Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured 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?

I have, my liege.

Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him

If he appeal the Duke on ancient malice,

Or worthily, as a good subject should,

On some known ground of treachery in him?

As near as I could sift him on that argument,

On some apparent danger seen in him

Aimed at your Highness, no inveterate malice.

Then call them to our presence. Face to face

And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear

The accuser and the accused freely speak.

High-stomached are they both and full of ire,

In rage, deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.

Many years of happy days befall

My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!

Each day still better other’s happiness

Until the heavens, envying earth’s good hap,

Add an immortal title to your crown!

We thank you both. Yet one but flatters us,

As well appeareth by the cause you come,

Namely, to appeal each other of high treason.

Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object

Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

First—heaven be the record to my speech!—

In the devotion of a subject’s love,

Tend’ring the precious safety of my prince,

And free from other misbegotten hate,

Come I appellant to this princely presence.

Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,

And mark my greeting well; for what I speak

My body shall make good upon this earth,

Or my divine soul answer it in heaven.

Thou art a traitor and a miscreant,

Too good to be so and too bad to live,

Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,

The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.

Once more, the more to aggravate the note,

With a foul traitor’s name stuff I thy throat,

And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move,

What my tongue speaks, my right-drawn sword may prove.

Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal.

’Tis not the trial of a woman’s war,

The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,

Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;

The blood is hot that must be cooled for this.

Yet can I not of such tame patience boast

As to be hushed and naught at all to say.

First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me

From giving reins and spurs to my free speech,

Which else would post until it had returned

These terms of treason doubled down his throat.

Setting aside his high blood’s royalty,

And let him be no kinsman to my liege,

I do defy him, and I spit at him,

Call him a slanderous coward and a villain;

Which to maintain, I would allow him odds

And meet him, were I tied to run afoot

Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,

Or any other ground inhabitable

Wherever Englishman durst set his foot.

Meantime let this defend my loyalty:

By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie.

Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage,

Disclaiming here the kindred of the King,

And lay aside my high blood’s royalty,

Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except.

If guilty dread have left thee so much strength

As to take up mine honour’s pawn, then stoop.

By that and all the rites of knighthood else,

Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,

What I have spoke or thou canst worst devise.

I take it up; and by that sword I swear

Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder,

I’ll answer thee in any fair degree

Or chivalrous design of knightly trial.

And when I mount, alive may I not light

If I be traitor or unjustly fight!

What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray’s charge?

It must be great that can inherit us

So much as of a thought of ill in him.

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.

Besides I say, and will in battle prove,

Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge

That ever was surveyed by English eye,

That all the treasons for these eighteen years

Complotted and contrived in this land

Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.

Further I say, and further will maintain

Upon his bad life to make all this good,

That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester’s death,

Suggest his soon-believing adversaries,

And consequently, like a traitor coward,

Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of blood,

Which blood, like sacrificing Abel’s, cries

Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth

To me for justice and rough chastisement.

And, by the glorious worth of my descent,

This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

How high a pitch his resolution soars!

Thomas of Norfolk, what sayst thou to this?

O! let my sovereign turn away his face

And bid his ears a little while be deaf,

Till I have told this slander of his blood

How God and good men hate so foul a liar.

Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears.

Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom’s heir,

As he is but my father’s brother’s son,

Now, by my sceptre’s awe I make a vow

Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood

Should nothing privilege him nor partialize

The unstooping firmness of my upright soul.

He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou.

Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.

Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,

Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest.

Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais

Disbursed I duly to his highness’ soldiers;

The other part reserved 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,

I slew him not, but to my own disgrace

Neglected my sworn duty in that case.

For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,

The honourable father to my foe,

Once did I lay an ambush for your life,

A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul;

But ere I last received the sacrament

I did confess it and exactly begged

Your Grace’s pardon, and I hope I had it.

This is my fault. As for the rest appealed,

It issues from the rancour of a villain,

A recreant and most degenerate traitor,

Which in myself I boldly will defend,

And interchangeably hurl down my gage

Upon this overweening traitor’s foot,

To prove myself a loyal gentleman

Even in the best blood chambered in his bosom.

In haste whereof most heartily I pray

Your highness to assign our trial day.

Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by me.

Let’s purge this choler without letting blood.

This we prescribe, though no physician;

Deep malice makes too deep incision.

Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed;

Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.

Good uncle, let this end where it begun;

We’ll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.

To be a make-peace shall become my age.

Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s gage.

And, Norfolk, throw down his.

When, Harry, when?

Obedience bids I should not bid again.

Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot.

Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot.

My life thou shalt command, but not my shame.

The one my duty owes; but my fair name,

Despite of death that lives upon my grave,

To dark dishonour’s use thou shalt not have.

I am disgraced, impeached, and baffled here,

Pierced to the soul with slander’s venomed spear,

The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood

Which breathed this poison.

Rage must be withstood.

Give me his gage. Lions make leopards tame.

Yea, but not change his spots. Take but my shame,

And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord,

The purest treasure mortal times afford

Is spotless reputation; that away,

Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.

A jewel in a ten-times-barred-up chest

Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.

Mine honour is my life; both grow in one.

Take honour from me, and my life is done.

Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try;

In that I live, and for that will I die.

Cousin, throw up your gage; do you begin.

O, God defend my soul from such deep sin!

Shall I seem crest-fallen in my father’s sight?

Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height

Before this outdared dastard? Ere my tongue

Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong

Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear

The slavish motive of recanting fear

And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,

Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray’s face.

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 difference of your settled hate.

Since we cannot atone you, we shall see

Justice design the victor’s chivalry.

Lord Marshal, command our officers-at-arms

Be ready to direct these home alarms.