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Windsor. A Room 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 Gloftershire ;
But whether they be ta’en, or flain, 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. [Presenting a paper.

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 conforted 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 Percy, with the Bishop of Carlisie. Percy. The grand conspirator, abbot of Weftininster, With clog of conscience, and four 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 fume 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.

Enter Exton, with Attendants bearing 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 Bourdeaux, by me hither brought.

Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou haft wrought
A deed of Nander, 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 thow thy head by day nor light.
Lords, I proteft, 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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