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Old John of Gaunt, time-honour’d Lancaster, Hast thou, according to thy oath and band, Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son, Here to make good the boisterous late appeal, Which then our leisure would not let us hear, Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?
Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster, Have you, as you swore, brought your son Henry Hereford, Here to prove the wild accusations That we didn’t have time to hear earlier, Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?
I have, my liege.
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?
Tell me, have you checked with him, If his accusations against the Duke come from old grudges, Or if he has a valid reason, as a loyal subject should, Based on some treasonous act by the Duke?
As near as I could sift him on that argument, On some apparent danger seen in him Aim’d at your highness, no inveterate malice.
As much as I could tell, he seems to be acting on an apparent threat Aimed at your safety, not out of any long-held 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-stomach’d are they both, and full of ire, In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.
Then bring them forward; let them stand face to face, And we’ll hear both the accuser and the accused speak for themselves: They’re both proud and angry, As loud and quick-tempered as the sea and fire.
Many years of happy days befal My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!
May many years of happiness come to My gracious king, my most beloved sovereign!
Each day still better other’s happiness; Until the heavens, envying earth’s good hap, Add an immortal title to your crown!
May each day bring even greater joy Until the heavens, jealous of earth’s good fortune, Add an eternal 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?
We thank you both; but one of you is simply flattering us, As clearly shown by the reason you’ve come here; Namely, to accuse each other of treason. Cousin of Hereford, what do you accuse The Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, of?
First, heaven be the record to my speech! In the devotion of a subject’s love, Tendering 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.
First, may heaven bear witness to what I say! Out of loyalty to my king, And for the safety of my sovereign, Free from any personal hatred, I come here to make my case. Now, Thomas Mowbray, I turn to you, And pay attention to my words; for what I say My actions will prove on earth, Or my soul will answer for it in heaven. You are a traitor and a villain, Too honorable to be one and too wicked to survive, For just as the sky is clear and bright, The clouds in it seem all the more ugly. Once more, to make my accusation stronger, I call you a traitor to your face; And I hope, if my king agrees, That my sword can confirm what my words say.
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 cool’d for this: Yet can I not of such tame patience boast As to be hush’d and nought 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 return’d 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, Where ever Englishman durst set his foot. Mean time let this defend my loyalty, By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie.
Don’t let my calm words here make you think I’m not passionate: This isn’t the kind of conflict a woman would fight, The angry shouting of two eager people, Can’t decide the truth between us; The blood is hot that must be cooled for this: But I can’t claim to be so patient As to be silent and say nothing at all: First, the deep respect I have for your highness stops me From saying whatever comes to mind; Which otherwise would rush out until it had choked Those accusations of treason down his throat. Forgetting his noble blood, And pretending he’s not my king’s relative, I defy him, and I spit on him; I call him a lying coward and a villain: And to prove this, I would give him the advantage, And meet him, even if I had to run barefoot To the freezing Alps, Or anywhere else that no man can live, Where no Englishman would dare to set foot. But for now, let this prove my loyalty, By all I hope for, he lies most wickedly.
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 worse devise.
Pale, trembling coward, here’s my challenge, I reject the idea that I’m a relative of the king, And I cast aside my noble blood, Which fear, not respect, makes you try to deny. If your guilty fear still leaves you strong enough To take up my challenge, then come down: By this and by all the laws of knighthood, I will prove against you, in a fair fight, What I’ve said, or whatever worse you can come up with.
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!
I accept the challenge; and by this sword I swear That gently placed my knighthood on my shoulder, I will answer you in any fair way, Or in any noble form of trial: And when I fight, may I never rise again, If I am a traitor or fight unjustly!
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.
What does our cousin accuse Mowbray of? It must be something serious to make us think That even a small part of him could be guilty.
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 detain’d 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 survey’d 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.
Look, what I say, my life will prove true; Mowbray has received eight thousand gold coins As a loan for your soldiers, Which he has kept for his own bad purposes, Like a false traitor and wicked villain. Also, I say, and will prove in battle, Either here or anywhere to the farthest edge That has ever been surveyed by English eyes, That all the treasons of these past eighteen years Began with false Mowbray. Furthermore, I say and will prove That he plotted the Duke of Gloucester’s death, Convinced his easily fooled enemies, And like a cowardly traitor, Spilled his innocent blood: Which blood, like Abel’s, cries out, Even from the silent earth, To me for justice and harsh punishment; And, by the glorious worth of my lineage, This arm will do it, or this life be spent.
How high a pitch his resolution soars! Thomas of Norfolk, what say’st thou to this?
How high his resolution is! Thomas of Norfolk, what do you say 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.
Oh, let my sovereign turn his face away And tell his ears to be deaf for a moment, Until I have spoken of this slander against his blood, How God and good men hate such 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.
Mowbray, our eyes and ears are impartial: Even if he were my brother, or the heir to my kingdom, As he is only my father’s brother’s son, Now, by the power of my sceptre, I vow, That such closeness to our royal blood Will not protect him, nor make me less firm In my righteous decision: He is our subject, Mowbray; so are you: I allow you both to speak freely and fearlessly.
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 begg’d Your grace’s pardon, and I hope I had it. This is my fault: as for the rest appeall’d, 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 chamber’d in his bosom. In haste whereof, most heartily I pray Your highness to assign our trial day.
Then, Bolingbroke, as deep as to your heart, Through the false passage of your throat, you lie. Three parts of the money I received for Calais I gave to your highness’s soldiers; The rest I kept by agreement, Because my sovereign king owed me money From the time I went to France to bring his queen: Now swallow that lie. As for Gloucester’s death, I didn’t kill him; but to my shame I neglected my duty in that matter. For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster, The honorable father of my enemy, Once I ambushed you, A sin that torments my soul, But before I last took communion, I confessed and humbly begged For your grace’s forgiveness, and I believe I received it. This is my fault: as for the rest, it comes from the spite of a villain, A coward and most degenerate traitor Which in myself I boldly defend; And I throw down my challenge Upon this arrogant traitor’s feet, To prove myself a loyal gentleman Even in the best blood of his body. In haste, I humbly ask Your highness to set 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.
Wrathful gentlemen, listen to me; Let’s settle this anger without bloodshed: This is our advice, though we’re no doctors; Deep hatred causes deep wounds; Forget, forgive; come to an agreement; Our physicians say this is not the right time to fight. Good uncle, let’s end this here; We’ll calm the Duke of Norfolk, and you your son.
To be a make-peace shall become my age: Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s gage.
Making peace is what my age demands: Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s challenge.
And, Norfolk, throw down his.
And, Norfolk, throw down his.
When, Harry, when? Obedience bids I should not bid again.
When, Harry, when? Obedience tells me I should not ask again.
Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot.
Norfolk, throw it down, we say; there’s no argument.
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, impeach’d and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander’s venom’d spear, The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood Which breathed this poison.
I throw myself down, great sovereign, at your feet. You can command my life, but not my dishonor: One belongs to my duty; but my good name, Despite death, which will one day take my grave, You shall not have for disgraceful use. I am dishonored, accused and mocked here, Pierced to the soul by the venom of slander, A wound no balm can heal except his heart’s blood Which first breathed this poison.
Rage must be withstood: Give me his gage: lions make leopards tame.
Rage must be controlled: Give me his challenge: lions can tame leopards.
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-barr’d-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.
Yes, but not change who he is: just take my shame. And I’ll give up my challenge. My dear, dear lord, The most valuable thing life offers Is a spotless reputation: once that’s gone, Men are just gold-covered dirt or painted clay. A jewel locked in a chest a hundred times sealed Is like a strong spirit in a loyal heart. My honor is my life; they grow together: Take my honor, and my life is over: So, my dear liege, let me prove my honor; In that I live, and for that I will die.
Cousin, throw up your gage; do you begin.
Cousin, throw down your challenge; you begin.
O, God defend my soul from such deep sin! Shall I seem crest-fall’n in my father’s sight? Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height Before this out-dared 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.
Oh, God protect my soul from such a great sin! Shall I look defeated in front of my father? Or, with fear like a beggar, lower myself Before this bold coward? Before I let my words Dishonor me with such weak complaint, Or speak such a lowly plea, my teeth will rip The slave-like motive of recanting fear, And spit it, bleeding, in his great disgrace, Where shame lives, even on 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 can not 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.
We weren’t born to beg, but to rule; And since we can’t make you friends, Be prepared, as your lives will depend on it, At Coventry, on Saint Lambert’s day: There, your swords and lances will settle The growing conflict of your long-standing hatred: Since we can’t reconcile you, we’ll see Justice decide who wins by their bravery. Lord Marshal, order our officers at arms To prepare for these coming challenges.