Act IScene I
London. A Room in the palace
Enter King Richard, John of Gaunt, with other Nobles and Attendants.
King Richard
Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son,Here to make good the boist’rous late appeal,Which then our leisure would not let us hear,Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?
Gaunt
I have, my liege.
King Richard
Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded himIf he appeal the Duke on ancient malice,Or worthily, as a good subject should,On some known ground of treachery in him?
Gaunt
As near as I could sift him on that argument,On some apparent danger seen in himAimed at your Highness, no inveterate malice.
King Richard
Then call them to our presence. Face to faceAnd frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hearThe accuser and the accused freely speak.High-stomached are they both and full of ire,In rage, deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.
Enter Bolingbroke and Mowbray.
Bolingbroke
Many years of happy days befallMy gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!
Mowbray
Each day still better other’s happinessUntil the heavens, envying earth’s good hap,Add an immortal title to your crown!
King Richard
We thank you both. Yet one but flatters us,As well appeareth by the cause you come,Namely, to appeal each other of high treason.Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou objectAgainst the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?
Bolingbroke
First—heaven be the record to my speech!—In the devotion of a subject’s love,Tend’ring the precious safety of my prince,And free from other misbegotten hate,Come I appellant to this princely presence.Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,And mark my greeting well; for what I speakMy body shall make good upon this earth,Or my divine soul answer it in heaven.Thou art a traitor and a miscreant,Too good to be so and too bad to live,Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.Once more, the more to aggravate the note,With a foul traitor’s name stuff I thy throat,And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move,What my tongue speaks, my right-drawn sword may prove.
Mowbray
Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal.’Tis not the trial of a woman’s war,The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;The blood is hot that must be cooled for this.Yet can I not of such tame patience boastAs to be hushed and naught at all to say.First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs meFrom giving reins and spurs to my free speech,Which else would post until it had returnedThese terms of treason doubled down his throat.Setting aside his high blood’s royalty,And let him be no kinsman to my liege,I do defy him, and I spit at him,Call him a slanderous coward and a villain;Which to maintain, I would allow him oddsAnd meet him, were I tied to run afootEven to the frozen ridges of the Alps,Or any other ground inhabitableWherever Englishman durst set his foot.Meantime let this defend my loyalty:By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie.
Bolingbroke
Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage,Disclaiming here the kindred of the King,And lay aside my high blood’s royalty,Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except.If guilty dread have left thee so much strengthAs to take up mine honour’s pawn, then stoop.By that and all the rites of knighthood else,Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,What I have spoke or thou canst worst devise.
Mowbray
I take it up; and by that sword I swearWhich gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder,I’ll answer thee in any fair degreeOr chivalrous design of knightly trial.And when I mount, alive may I not lightIf I be traitor or unjustly fight!
King Richard
What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray’s charge?It must be great that can inherit usSo much as of a thought of ill in him.
Bolingbroke
Look what I speak, my life shall prove it true:That Mowbray hath received eight thousand noblesIn name of lendings for your highness’ soldiers,The which he hath detained for lewd employments,Like a false traitor and injurious villain.Besides I say, and will in battle prove,Or here or elsewhere to the furthest vergeThat ever was surveyed by English eye,That all the treasons for these eighteen yearsComplotted and contrived in this landFetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.Further I say, and further will maintainUpon his bad life to make all this good,That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester’s death,Suggest his soon-believing adversaries,And consequently, like a traitor coward,Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of blood,Which blood, like sacrificing Abel’s, criesEven from the tongueless caverns of the earthTo me for justice and rough chastisement.And, by the glorious worth of my descent,This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.
King Richard
How high a pitch his resolution soars!Thomas of Norfolk, what sayst thou to this?
Mowbray
O! let my sovereign turn away his faceAnd bid his ears a little while be deaf,Till I have told this slander of his bloodHow God and good men hate so foul a liar.
King Richard
Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears.Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom’s heir,As he is but my father’s brother’s son,Now, by my sceptre’s awe I make a vowSuch neighbour nearness to our sacred bloodShould nothing privilege him nor partializeThe unstooping firmness of my upright soul.He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou.Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.
Mowbray
Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest.Three parts of that receipt I had for CalaisDisbursed I duly to his highness’ soldiers;The other part reserved I by consent,For that my sovereign liege was in my debtUpon remainder of a dear accountSince last I went to France to fetch his queen.Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester’s death,I slew him not, but to my own disgraceNeglected 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 received the sacramentI did confess it and exactly beggedYour Grace’s pardon, and I hope I had it.This is my fault. As for the rest appealed,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 gageUpon this overweening traitor’s foot,To prove myself a loyal gentlemanEven in the best blood chambered in his bosom.In haste whereof most heartily I prayYour highness to assign our trial day.
King Richard
Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled 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 disgraced, impeached, and baffled here,Pierced to the soul with slander’s venomed spear,The which no balm can cure but his heart-bloodWhich breathed 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 affordIs spotless reputation; that away,Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.A jewel in a ten-times-barred-up chestIs 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 up 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 heightBefore this outdared dastard? Ere my tongueShall wound my honour with such feeble wrongOr sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tearThe slavish motive of recanting fearAnd 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 arbitrateThe swelling difference of your settled hate.Since we cannot atone you, we shall seeJustice design the victor’s chivalry.Lord Marshal, command our officers-at-armsBe ready to direct these home alarms.
Exeunt.