Document:  All > Shakespeare > Histories > King Richard II > Act V, scene VI

	with other Lords, and Attendants]

HENRY BOLINGBROKE: 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?

NORTHUMBERLAND: 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.

HENRY BOLINGBROKE: We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;
	And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.


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.

HENRY BOLINGBROKE: Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
	Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.


HENRY PERCY: 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.

HENRY BOLINGBROKE: 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]

EXTON: 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.

HENRY BOLINGBROKE: 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.

EXTON: From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.

HENRY BOLINGBROKE: 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.


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