Document:  All > Shakespeare > Histories > King Richard II > Act I, scene III

	[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.

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 in
	arms, 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
	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;
	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
	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:
	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,
	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!

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,
	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
	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;
	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.
	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
	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;
	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,
	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,
	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;
	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!

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
	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:
	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.

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,
	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.

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;
	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,
	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.
	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
	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,
	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:
	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,
	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:
	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,
	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,
	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
	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.
	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:
	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;
	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;
	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
	'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.


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,
	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
	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;
	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.


KING RICHARD II: Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
	I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect
	Hath from the number of his banish'd years
	Pluck'd four away.


	Six frozen winter spent,
	Return with welcome home from banishment.

HENRY BOLINGBROKE: 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.

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;
	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,
	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;
	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,
	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.
	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,
	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.

	[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,
	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.

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,
	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
	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
	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.
	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
	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,
	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.

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
	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.

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,
	Though banish'd, yet a trueborn Englishman.



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