More than my dancing soul doth celebrate Go I to fight; Truth hath a quiet breast. [The King and the Lords return to their seats. amen. Mar. Go bear this lance [To an Officer.] to Thomas duke of Norfolk. 1 Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself, On pain to be found false and recreant, To prove the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, And dares him to set forward to the fight. 2 Her. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk, On pain to be found false and recreant, Mar. Sound, trumpets; and set forward, com batants. [A charge sounded. Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down. K. Rich. Let them lay by their helmets and their spears, And both return back to their chairs again: Draw near, [A long flourish. [To the Combatants. And list, what with our council we have done, Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours' swords; [And for we think the eagle-winged pride Or sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, With rival-hating envy, set you on 10 To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep ;] Which so rous'd up with boisterous untun'd drums, With harsh-resounding trumpets' dreadful bray, And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace, But tread the stranger paths of banishment. Boling. Your will be done: This must my comfort be, That sun, that warms you here, shall shine on me; K. Rich. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom, Nor. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege, And all unlook'd for from your highness' mouth: A dearer merit, not so deep a maim As to be cast forth in the common air, Have I deserved at your highness' hand. Or like a cunning instrument cas'd up, Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony. Is made my gaoler to attend on me. What is thy sentence then, but speechless death, Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath? K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate "; After our sentence plaining comes too late. Nor. Then thus I turn me from my country's light, To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. [Retiring. K. Rich. Return again, and take an oath with thee. Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands; (Our part therein we banish with yourselves,) You never shall (so help you truth and heaven!) Nor never look upon each other's face; Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile This lowering tempest of your home-bred hate; To plot, contrive, or complot any ill, 'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land. Boling. I swear. Nor. And I, to keep all this. Boling. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy 12;— Nor. No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor, [Exit. K. Rich. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspéct Pluck'd four away;-Six frozen winters spent, Return [To Boling.] with welcome home from banish ment. Boling. How long a time lies in one little word! Four lagging winters, and four wanton springs, End in a word; Such is the breath of kings. Gaunt. I thank my liege, that, in regard of me, He shortens four years of my son's exile: But little vantage shall I reap thereby; For, ere the six years, that he hath to spend, Can change their moons, and bring their times about, K. Rich. Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live. give : |