Enter John of Gaunt with the Duchess of Gloucester.
Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's blood
1.2.2219Doth more solicit me than your exclaims
1.2.3220To stir against the butchers of his life.
1.2.4221But since correction lieth in those hands
1.2.5222Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
1.2.6223Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven,
1.2.7224Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth,
1.2.8225Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.
Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
1.2.10227Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
1.2.11228Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
1.2.12229Were as seven vials of his sacred blood,
1.2.13230Or seven fair branches springing from one root.
1.2.14231Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,
1.2.15232Some of those branches by the Destinies cut;
1.2.16233But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester,
1.2.17234One vial full of Edward's sacred blood,
1.2.18235One flourishing branch of his most royal root,
1.2.19236Is cracked, and all the precious liquor spilt,
1.2.20237Is hacked down, and his summer leaves all faded
1.2.21238By envy's hand and murder's bloody ax.
1.2.22239Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! That bed, that womb,
1.2.23240That mettle, that self mold that fashioned thee
1.2.24241Made him a man; and though thou liv'st and breath'st,
1.2.25242Yet art thou slain in him. Thou dost consent
1.2.26243In some large measure to thy father's death
1.2.27244In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,
1.2.28245Who was the model of thy father's life.
1.2.29246Call it not patience, Gaunt. It is despair.
1.2.30247In suff'ring thus thy brother to be slaughtered,
1.2.31248Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life,
1.2.32249Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee.
1.2.33250That which in mean men we entitle patience
1.2.34251Is pale, cold cowardice in noble breasts.
1.2.35252What shall I say? To safeguard thine own life,
1.2.36253The best way is to venge my Gloucester's death.
God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute,
1.2.39256Hath caused his death, the which if wrongfully
1.2.40257Let heaven revenge, for I may never lift
Where then, alas, may I complain myself?
To God, the widow's champion and defense.
Why then I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.
1.2.45262Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold
1.2.46263Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
1.2.47264Oh, set my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear,
1.2.48265That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast!
1.2.49266Or if misfortune miss the first career,
1.2.50267Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom
1.2.51268That they may break his foaming courser's back
1.2.52269And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
1.2.53270A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!
1.2.54271Farewell, old Gaunt. Thy sometime brother's wife,
1.2.55272With her companion, grief, must end her life.
[She starts to leave.]
Sister, farewell. I must to Coventry.
1.2.57274As much good stay with thee as go with me.
[He starts to leave.]
Yet one word more. Grief boundeth where it falls,
1.2.59276Not with the empty hollowness, but weight.
1.2.60277I take my leave before I have begun,
1.2.61278For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.
1.2.62279Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York.
1.2.63280Lo, this is all. Nay, yet depart not so!
1.2.64281Though this be all, do not so quickly go.
1.2.65282I shall remember more. Bid him -- ah, what? --
1.2.66283With all good speed at Pleshy visit me,
1.2.67284Alack, and what shall good old York there see
1.2.68285But empty lodgings and unfurnished walls,
1.2.69286Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?
1.2.70287And what hear there for welcome but my groans?
1.2.71288Therefore commend me; let him not come there
1.2.72289To seek out sorrow that dwells everywhere.
1.2.73290Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die.
291The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.
Exeunt.