| [Flourish. Enter HENRY BOLINGBROKE, DUKE OF YORK, with other Lords, and Attendants] |
|
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear Is that the rebels have consumed with fire 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? | |
| NORTHUMBERLAND | First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness. The next news is, I have to London sent The heads of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt, and Kent: The manner of their taking may appear At large discoursed in this paper here. |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains; And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. |
| [Enter LORD FITZWATER] | |
| LORD FITZWATER | 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. |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot; Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. |
| [Enter HENRY PERCY, and the BISHOP OF CARLISLE] | |
| HENRY PERCY | The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster, 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. |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | 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: For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, High sparks of honour in thee have I seen. |
| [Enter EXTON, with persons bearing a coffin] | |
| EXTON | Great king, within this coffin I present Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought. |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought 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. |
| HENRY BOLINGBROKE | They love not poison that do poison need, 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: With Cain go wander through shades 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: 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: March sadly after; grace my mournings here; In weeping after this untimely bier. |
| [Exeunt] |