The lists at Coventry.
[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]
[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.
KING RICHARD II
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
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.
KING RICHARD II Farewell, my lord: securely I espy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.
Order the trial, marshal, and 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;
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.
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.
HENRY BOLINGBROKE I swear.
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.
[Exit]
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.
[To HENRY BOLINGBROKE]
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.
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]
[no sound available, sorry…]
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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