|ACT V SCENE VI
Flourish. Enter HENRY BOLINGBROKE, DUKE OF YORK,
with other Lords, and Attendants
|Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear
|Is that the rebels have consumed with fire
|Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;
|But whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not.
|Welcome, my lord what is the news?
|First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness.
|The next news is, I have to London sent
|The heads of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt, and Kent:
|The manner of their taking may appear
|At large discoursed in this paper here.
|We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;
|And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
|[Enter LORD FITZWATER]
|My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
|The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely,
|Two of the dangerous consorted traitors
|That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.
|Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
|Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.
|[Enter HENRY PERCY, and the BISHOP OF CARLISLE]
|The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,
|With clog of conscience and sour melancholy
|Hath yielded up his body to the grave;
|But here is Carlisle living, to abide
|Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride.
|Carlisle, this is your doom:
|Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
|More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
|So as thou livest in peace, die free from strife:
|For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
|High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.
|[Enter EXTON, with persons bearing a coffin]
|Great king, within this coffin I present
|Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies
|The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
|Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.
|Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought
|A deed of slander with thy fatal hand
|Upon my head and all this famous land.
|From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.
|They love not poison that do poison need,
|Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,
|I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
|The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
|But neither my good word nor princely favour:
|With Cain go wander through shades of night,
|And never show thy head by day nor light.
|Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
|That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow:
|Come, mourn with me for that I do lament,
|And put on sullen black incontinent:
|I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,
|To wash this blood off from my guilty hand:
|March sadly after; grace my mournings here;
|In weeping after this untimely bier.