Shakespeare's First Folio Part 272

Gaunt. Heauen in thy good cause make thee prosp'rous Be swift like lightning in the execution, And let thy blowes doubly redoubled, Fall like amazing thunder on the Caske Of thy amaz'd pernicious enemy.

Rouze vp thy youthfull blood, be valiant, and liue

Bul. Mine innocence, and S[aint]. George to thriue

Mow. How euer heauen or fortune cast my lot, There liues, or dies, true to Kings Richards Throne, A loyall, iust, and vpright Gentleman: Neuer did Captiue with a freer heart, Cast off his chaines of bondage, and embrace His golden vncontroul'd enfranchis.e.m.e.nt, More then my dancing soule doth celebrate This Feast of Battell, with mine Aduersarie.

Most mighty Liege, and my companion Peeres, Take from my mouth, the wish of happy yeares, As gentle, and as iocond, as to iest, Go I to fight: Truth, hath a quiet brest

Rich. Farewell, my Lord, securely I espy Vertue with Valour, couched in thine eye: Order the triall Marshall, and begin

Mar. Harrie of Herford, Lancaster, and Derby, Receiue thy Launce, and heauen defend thy right

Bul. Strong as a towre in hope, I cry Amen

Mar. Go beare this Lance to Thomas D[uke]. of Norfolke

1.Har. Harry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derbie, Stands heere for G.o.d, his Soueraigne, and himselfe, On paine to be found false, and recreant, To proue the Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Mowbray, A Traitor to his G.o.d, his King, and him, And dares him to set forwards to the fight

2.Har. Here standeth Tho[mas]: Mowbray Duke of Norfolk On paine to be found false and recreant, Both to defend himselfe, and to approue Henry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derby, To G.o.d, his Soueraigne, and to him disloyall: Couragiously, and with a free desire Attending but the signall to begin.

A charge sounded

Mar. Sound Trumpets, and set forward Combatants: Stay, the King hath throwne his Warder downe

Rich. Let them lay by their Helmets & their Speares, And both returne backe to their Chaires againe: Withdraw with vs, and let the Trumpets sound, While we returne these Dukes what we decree.

A long Flourish.

Draw neere and list What with our Councell we haue done.

For that our kingdomes earth should not be soyld With that deere blood which it hath fostered, And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect Of ciuill wounds plowgh'd vp with neighbors swords, Which so rouz'd vp with boystrous vntun'd drummes, With harsh resounding Trumpets dreadfull bray, And grating shocke of wrathfull yron Armes, Might from our quiet Confines fright faire peace, And make vs wade euen in our kindreds blood: Therefore, we banish you our Territories.

You Cosin Herford, vpon paine of death, Till twice fiue Summers haue enrich'd our fields, Shall not regreet our faire dominions, But treade the stranger pathes of banishment

Bul. Your will be done: This must my comfort be, That Sun that warmes you heere, shall shine on me: And those his golden beames to you heere lent, Shall point on me, and gild my banishment

Rich. Norfolke: for thee remaines a heauier dombe, Which I with some vnwillingnesse p.r.o.nounce, The slye slow houres shall not determinate The datelesse limit of thy deere exile: The hopelesse word, of Neuer to returne, Breath I against thee, vpon paine of life

Mow. A heauy sentence, my most Soueraigne Liege, And all vnlook'd for from your Highnesse mouth: A deerer merit, not so deepe a maime, As to be cast forth in the common ayre Haue I deserued at your Highnesse hands.

The Language I haue learn'd these forty yeares (My natiue English) now I must forgo, And now my tongues vse is to me no more, Then an vnstringed Vyall, or a Harpe, Or like a cunning Instrument cas'd vp, Or being open, put into his hands That knowes no touch to tune the harmony.

Within my mouth you haue engaol'd my tongue, Doubly percullist with my teeth and lippes, And dull, vnfeeling, barren ignorance, Is made my Gaoler to attend on me: I am too old to fawne vpon a Nurse, Too farre in yeeres to be a pupill now: What is thy sentence then, but speechlesse death, Which robs my tongue from breathing natiue breath?

Rich. It boots thee not to be compa.s.sionate, After our sentence, plaining comes too late

Mow. Then thus I turne me from my countries light To dwell in solemne shades of endlesse night

Ric. Returne againe, and take an oath with thee, Lay on our Royall sword, your banisht hands; Sweare by the duty that you owe to heauen (Our part therein we banish with your selues) To keepe the Oath that we administer: You neuer shall (so helpe you Truth, and Heauen) Embrace each others loue in banishment, Nor euer looke vpon each others face, Nor euer write, regreete, or reconcile This lowring tempest of your home-bred hate, Nor euer by aduised purpose meete, To plot, contriue, or complot any ill, 'Gainst Vs, our State, our Subiects, or our Land

Bull. I sweare

Mow. And I, to keepe all this

Bul. Norfolke, so fare, as to mine enemie, By this time (had the King permitted vs) One of our soules had wandred in the ayre, Banish'd this fraile sepulchre of our flesh, As now our flesh is banish'd from this Land.

Confesse thy Treasons, ere thou flye this Realme, Since thou hast farre to go, beare not along The clogging burthen of a guilty soule

Mow. No Bullingbroke: If euer I were Traitor, My name be blotted from the booke of Life, And I from heauen banish'd, as from hence: But what thou art, heauen, thou, and I do know, And all too soone (I feare) the King shall rue.

Farewell (my Liege) now no way can I stray, Saue backe to England, all the worlds my way.

Enter.

Rich. Vncle, euen in the gla.s.ses of thine eyes I see thy greeued heart: thy sad aspect, Hath from the number of his banish'd yeares Pluck'd foure away: Six frozen Winters spent, Returne with welcome home, from banishment

Bul. How long a time lyes in one little word: Foure lagging Winters, and foure wanton springs End in a word, such is the breath of Kings

Gaunt. I thanke my Liege, that in regard of me He shortens foure yeares of my sonnes exile: But little vantage shall I reape thereby.

For ere the sixe yeares that he hath to spend Can change their Moones, and bring their times about, My oyle-dride Lampe, and time-bewasted light Shall be extinct with age, and endlesse night: My inch of Taper, will be burnt, and done, And blindfold death, not let me see my sonne

Rich. Why Vncle, thou hast many yeeres to liue

Gaunt. But not a minute (King) that thou canst giue; Shorten my dayes thou canst with sudden sorow, And plucke nights from me, but not lend a morrow: Thou canst helpe time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage: Thy word is currant with him, for my death, But dead, thy kingdome cannot buy my breath

Ric. Thy sonne is banish'd vpon good aduice, Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gaue, Why at our Iustice seem'st thou then to lowre?

Gau. Things sweet to tast, proue in digestion sowre: You vrg'd me as a Iudge, but I had rather You would haue bid me argue like a Father.

Alas, I look'd when some of you should say, I was too strict to make mine owne away: But you gaue leaue to my vnwilling tong, Against my will, to do my selfe this wrong

Rich. Cosine farewell: and Vncle bid him so: Six yeares we banish him, and he shall go.

Enter.

Flourish.

Au. Cosine farewell: what presence must not know From where you do remaine, let paper show

Mar. My Lord, no leaue take I, for I will ride As farre as land will let me, by your side

Gaunt. Oh to what purpose dost thou hord thy words, That thou returnst no greeting to thy friends?

Bull. I haue too few to take my leaue of you, When the tongues office should be prodigall, To breath th' abundant dolour of the heart

Gau. Thy greefe is but thy absence for a time

Bull. Ioy absent, greefe is present for that time

Gau. What is sixe Winters, they are quickely gone?

Bul. To men in ioy, but greefe makes one houre ten

Gau. Call it a trauell that thou tak'st for pleasure

Bul. My heart will sigh, when I miscall it so, Which findes it an inforced Pilgrimage

Gau. The sullen pa.s.sage of thy weary steppes Esteeme a soyle, wherein thou art to set The precious Iewell of thy home returne

Bul. Oh who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frostie Caucasus?

Or cloy the hungry edge of appet.i.te, By bare imagination of a Feast?

Or Wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantasticke summers heate?

Oh no, the apprehension of the good Giues but the greater feeling to the worse: Fell sorrowes tooth, doth euer ranckle more Then when it bites, but lanceth not the sore