Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle. | |
| |
Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE and YORK, with Lords and Attendants. | |
| Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear | |
| Is that the rebels have consum’d with fire | 4 |
| Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire; | |
| But whether they be ta’en or slain we hear not. | |
| |
Enter NORTHUMBERLAND. | |
| Welcome, my lord. What is the news? | 8 |
| North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness. | |
| The next news is: I have to London sent | |
| The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent. | |
| The manner of their taking may appear | 12 |
| At large discoursed in this paper here. | |
| Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains, | |
| And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. | |
| |
Enter FITZWATER. | 16 |
| Fitz. 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. | 20 |
| Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot; | |
| Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. | |
| |
Enter HENRY PERCY, with the BISHOP OF CARLISLE. | |
| H. Percy. The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster, | 24 |
| 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. | 28 |
| Boling. 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: | 32 |
| For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, | |
| High sparks of honour in thee have I seen. | |
| |
Enter EXTON, with Attendants bearing a coffin. | |
| Exton. Great king, within this coffin I present | 36 |
| Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies | |
| The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, | |
| Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought. | |
| Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought | 40 |
| 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. | |
| Boling. They love not poison that do poison need, | 44 |
| 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: | 48 |
| With Cain go wander through the shade 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: | 52 |
| 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. | 56 |
| March sadly after; grace my mournings here, | |
| In weeping after this untimely bier. [Exeunt. | |
