And for we think the eagle-winged pride Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, With rival-hating envy, set on you To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep;
Which so roused up with boisterous untuned drums, With harsh resounding trumpets' dreadful bray, And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace And make us wade even in our kindred's blood, Therefore, we banish you our territories:
You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life, Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields Shall not regreet our fair dominions, But tread the stranger paths of banishment. HENRY BOLINGBROKE Your will be done: this must my comfort be, Sun that warms you here shall shine on me;
And those his golden beams to you here lent Shall point on me and gild my banishment. KING RICHARD II 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. THOMAS MOWBRAY A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege, And all unlook'd for from your highness' mouth:
A dearer merit, not so deep a maim As to be cast forth in the common air, Have I deserved at your highness' hands.
The language I have learn'd these forty years, My native English, now I must forego:
And now my tongue's use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp, Or like a cunning instrument cased up, Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony:
Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue, Doubly portcullis'd with my teeth and lips;
And dull unfeeling barren ignorance Is made my gaoler to attend on me.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, Too far in years to be a pupil now:
What is thy sentence then but speechless death, Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath? KING RICHARD II It boots thee not to be compassionate:
After our sentence plaining comes too late. THOMAS MOWBRAY Then thus I turn me from my country's light, To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. KING RICHARD II Return again, and take an oath with thee.
Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands; Swear by the duty that you owe to God--Our part therein we banish with yourselves--To keep the oath that we administer:
You never shall, so help you truth and God!
Embrace each other's love in banishment; Nor never look upon each other's face; Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile This louring tempest of your home-bred hate;
Nor never by advised purpose meet To plot, contrive, or complot any ill 'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land. HENRY BOLINGBROKE I swear. THOMAS MOWBRAY And I, to keep all this. HENRY BOLINGBROKE Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy:--By this time, had the king permitted us, One of our souls had wander'd in the air.
Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our flesh, As now our flesh is banish'd from this land:
Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm;
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along The clogging burthen of a guilty soul. THOMAS MOWBRAY No, Bolingbroke: if ever I were traitor, My name be blotted from the book of life, And I from heaven banish'd as from hence!
But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know;
And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue.
Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray;
Save back to England, all the world's my way.
Exit KING RICHARD II Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect Hath from the number of his banish'd years Pluck'd four away.
To HENRY BOLINGBROKE
Six frozen winter spent, Return with welcome home from banishment. HENRY BOLINGBROKE How long a time lies in one little word!
Four lagging winters and four wanton springs End in a word: such is the breath of kings. JOHN OF GAUNT I thank my liege, that in regard of me He shortens four years of my son's exile:
But little vantage shall I reap thereby;