ACT V. SCENE 6.
Windsor Castle
Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE, the DUKE OF YORK, With other LORDS and attendants
| BOLINGBROKE. | Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear
Is that the rebels have consum'd with fire
Our town of Ciceter in Gloucestershire;
But whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not.
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Enter NORTHUMBERLAND
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Welcome, my lord. What is the news?
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| NORTHUMBERLAND. | 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.
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| BOLINGBROKE. | We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
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Enter FITZWATER
| 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.
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| BOLINGBROKE. | write_ads(1,1)> Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.
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Enter PERCY, With the BISHOP OF CARLISLE
| 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.
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| BOLINGBROKE. | 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 liv'st in peace, die free from strife;
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.
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Enter EXTON, with attendants, hearing a coffin
| EXTON. | 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.
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| BOLINGBROKE. | 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.
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| EXTON. | From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.
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| BOLINGBROKE. | 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 thorough 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 what 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
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Exeunt
THE END
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