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From giving reins and spurs to my free speech;
Mowb. I take it up, and by that Sword I swear,
charge? It must be great, that can inherit us Șo much as of a thought of Ill in hiin.
Boling. Look, what I said, my life shall prove it true; That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles, In name of lendings for your Highness' soldiers, The which he hath detain'd for lewd inployments; Like a false traitor and injurious villain. Besides, I say, and will in battle prove,
* Inhabitable.] That is, not habitable, uninli abitable.
Or here, or elsewhere, to the furtheft
K. Rich. How high a pitch his resolution foars!
K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears.
Mowb. Then, Boling broke, as low as to thy heart, Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest ! 'Three parts of that Receipt I had for Calais, Disburft I to his Highness' foldiers; The other part reserv'd I by consent, For that my sovereign Liege was in my debt; Upon remainder of a dear account, Since last I went to France to fetch his Queen. Now, swallow down that Lie.---For Gloucester's death,
(3) My Sceptor's awe.) The rever ce due to my Scepter.
I flew him not; but, to mine own disgrace,
noble lord of Lancaster,
K. Rick. Wrath-kindled Gentlemen, be ruld by me;
Gaunt. To be a make-peace shall become my age ; Throw down, my Son, the Duke of Norfolk's gåge.
K. Rich. And, Norfolk, throw down his.
Gaunt. When, Harry, when Obedience bids, I should not bid again. K. Rich. Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no
boot * (4) This we prescribe, though no Physician, &c.] I must make ane Remark, in general, on the Rbymes throughout this whole play ; they are so much inferior to the rest of the writing, that they appear to me of a different hand. What confirms this, is, that the context does every where exactly (and frequently much better) connect without the inserted rhymes, except in a very few places ; and just there too, the rhyming verses are of a much better tafta than all the others, which rather strengthens my conjecture. Popi. * No boot.] That is, no advantage, no use, in delay or refusal.
Mowb. Myself I throw, dread Sovereign, at thy foot.
K. Rich. Rage must be withstood.
Nowb. Yea, but not change their spots. Take but
And I resign my gage. My dear, dear Lord,
begin. Boling. Oh, heav'n defend my soul froin fuch foul fin! Shall I seem crest-fall'n in
father's sight, (6) Or with pale beggar face impeach my height, Before this cut-card Daftard ? Ere my tongue Shall wound ny Honour with such feeble wrong, Or sound so bafe a parle, my teeth shall tear (7) The Navilh motive of recanting fear, And spit it bleeding, in his bigh disgrace, Where shame doth harbour, ev'n in Mowbray's face.
[Exit Gaunt: (5) My fair Name, &c.] That is, My name that lives on my grave in despight of death. This easy pailagè most of the Editors seem to have mistaken.
(6) Or with pale beggar face-] 1. e. with a face of supplication, But this will not satisfy the Oxford Editor, he turns it to a haggard fear.
WARBURTON. (7). The slavish motive] Morive, for instrument.
WARB Rather that which fear puts in motion.
K. Ricb. We were not born to sue, but to command, Which since we cannot do to make you friends, Be ready, as your lives shall answer it, At Coventry upon Saint Lambert's day. There shall your Swords and Lances arbitrate The swelling diff'rence of your settled hate. Since we cannot atone you, you shall see Justice decide the Victor's Chivalry. Lord Marshal, bid our officers at Arms Be ready to direct these home-alarms. [Exeunt.
Changes, 10 the Duke of Lancaster's Palace.
Enter Gaunt and Dutchess of Gloucester. Gaunt. Las ! * the part I had in Gloster's blood Doth more sollicit
Exclaims, To ftir againft the butchers of his life. But since correction lyeth in those hands, Which inade the fault that we cannot correct, Put we our Quarrel to the Will of heav'n ; Who when it fees the hours ripe on earth, Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.
Dutcb. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper (pur ? Hath love in thy old blood no living fire? Edward's sev'n fons, whereof thy self art one, Were as sev’n vials of his sacred blood, Or sev'n fair branches, springing from one root: Some of those fev'n are dry'd by Nature's Course; Some of those branches by che Deft'nies cut: But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Glofter, One vial, full of Edward's facred blood. One flourishing branch of his most royal root, Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt ; Is hackt down, and his summer leaves all faded, By Envy's hand and Murder's bloody axe. Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine ; that bed, that womb,
* The part I had.] That is, my relation of consanguinity, to