BAGOT, Servants to King Richard. Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, GREEN, EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND. two Gardeners, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants. SCENE: England and Wales. ACT I. SCENE I. London. KING RICHARD's palace. Enter KING RICHARD, JOHN OF GAUNT, with other Nobles and Attendants. K. Rich. Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd Lancaster, Hast thou, according to thy oath and band, Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son, K. Rich. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him, If he appeal the duke on ancient malice; Or worthily, as a good subject should, On some known ground of treachery in him? Gaunt. As near as I could sift him on that argument, On some apparent danger seen in him Aim'd at your highness, no inveterate malice. K. Rich. Then call them to our presence; face to face, Enter BOLINGBROKE and MOWBRAY. K. Rich. We thank you both: yet one but flatters us, Namely, to appeal each other of high treason. Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? Boling. First, heaven be the record to my speech! Tendering the precious safety of my prince, And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move, 10 20 30 40 What my tongue speaks my right drawn sword may prove. Mow. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal: "Tis not the trial of a woman's war, The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this: 50 As to be hush'd and nought at all to say: First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me These terms of treason doubled down his throat. I do defy him, and I spit at him; Call him a slanderous coward and a villain: By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie. 60 Boling. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage, Disclaiming here the kindred of the king, And lay aside my high blood's royalty, Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except. Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder, Or chivalrous design of knightly trial: And when I mount, alive may I not light, If I be traitor or unjustly fight! 80 K. Rich. What doth our cousin 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 speak, my life shall prove it true; Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge That all the treasons for these eighteen years Complotted and contrived in this land Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring. Upon his bad life to make all this good, 90 That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death, And consequently, like a traitor coward, 100 Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of blood: Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth, K. Rich. How high a pitch his resolution soars! How God and good men hate so foul a liar. K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears: Mow. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, For that my sovereign liege was in my debt For Gloucester's death, I slew him not; but to my own disgrace 110 120 130 140 Upon this overweening traitor's foot, To prove myself a loyal gentleman In haste whereof, most heartily I pray 150 Your highness to assign our trial day. Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom. K. Rich. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by me; Let's purge this choler without letting blood: Deep malice makes too deep incision; We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son. Gaunt. To be a make-peace shall become my age: 160 Throw down, my son, 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, Mow. Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot. My life thou shalt command, but not my shame: The one my duty owes; but my fair name, Despite of death that lives upon my grave, To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have. I am disgraced, impeach'd and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander's venom'd spear, The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood Which breathed this poison. K. Rich. Rage must be withstood: Give me his gage: lions make leopards tame. 170 Mow. Yea, but not change his spots: take but my shame, And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation: that away, Men are but gilded loam or painted clay. Mine honour is my life; both grow in one: K. Rich. Cousin, throw up your gage; do you begin. 180 190 Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong, |