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  • Flourish. Enter HENRY BOLINGBROKE, DUKE OF YORK,
    with other Lords, and Attendants

  • 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?

  • 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.

  • We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;
    And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.

  • Enter 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.

  • Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
    Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

  • Enter HENRY PERCY, and the BISHOP OF CARLISLE

  • 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.

  • 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

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.

  • 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.