Act V. Scene
VI.
Scene VI.—Windsor. An Apartment in
the Castle.
Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE and YORK,
with Lords and Attendants.
Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we
hear
Is that the rebels have consum'd 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?
North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all
happiness.
The next news is: I have to London sent
The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and
Kent.
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursed in this paper here.
Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy
pains,
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
Enter FITZWATER.
Fitz. 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.
Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be
forgot;
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.
Enter HENRY PERCY, with the BISHOP OF
CARLISLE.
H. Percy. 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.
Boling. 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 Attendants bearing a coffin.
Exton. Great king, within this coffin I pre-
sent
Thy buried fear; herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.
Boling. 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.
Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did I
this deed.
Boling. 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 the shade 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,
la weeping after this untimely bier. [Exeunt.
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