| ACT I SCENE III | The lists at Coventry. | |
| | Enter the Lord Marshal and the DUKE OF AUMERLE. | |
| Lord Marshal | My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd? | |
| DUKE OF AUMERLE | Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in. | |
| Lord Marshal | The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold, | |
| | Stays but the summons of the appellant's trumpet. | 5 |
| DUKE OF AUMERLE | Why, then, the champions are prepared, and stay | |
| | For nothing but his majesty's approach. | |
| | The trumpets sound, and KING RICHARD enters with his nobles,
JOHN OF GAUNT, BUSHY, BAGOT, GREEN, and others.
When they are set, enter THOMAS MOWBRAY inarms, defendant, with a Herald. | |
| KING RICHARD II | Marshal, demand of yonder champion | |
| | The cause of his arrival here in arms: | |
| | Ask him his name and orderly proceed | 10 |
| | To swear him in the justice of his cause. | |
| Lord Marshal | In God's name and the king's, say who thou art | |
| | And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms, | |
| | Against what man thou comest, and what thy quarrel: | |
| | Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thy oath; | 15 |
| | As so defend thee heaven and thy valour! | |
| THOMAS MOWBRAY | My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk; | |
| | Who hither come engaged by my oath-- | |
| | Which God defend a knight should violate!-- | |
| | Both to defend my loyalty and truth | 20 |
| | To God, my king and my succeeding issue, | |
| | Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me | |
| | And, by the grace of God and this mine arm, | |
| | To prove him, in defending of myself, | |
| | A traitor to my God, my king, and me: | 25 |
| | And as I truly fight, defend me heaven! | |
| | The trumpets sound. Enter HENRY BOLINGBROKE, appellant, in armour, with a Herald. | |
| KING RICHARD II | Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms, | |
| | Both who he is and why he cometh hither | |
| | Thus plated in habiliments of war, | |
| | And formally, according to our law, | 30 |
| | Depose him in the justice of his cause. | |
| Lord Marshal | What is thy name? and wherefore comest thou hither, | |
| | Before King Richard in his royal lists? | |
| | Against whom comest thou? and what's thy quarrel? | |
| | Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven! | 35 |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby | |
| | Am I; who ready here do stand in arms, | |
| | To prove, by God's grace and my body's valour, | |
| | In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, | |
| | That he is a traitor, foul and dangerous, | 40 |
| | To God of heaven, King Richard and to me; | |
| | And as I truly fight, defend me heaven! | |
| Lord Marshal | On pain of death, no person be so bold | |
| | Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists, | |
| | Except the marshal and such officers | 45 |
| | Appointed to direct these fair designs. | |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's hand, | |
| | And bow my knee before his majesty: | |
| | For Mowbray and myself are like two men | |
| | That vow a long and weary pilgrimage; | 50 |
| | Then let us take a ceremonious leave | |
| | And loving farewell of our several friends. | |
| Lord Marshal | The appellant in all duty greets your highness, | |
| | And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave. | |
| KING RICHARD II | We will descend and fold him in our arms. | 55 |
| | Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right, | |
| | So be thy fortune in this royal fight! | |
| | Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed, | |
| | Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead. | |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | O let no noble eye profane a tear | 60 |
| | For me, if I be gored with Mowbray's spear: | |
| | As confident as is the falcon's flight | |
| | Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. | |
| | My loving lord, I take my leave of you; | |
| | Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle; | 65 |
| | Not sick, although I have to do with death, | |
| | But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath. | |
| | Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet | |
| | The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet: | |
| | O thou, the earthly author of my blood, | 70 |
| | Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, | |
| | Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up | |
| | To reach at victory above my head, | |
| | Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers; | |
| | And with thy blessings steel my lance's point, | 75 |
| | That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat, | |
| | And furbish new the name of John a Gaunt, | |
| | Even in the lusty havior of his son. | |
| JOHN OF GAUNT | God in thy good cause make thee prosperous! | |
| | Be swift like lightning in the execution; | 80 |
| | And let thy blows, doubly redoubled, | |
| | Fall like amazing thunder on the casque | |
| | Of thy adverse pernicious enemy: | |
| | Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live. | |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | Mine innocency and Saint George to thrive! | 85 |
| THOMAS MOWBRAY | However God or fortune cast my lot, | |
| | There lives or dies, true to King Richard's throne, | |
| | A loyal, just and upright gentleman: | |
| | Never did captive with a freer heart | |
| | Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace | 90 |
| | His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement, | |
| | More than my dancing soul doth celebrate | |
| | This feast of battle with mine adversary. | |
| | Most mighty liege, and my companion peers, | |
| | Take from my mouth the wish of happy years: | 95 |
| | As gentle and as jocund as to jest | |
| | Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breast. | |
| KING RICHARD II | Farewell, my lord: securely I espy | |
| | Virtue with valour couched in thine eye. | |
| | Order the trial, marshal, and begin. | 100 |
| Lord Marshal | Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, | |
| | Receive thy lance; and God defend the right! | |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen. | |
| Lord Marshal | Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. | |
| First Herald | Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, | 105 |
| | Stands here for God, his sovereign and himself, | |
| | On pain to be found false and recreant, | |
| | To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, | |
| | A traitor to his God, his king and him; | |
| | And dares him to set forward to the fight. | 110 |
| Second Herald | Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, | |
| | On pain to be found false and recreant, | |
| | Both to defend himself and to approve | |
| | Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, | |
| | To God, his sovereign and to him disloyal; | 115 |
| | Courageously and with a free desire | |
| | Attending but the signal to begin. | |
| Lord Marshal | Sound, trumpets; and set forward, combatants. | |
| | A charge sounded. | |
| | Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down. | |
| KING RICHARD II | Let them lay by their helmets and their spears, | 120 |
| | And both return back to their chairs again: | |
| | Withdraw with us: and let the trumpets sound | |
| | While we return these dukes what we decree. | |
| | A long flourish | |
| | Draw near, | |
| | And list what with our council we have done. | 125 |
| | For that our kingdom's earth should not be soil'd | |
| | With that dear blood which it hath fostered; | |
| | And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect | |
| | Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours' sword; | |
| | And for we think the eagle-winged pride | 130 |
| | Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, | |
| | With rival-hating envy, set on you | |
| | To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle | |
| | Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep; | |
| | Which so roused up with boisterous untuned drums, | 135 |
| | With harsh resounding trumpets' dreadful bray, | |
| | And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, | |
| | Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace | |
| | And make us wade even in our kindred's blood, | |
| | Therefore, we banish you our territories: | 140 |
| | You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life, | |
| | Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields | |
| | Shall not regreet our fair dominions, | |
| | But tread the stranger paths of banishment. | |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | Your will be done: this must my comfort be, | 145 |
| | Sun that warms you here shall shine on me; | |
| | And those his golden beams to you here lent | |
| | Shall point on me and gild my banishment. | |
| KING RICHARD II | Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom, | |
| | Which I with some unwillingness pronounce: | 150 |
| | The sly slow hours shall not determinate | |
| | The dateless limit of thy dear exile; | |
| | The hopeless word of 'never to return' | |
| | Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life. | |
| THOMAS MOWBRAY | A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege, | 155 |
| | 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' hands. | |
| | The language I have learn'd these forty years, | 160 |
| | My native English, now I must forego: | |
| | And now my tongue's use is to me no more | |
| | Than an unstringed viol or a harp, | |
| | Or like a cunning instrument cased up, | |
| | Or, being open, put into his hands | 165 |
| | That knows no touch to tune the harmony: | |
| | Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue, | |
| | Doubly portcullis'd with my teeth and lips; | |
| | And dull unfeeling barren ignorance | |
| | Is made my gaoler to attend on me. | 170 |
| | I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, | |
| | Too far in years to be a pupil now: | |
| | What is thy sentence then but speechless death, | |
| | Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath? | |
| KING RICHARD II | It boots thee not to be compassionate: | 175 |
| | After our sentence plaining comes too late. | |
| THOMAS MOWBRAY | Then thus I turn me from my country's light, | |
| | To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. | |
| KING RICHARD II | Return again, and take an oath with thee. | |
| | Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands; | 180 |
| | Swear by the duty that you owe to God-- | |
| | Our part therein we banish with yourselves-- | |
| | To keep the oath that we administer: | |
| | You never shall, so help you truth and God! | |
| | Embrace each other's love in banishment; | 185 |
| | Nor never look upon each other's face; | |
| | Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile | |
| | This louring tempest of your home-bred hate; | |
| | Nor never by advised purpose meet | |
| | To plot, contrive, or complot any ill | 190 |
| | 'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land. | |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | I swear. | |
| THOMAS MOWBRAY | And I, to keep all this. | |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy:-- | |
| | By this time, had the king permitted us, | 195 |
| | One of our souls had wander'd in the air. | |
| | Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our flesh, | |
| | As now our flesh is banish'd from this land: | |
| | Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm; | |
| | Since thou hast far to go, bear not along | 200 |
| | The clogging burthen of a guilty soul. | |
| THOMAS MOWBRAY | No, Bolingbroke: if ever I were traitor, | |
| | My name be blotted from the book of life, | |
| | And I from heaven banish'd as from hence! | |
| | But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know; | 205 |
| | And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue. | |
| | Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray; | |
| | Save back to England, all the world's my way. | |
| | Exit | |
| KING RICHARD II | Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes | |
| | I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect | 210 |
| | Hath from the number of his banish'd years | |
| | Pluck'd four away. | |
| | To HENRY BOLINGBROKE | |
| | Six frozen winter spent, | |
| | Return with welcome home from banishment. | |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | How long a time lies in one little word! | 215 |
| | Four lagging winters and four wanton springs | |
| | End in a word: such is the breath of kings. | |
| JOHN OF 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; | 220 |
| | For, ere the six years that he hath to spend | |
| | Can change their moons and bring their times about | |
| | My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light | |
| | Shall be extinct with age and endless night; | |
| | My inch of taper will be burnt and done, | 225 |
| | And blindfold death not let me see my son. | |
| KING RICHARD II | Why uncle, thou hast many years to live. | |
| JOHN OF GAUNT | But not a minute, king, that thou canst give: | |
| | Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, | |
| | And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow; | 230 |
| | Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, | |
| | But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage; | |
| | Thy word is current with him for my death, | |
| | But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath. | |
| KING RICHARD II | Thy son is banish'd upon good advice, | 235 |
| | Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave: | |
| | Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lour? | |
| JOHN OF GAUNT | Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour. | |
| | You urged me as a judge; but I had rather | |
| | You would have bid me argue like a father. | 240 |
| | O, had it been a stranger, not my child, | |
| | To smooth his fault I should have been more mild: | |
| | A partial slander sought I to avoid, | |
| | And in the sentence my own life destroy'd. | |
| | Alas, I look'd when some of you should say, | 245 |
| | I was too strict to make mine own away; | |
| | But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue | |
| | Against my will to do myself this wrong. | |
| KING RICHARD II | Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him so: | |
| | Six years we banish him, and he shall go. | 250 |
| | Flourish. Exeunt KING RICHARD II and train. | |
| DUKE OF AUMERLE | Cousin, farewell: what presence must not know, | |
| | From where you do remain let paper show. | |
| Lord Marshal | My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride, | |
| | As far as land will let me, by your side. | |
| JOHN OF GAUNT | O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words, | 255 |
| | That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends? | |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | I have too few to take my leave of you, | |
| | When the tongue's office should be prodigal | |
| | To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart. | |
| JOHN OF GAUNT | Thy grief is but thy absence for a time. | 260 |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | Joy absent, grief is present for that time. | |
| JOHN OF GAUNT | What is six winters? they are quickly gone. | |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten. | |
| JOHN OF GAUNT | Call it a travel that thou takest for pleasure. | |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | My heart will sigh when I miscall it so, | 265 |
| | Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage. | |
| JOHN OF GAUNT | The sullen passage of thy weary steps | |
| | Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set | |
| | The precious jewel of thy home return. | |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make | 270 |
| | Will but remember me what a deal of world | |
| | I wander from the jewels that I love. | |
| | Must I not serve a long apprenticehood | |
| | To foreign passages, and in the end, | |
| | Having my freedom, boast of nothing else | 275 |
| | But that I was a journeyman to grief? | |
| JOHN OF GAUNT | All places that the eye of heaven visits | |
| | Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. | |
| | Teach thy necessity to reason thus; | |
| | There is no virtue like necessity. | 280 |
| | Think not the king did banish thee, | |
| | But thou the king. Woe doth the heavier sit, | |
| | Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. | |
| | Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour | |
| | And not the king exiled thee; or suppose | 285 |
| | Devouring pestilence hangs in our air | |
| | And thou art flying to a fresher clime: | |
| | Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it | |
| | To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou comest: | |
| | Suppose the singing birds musicians, | 290 |
| | The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew'd, | |
| | The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more | |
| | Than a delightful measure or a dance; | |
| | For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite | |
| | The man that mocks at it and sets it light. | 295 |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | O, who can hold a fire in his hand | |
| | By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? | |
| | Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite | |
| | By bare imagination of a feast? | |
| | Or wallow naked in December snow | 300 |
| | By thinking on fantastic summer's heat? | |
| | O, no! the apprehension of the good | |
| | Gives but the greater feeling to the worse: | |
| | Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more | |
| | Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore. | 305 |
| JOHN OF GAUNT | Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way: | |
| | Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay. | |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu; | |
| | My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet! | |
| | Where'er I wander, boast of this I can, | 310 |
| | Though banish'd, yet a trueborn Englishman. | |
| | Exeunt | |
