O, let no noble eye profane a tear

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, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle;
Not sick, although I have to do with death,
But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.—
Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.
O, thou the earthly author of my blood,
Whose youthful spirit in me regenerate
Doth with a twofold vigor lift me up
To reach at victory above my head,
Add proof unto mine armor with thy prayers,
And with thy blessings steel my lance’s point
That it may enter Mowbray’s waxen coat
And furbish new the name of John o’ Gaunt,
Even in the lusty havior of his son.
Gaunt
God in thy good cause make thee prosperous.
Be swift like lightning in the execution,
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing thunder on the casque
Of thy adverse pernicious enemy.
Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant, and live.
Bolingbroke
Mine innocence and Saint George to thrive!
Mowbray
However God or fortune cast my lot,
There lives or dies, true to King Richard’s throne,
A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.
Never did captive with a freer heart
Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace
His golden uncontrolled enfranchisement
More than my dancing soul doth celebrate
This feast of battle with mine adversary.
Most mighty liege and my companion peers,
Take from my mouth the wish of happy years.
As gentle and as jocund as to jest
Go I to fight. Truth hath a quiet breast.