Where never Englishman durst set his foot.
Mean time, let this defend my loyalty;
By all my hopes, moft falfly doth he lie.
Boling. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gages
Difclaiming here the kindred of a King,
And lay afide my high blood's royalty:
(Which fear, not rev'rence, makes thee to except :)
If guilty dread hath left thee fo much strength,
As to take up mine honour's pawn, then floop.
By that, and all the rites of knighthood elfe,
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
What I have spoken, or thou canst devise.
Mowb. I take it up, and by that sword I fwear, Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder, I'll answer thee in any fair degree,
Or chivalrous defign of knightly trial;
And when I mount, alive may I not light,
If I be traitor, or unjustly fight!
K. Rich. What doth our coufin lay to Mowbray's charge? It must be great, that can inherit us
So much as of a thought of ill in him.
Boling. Look, what I faid, my life fhall prove it true;
That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles,
In name of lendings for your highness' foldiers,
The which he hath detain'd for lewd imployments;
Like a falfe traitor and injurious villain.
Befides, I fay, and will in battle prove,
Or here, or elsewhere, to the furtheft verge,
That ever was furvey'd by English eye;
That all the treafons for thefe eighteen years,
Complotted and contrived in this land,
Fetch from falfe Mowbray their first head and spring.
Further, I fay, and further will maintain
Upon his bad life to make all this good,
That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death;
Suggeft his foon-believing adverfaries;
But, I fufpect, Jonson wrote here;
And pour'd on fome unhabitable place, &c.
Tho', I know, by our idiom, un and in prefix'd to words for the generality are equally negatives in their power.
And confequently, like a traitor-coward,
Sluc'd out his inn'cent foul through streams of blood;
Which blood, like facrificing Abel's, cries
Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth.
To me, for juftice, and rough chastisement.
And by the glorious worth of my def:ent,
This arm fhall do it, or this life be fpent.
K. Rich. How high a pitch his refolution foars!
Thomas of Norfolk, what fay'ft thou to this?
Mob. O, let my Sovereign turn away his face,
And bid his ears a little while be deaf,
Till I have told this flander of his blood, (3)
How God and good men hate fo foul a liar.
K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears.
Were he our brother, nay, our kingdom's heir,
As he is but our father's brother's fon;
Now by my scepter's awe, I make a vow,
Such neighbour-nearness to our facred blood
Should nothing priv'lege him, nor partialize
Th' unftooping firmness of my upright foul.
He is our fubject, Mowbray, fo art thou;
Free fpeech, and fearlefs, I to thee allow.
Mowb. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,
Through the falfe paffage of thy throat, thou lieft!
Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais,
Diber I to his highnefs' foldiers;
The other part referv'd I by confent,
For that my fovereign Liege was in my debt;
Upon remainder of a dear account,
(3) Till I have told this Sland'rer of his blood,] All the authentic copies read, Slander, as I have reftor'd to the text; this Mr. Pope has thought fit to throw out, as an absurdity; and substituted Slanderer in its place. But why not, Slander? 'Tis our author's mode of expreffion in other paffages;
But you must learn to know fuch Slanders of the age, or elfe your may be marvellously milook.
K. Henr V.
1 Henr. VI.
Rich. III.
Stain to thy countrymen, thou hear'ft thy doom. Thou Slander of thy heavy mother's womb! Homer, in the fame manner, as Mr. Pope might have remember'd, makes Agamemnon call the Greeks the Shames, the Reproaches, of themselves. Ω πέποιες, κάκ' Ἐλέχἐ, ̓Αχαιίδες, ἐκ ἔτ ̓ ̓Αχαιοί,
Since laft I went to France to fetch his Queen.
Now, fwallow down that lie.For Gloucester's death,
I flew him not; but, to mine own disgrace,
Neglected my fworn duty in that cafe.
For you, my noble Lord of Lancafier,
The honourable father to my foe,
Once did I lay an ambush for your life,
A trefpafs that doth vex my grieved foul;
But ere I last receiv'd the facrament,
I did confefs it, and exactly begg'd
Your Grace's pardon; and, I hope, I had it.
This is my fault; as for the reft appeal'd,
It ifiues from the rancor of a villain,
A recreant and most degen'rate traitor:
Which in myself I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot;
To prove myself a loyal gentleman,
Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom.
In hafte whereof, moft heartily I pray.
Your highness to affign our trial-day.
K. Rich. Wrath kindled gentlemen, be rul'd by me;
Let's purge this choler without letting blood:
This we prefcribe, though no physician;
Deep malice makes too deep incifion:
Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed;
Our doctors fay, this is no time to bleed.
Good uncle, let this end where it begun;
We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your fon.
Gaunt. To be a make-peace fhall become my age; Throw down, my fon, the Duke of Norfolk's gage. K. Rich. And, Norfolk, throw down his.
Gaunt. When, Harry, when?
Obedience bids, I should not bid again.
K. Rich. Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot. Mowb. Myfelf I throw, dread Sovereign, at thy foot. My life thou fhalt command, but not my fhame; The one my duty owes; but my fair name, (Defpight of death, that lives upon my grave,) To dark difhonour's ufe thou shalt not have.
I am difgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here,
Pierc'd to the foul with flander's venom'd spear:
The which no balme can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath'd this poifon.
K. Rich. Rage must be withstood :
Give me his gage: Lions make leopards tame.
Mowb. Yea, but not change their fpots: take but my fhame, And I refign my gage. My dear, dear Lord, The pureft treasure mortal times afford,
Is fpotlefs reputation; that away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times-barr'd-up cheft,
Is a bold fpirit in a loyal breast.
Mine honour is my life, both grow in one;
Take honour from me, and my life is done.
Then, dear my Liege, mine honour let me try;
In that I live, and for that will I die.
K. Rich. Coufin, throw down your gage; do you begin. Boling. Oh, heav'n defend my foul from fuch foul fin! Shall I feem creft fall'n in my father's fight,
Or with pale beggar face impeach my height,
Before this out dar'd daftard? Ere my tongue
Shall wound my honour with fuch feeble wrong,
Or found fo base a parle, my teeth fhall tear
The flavish motive of recanting fear,
And fpit it bleeding, in his high difgrace,
Where fhame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face.
[Exit Gaunt.
K. Rich. We were not born to fue, but to command,
Which fince we cannot do to make you friends,
Be ready, as your lives fhall anfwer it,
At Coventry upon faint Lambert's day.
There fhall your swords and lances arbitrate
The fwelling diff'rence of your fettled hate.
Since we cannot attone you, you shall see
Juftice decide the victor's chivalry.
Lord Marfhal, bid our officers at arms.
Be ready to direct these home-alarms.
SCENE changes to the Duke of Lancaster's Palace.
Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucester.
Las, the part I had in Glo'fter's blood
A Both more follicit me, than your exclaims,
To ftir against the butchers of his life.
But fince correction lieth in those hands,
Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our quarrel to the will of heav'n;
Who when it fees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengence on offenders heads.
Dutch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper fpur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward's fev'n fons, whereof thyself art one,
Were as fev'n vials of his facred blood;
Or fev'n fair branches, fpringing from one root:
Some of those fev'n are dry'd by nature's course;
Some of those branches by the deft'nies cut:
But Thomas, my dear Lord, my life, my Glo'fter,
(One vial, full of Edward's facred blood;
One flourishing branch of his most royal root;)
Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor fpilt;
Is hackt down, and his fummer leaves all faded,
By envy's hand and murder's bloody ax!
Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine; that bed, that womb,
That metal, that felf-mould that fashion'd thee,
Made him a man; and though thou liv'st and breath'ft,
Yet art thou flain in him; thou doft confent
In fome large measure to thy father's death:
In that thou feeft thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father's life;
Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair.
In fuff'ring thus thy brother to be flaughter'd,
Thou fhew'it the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching ftern murder how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we entitle patience,
Is pale cold cowardife in noble breasts.
What thall I fay to fafeguard thine own life,
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