Bolingbroke

King Richard
Old John of Gaunt, time-honored Lancaster,
Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,
Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son,
Here to make good the boist’rous late appeal,
Which then our leisure would not let us hear,
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?
Gaunt
I have, my liege.

Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,
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Look what I speak, my life shall prove it true:
That Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles
In name of lendings for your Highness’ soldiers,
The which he hath detained for lewd employments,
Like a false traitor and injurious villain.

And, by the glorious worth of my descent,
This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.
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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.

As gentle and as jocund as to jest
Go I to fight. Truth hath a quiet breast.

My loving lord, I take my leave of you.—
Of you,
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King Richard
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.
Mowbray
A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
And all unlooked-for from your Highness’ mouth.
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Gaunt, to Bolingbroke
O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou returnest no greeting to thy friends?
Bolingbroke
I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the tongue’s office should be prodigal
To breathe the abundant dolor of the heart.

All places that the eye of heaven visits
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
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York
Show me thy humble heart and not thy knee,
Whose duty is deceivable and false.
Bolingbroke, standing
My gracious uncle—

Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle.
I am no traitor’s uncle, and that word “grace”
In an ungracious mouth is but profane.

York
Tut,
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York
My lords of England, let me tell you this:
I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrongs
And labored all I could to do him right.
But in this kind to come, in braving arms,
Be his own carver and cut out his way
To find out right with wrong, it may not be.
And you that do abet him in this kind
Cherish rebellion and are rebels all.
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King Richard
What must the King do now? Must he submit?
The King shall do it. Must he be deposed?
The King shall be contented. Must he lose
The name of king? I’ God’s name, let it go.

And my large kingdom for a little grave,
A little, little grave, an obscure grave

I’ll give my jewels for a set of beads,
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York
Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee
From plume-plucked Richard, who with willing soul
Adopts thee heir, and his high scepter yields
To the possession of thy royal hand.
Ascend his throne, descending now from him,
And long live Henry, fourth of that name!

O, if you raise this house against this house,
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King Richard
Alack, why am I sent for to a king
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts
Wherewith I reigned? I hardly yet have learned
To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee.

Did they not sometime cry “All hail” to me?
So Judas did to Christ, but He in twelve
Found truth in all but one;
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