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.

That were some love but little policy.

My guilt be on my head, and there an end.
Take leave and part; for you must part forthwith.

My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is changed:
You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.
And, madam, there is order ta'en for you;
With all swift speed you must away to France.

The commons will not then be satisfied.

Read o'er this paper while the glass doth come.

My lord,--

My lord, dispatch; read o'er these articles.

No more, but that you read
These accusations and these grievous crimes
Committed by your person and your followers
Against the state and profit of this land;
That, by confessing them, the souls of men
May deem that you are worthily deposed.

Well have you argued, sir; and, for your pains,
Of capital treason we arrest you here.
My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge
To keep him safely till his day of trial.
May it please you, lords, to grant the commons' suit.

Sorrow and grief of heart
Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man
Yet he is come.

My lord, in the base court he doth attend
To speak with you; may it please you to come down.

The king of heaven forbid our lord the king
Should so with civil and uncivil arms
Be rush'd upon! Thy thrice noble cousin
Harry Bolingbroke doth humbly kiss thy hand;
And by the honourable tomb he swears,
That stands upon your royal grandsire's bones,
And by the royalties ...

O, belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle.

Your grace mistakes; only to be brief
Left I his title out.

The news is very fair and good, my lord:
Richard not far from hence hath hid his head.

The noble duke hath sworn his coming is
But for his own; and for the right of that
We all have strongly sworn to give him aid;
And let him ne'er see joy that breaks that oath!

The noble duke hath been too much abused.

It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess.

Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,
Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.

How far is it to Berkeley? and what stir
Keeps good old York there with his men of war?

Then learn to know him now; this is the duke.

Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy?

What was his reason?
He was not so resolved when last we spake together.

Why, is he not with the queen?

It is my son, young Harry Percy,
Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.
Harry, how fares your uncle?

Believe me, noble lord,
I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire:
These high wild hills and rough uneven ways
Draws out our miles, and makes them wearisome,
And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,
Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
But I bethink me what a weary ...

Then thus: I have from Port le Blanc, a bay
In Brittany, received intelligence
That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham,
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston,
Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton and Francis ...

Not so; even through the hollow eyes of death
I spy life peering; but I dare not say
How near the tidings of our comfort is.

His noble kinsman: most degenerate king!
But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
Yet see no shelter to avoid the storm;
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.

Wars have not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not,
But basely yielded upon compromise
That which his noble ancestors achieved with blows:
More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.

Now, afore God, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne
In him, a royal prince, and many moe
Of noble blood in this declining land.
The king is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers; and what they will inform,
Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us all,
That will the ...

Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more
That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!

Richly in both, if justice had her right.

Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.

Nay, nothing; all is said
His tongue is now a stringless instrument;
Words, life and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty.