King Richard II | Page 5

not; but to my own disgrace Neglected my sworn duty in that case. For
you, my noble Lord of Lancaster, The honourable father to my foe,
Once did I lay an ambush for your life, A trespass that doth vex my
grieved soul; But ere I last receiv'd the sacrament I did confess it, and
exactly begg'd Your Grace's pardon; and I hope I had it. This is my
fault: as for the rest appeal'd, It issues from the rancour of a villain, A
recreant and most degenerate 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 haste whereof, most heartily
I pray Your highness to assign our trial day.
KING RICHARD. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul'd by me; Let's
purge this choler without letting blood: This we prescribe, though no
physician; Deep malice makes too deep incision: Forget, forgive;
conclude and be agreed, Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.
Good uncle, let this end where it begun; We'll calm the Duke of
Norfolk, you your son.
GAUNT. To be a make-peace shall become my age: Throw down, my
son, the Duke of Norfolk's gage.
KING RICHARD. And, Norfolk, throw down his.
GAUNT. When, Harry, when? Obedience bids I should not bid again.

KING RICHARD. Norfolk, throw down; we bid; There is no boot.
MOWBRAY. 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 disgrac'd, impeach'd, and
baffled here; Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear, The
which no balm can cure but his heart-blood Which breath'd this poison.
KING RICHARD. Rage must be withstood: Give me his gage: lions
make leopards tame.
MOWBRAY. 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. A jewel in a ten-times barr'd-up chest Is a bold spirit 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.
KING RICHARD. Cousin, throw down your gage: do you begin.
BOLINGBROKE. O! God defend my soul from such deep sin. Shall I
seem crest-fall'n in my father's sight, Or with pale beggar-fear impeach
my height Before this outdar'd dastard? Ere my tongue Shall wound my
honour with such feeble wrong Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall
tear The slavish motive of recanting fear, And spit it bleeding in his
high disgrace, Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face.
[Exit GAUNT.]
KING RICHARD. We were not born to sue, but to command: Which
since we cannot do to make you friends, Be ready, as your lives shall
answer it, At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day: There shall your
swords and lances arbitrate The swelling difference of your settled hate:
Since we can not atone you, we shall see Justice design the victor's
chivalry. Lord Marshal, command our officers-at-arms Be ready to
direct these home alarms.
[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. The same. A room in the DUKE OF LANCASTER'S
palace.
[Enter GAUNT and DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER.]
GAUNT. Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's blood Doth more solicit

me than your exclaims, To stir against the butchers of his life. But since
correction lieth in those hands Which made the fault that we cannot
correct, Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven; Who, when they see
the hours ripe on earth, Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.
DUCHESS. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur? Hath love in
thy old blood no living fire? Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art
one, Were as seven vials of his sacred blood, Or seven fair branches
springing from one root: Some of those seven are dried by nature's
course, Some of those branches by the Destinies cut; But Thomas, my
dear lord, my life, my Gloucester, One vial full of Edward's sacred
blood, One flourishing branch of his most royal root, Is crack'd, and all
the precious liquor spilt; Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all
vaded, By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe. Ah, Gaunt! his blood
was thine: that bed, that womb, That metal, that self-mould, that
fashion'd thee, Made him a man; and though thou liv'st and breath'st,
Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent In