Deep malice makes too deep incision;

Forget, forgive, conclude, and be agreed;

Our doctors say this is no time to bleed.

Good uncle, let this end where it begun.

We’ll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.

JOHN OF 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.

JOHN OF GAUNT

When, Harry, when?

Obedience bids I should not bid again.

KING RICHARD

Norfolk, throw down! We bid; there is no boot.

MOWBRAY (kneeling)

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, impeached, and baffled here,

Pierced to the soul with slander’s venomed spear,

The which no balm can cure but his heart blood

Which breathed this poison.

KING RICHARD Rage must be withstood.

Give me his gage. Lions make leopards tame.

MOWBRAY ⌈standing⌉

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 barred-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-fallen in my father’s sight?

Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height

Before this out-dared 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 John of 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 cannot 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

1.2 Enter John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, with the Duchess of Gloucester

JOHN OF GAUNT

Alas, the part I had in Gloucester’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 OF GLOUCESTER

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 cracked, and all the precious liquor spilt;

Is hacked down, and his summer leaves all faded

By envy’s hand and murder’s bloody axe.

Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! That bed, that womb,

That mettle, that self mould that fashioned thee,

Made him a man; and though thou liv‘st and

breathest,

Yet art thou slain in him. Thou dost consent

In some large measure to thy father’s death

In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,

Who was the model of thy father’s life.

Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair.

In suff’ring thus thy brother to be slaughtered

Thou show’st the naked pathway to thy life,

Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee.

That which in mean men we entitle patience

Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

What shall I say? To safeguard thine own life

The best way is to venge my Gloucester’s death.

JOHN OF GAUNT

God’s is the quarrel; for God’s substitute,

His deputy anointed in his sight,

Hath caused his death; the which if wrongfully,

Let heaven revenge, for I may never lift

An angry arm against his minister.

DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER

Where then, alas, may I complain myself?

JOHN OF GAUNT

To God, the widow’s champion and defence.

DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER

Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.

Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold