headlong from the vsurped throne: The loue of wicked men conuerts to feare, That feare to hate, and hate turnes one or both To worthy daunger and deserued death. My guilt be on my head, and there an end: Take leaue and part, for you must part forthwith. Doubly diuorst (bad men) you violate A two-#fold marriage twixt my crowne and me, And then betwixt me and my married wife. Let me vnkisse the oathe twixt thee and me: And yet not so, for with a kisse twas made. Part vs Northumberland, I towardes the north, Where shiuering cold and sickenesse pines the clime: My wife to Fraunce, from whence set forth in pomp She came adorned hither like sweete #Maie,

+ Sent backe like Hollowmas or shortst of day. And must we be diuided? must we part? #I hand from hand (my loue) and heart from heart. Banish vs both, and send the King with me. That were some loue, but little pollicie. Then whither he goes, thither let me go. So two togither weeping make one woe, Weepe thou for me in Fraunce, I for thee heere, Better far off than neere be nere the neare, Go count thy way with sighes, I mine with groanes. So longest way shall haue the longest moanes. Twise for one step Ile grone the way being short And peece the way out with a heauy heart. Come come in wooing sorrow lets be briefe, Since wedding it, there is such length in griefe; One kisse shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part, Thus giue I mine, and thus take I thy heart. Giue me mine owne againe, twere no good part To take on me to keepe, and kill thy heart: So now I haue mine owne againe, be gone, That I may striue to kill it with a groane. We make woe wanton with this fond delay, Once more adue, the rest let sorrow say. + My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you breake the storie #of Of our two cousins comming into London. Where did I leaue? At that sad stop my Lord, Where rude misgouerned hands from windowes tops, Threw dust and rubbish on king Richards head. Then (as I said) the Duke great Bullingbrooke Mounted vpon a hote and fierie steede, Which his aspiring rider seemd to know, With slow, but stately pase kept on his course, Whilst all tongues cried, God saue #the Bullingbrooke, You would haue thought the very windows spake: So many greedy lookes of yong and old

+ Through casements darted their desiring eies Vpon his visage, and that all the walles With painted imagery had said at once, Iesu preserue #the welcome Bullingbrooke, Whilst he from the one side to the other turning Bare-#headed, lower than his prowd steedes necke Bespake them thus; I thanke you countrymen: And thus still doing, thus he passt along. Alac poore Richard, where rode he the whilst? As in a Theater the eies of men, After a well-#graced Actor leaues the stage, Are ydly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious; Euen so, or with much more contempt mens eies Did scowle on gentle [Ric.]Richard no man cried, God saue him, No ioyfull tongue gaue him his welcome home, But dust was throwen vpon his sacred head: Which with such gentle sorrow he shooke off, His face still combating with teares and smiles, The badges of his griefe and patience, That had not God for some strong purpose steeld The hearts of men, they must perforce haue melted, And Barbarisme it selfe haue pittied him: But heauen hath a hand in these euents, To whose high #will we bound our calme contents. To Bullingbrooke are we sworne subiects now, Whose state and honour I for ay allow. Here comes my sonne Aumerle. Aumerle that was, But that is lost, for being Richards friend: And Madam, you must call him Rutland now: I am in parleament pledge for his truth And lasting fealtie to the new made king. Welcome my sonne, who are the violets now That strew the greene lap of the new come spring. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not, God knowes I had as leife be none as one.

+ Well, beare you wel in this new spring of time, Lest you be cropt before you come to prime. What newes from Oxford, do these iusts & triumphs hold? For aught I know (my Lord) they do. you will be there I know. If God preuent not, I purpose so. What seale is that that hangs without thy bosome? yea, lookst thou pale? let me see the writing, My Lord, tis nothing. No matter then who see it, I will be satisfied, let me see the writing. I do beseech your grace to pardon me; It is a matter of small consequence, Which for some reasons I would not haue seene. Which for some reasons sir I meane to see. I feare I feare. What should you feare? Tis nothing but some band that he is entred into For gay apparell gainst the triumph day. Bound to himselfe; what doth he with a bond That he is bound to. Wife, thou art a foole: Boy, let me see the writing. I do beseech you pardon me, I may not shew it. I will be satisfied, let me see it I say: Treason, foule treason, villaine, traitor, slaue, What is the matter my lord? Ho, who is within there? saddle my horse, God for his mercy! what treachery is here? Why what is it my Lord? Giue me my bootes I say, saddle my horse, Now by mine honour, by my life, by my troth I will appeach #the villaine. What is the matter? Peace foolish woman. I wil not peace, what is the matter Aumerle? Good mother be content, it is no more

+ Then my poore life must answere. Thy life answere? Bring me my bootes, I will vnto the King. Strike him Aumerle, poore boy thou art amazd, Hence vilaine neuer more come in my sight. Giue me my bootes I say. Why Yorke what wilt thou doe? Wilt thou not hide the trespasse of thine owne? Haue we more sons? or are we like to haue? Is not my teeming date drunke vp with time? And wilt thou plucke my faire sonne from mine age? And rob me of a happie mothers name, Is he not like #the? is he not thine owne? Thou fond mad woman, Wilt thou conceale this darke conspiracie? A doozen of them here haue tane the sacrament, And interchaungeably set downe there hands, To kill the king at Oxford. He shal be none, weele keepe him heere, Then what is that to him? Away fond woman, were he twentie times my sonne, I would appeach him. Hadst thou groand for him as I haue done, Thou wouldst bee more pittifull. But nowe I knowe thy minde, thou doest suspect That I haue been disloiall to thy bed, And that he is a bastard, not thy sonne: Sweete Yorke, sweete husband, be not of that mind, He is as like thee as a man may be, Not like to me, or any of my kinne, And yet I loue him. Make way vnrulie woman. After Aumerle: mount thee vpon his horse, Spur, post, and get before him to the King, And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee, Ile not be long behind, though I be old,