The Sicilian usurper a tragedy as it was acted at the Theatre-Royal : with prefatory epistle in vindication of the author, occasioned by this play on the stage / written by N. Tate.

ACT I.

SCENE a Chamber of State. King Richard, John of Gaunt, Northumberland, Piercie, Ross, Willoughby, with other Nobles and Attendants.

King

OLD John of Gaunt time honour'd Lancaster; Hast thou according to thy Oath and Bond Brought hither Harry Herford thy bold Son, Here to make good th'Impeachment lately charg'd Against the Duke of Norfolk Thomas Mowbray?

Gaunt.

I have my Liege.

King.

Hast thou moreover sifted him to find If he Impeach the Duke on private malice; Or worthily as a good Subject shou'd.

Gaunt.

As far as I can sound him in the Business On some Apparent danger from the Duke Aim'd at your Highness, no Inveterate Malice!

King.

Then set 'em in our presence Face to Face; And Frowning, Brow to Brow, our self will hear Th' Accuser and the Accus'd both freely speak; High-Stomacht are they both and in their Rage Deaf as the storming Sea, hasty as Fire.

Bulling-brook and Mowbray from several Entrances.

Bull.

Now many years of happy day's befal My gracious Soveraign my most honour'd Liege.

Mow.

Each day exceeding th' others happiness Till Heav'n in Jealousie to Earth's success Add an immortal Title to your Crown.

King.

Cousin of Herford what dost thou object Against the Duke of Norfolk Thomas Mowbray?

Bull.

First then be Heav'n the Record to my speech▪ That in devotion to a Subjects love (Not on Suggestions of a private Hatred) Come I Appealant to this Princely presence.— Now Thomas Mowbray do I turn to Thee, And mark my greeting well; for what I speak My Body shall make good upon this Earth, Or my divine Soul answer it in Heav'n: Thou art a Trayter to the King and State, A foul Excrescence of a Noble Stem; To Heav'n I speak it, and by Heav'n 'tis true, That thou art Treason spotted, false as Hell, And wish (so please my Soveraign) ere we move, What my Tongue speaks, my right drawn Sword may prove.

Mow.

Let not the coldness of my Language draw My Sov'reign Liege your Censure on my Zeal, Tis not the Tryal of a Womans War, The senseless clamour of contending Tongues Can arbitrate the Diff'rence 'twixt us Two, The Blood is hot that must be cool'd for this: The Reverence of this Presence curbs my speech, That else had shot like Lightning and return'd This charge of Treason, to the sland'rers Throat: Set but aside his high Blood's Royalty, And let him be no Kins-man to the King. Allow me this, and Bulling-brook's a Villain; Which to maintain I will allow him odds, Pursue him bare-foot to the farthest North, Whose Chastisement I tamely now forbear,

Bull.

White-liver'd Coward there I throw my Gage, Disclaiming my Relation to the King,

Which Fear, not Reverence make thee to object; If guilty Dread has left thee so much strength, Stoop and take up forthwith my Honour's Pawn; By that and all the Rights of Knight-hood else I will make good against thee Arm to Arm What I have said, and Seal it with thy Soul.

Mow.

I seize it Herford as I wou'd seize Thee, And by the Sword that laid my Knight-hood on me I'll answer thee in any Knightly Tryal As hot in Combate as thou art in Brawl.

King.

What do's our Cousen lay to Norfolk's Charge?

Bull.

First then I say (my Sword shall prove it true) That Mow-bray has receiv'd eight thousand Nobles In Name of Lendings for your Highness Service, All which for lew'd Employments he detains Like a false Traytor and injurious Villain; Besides I say and will in Combate prove, That all the Treasons, Plots, Conspiracies Hatcht for these eighteen years within this Realm, Fetcht from false Mowbray their first Spring and Head: Farther I say, and on his Heart will prove it, That he did Plot the Duke of Gloster's Death, Whose Martial Ghost to me for Vengeance cryes, And by the glorious Worth of my Descent This Arm shall give it, or this Blood be spent.

King.

How high a Pitch his Resolution Soars. Thomas of Norfolk what say'st thou to this?

Mow.

O let my Sov'raign turn away his Face And bid his Ear a little while be Deaf, Till I have told this slander of his Blood, How Heav'n and good men hate so foul a Lyar.

King.

Now by our Sceptres Awe I tell thee Mowbray, Were he my Brother, nay my Kingdoms Heir, Our Blood shou'd nothing priviledge him, nor bend Our upright Soul from Justice.

Mow.

Then Bulling-brook as low as to thy Heart Thou ly'st; Three parts of my Receits for Callice I have disburst amongst his Highness Souldiers; The Rest I by the King's consent reserv'd Upon remainder of a dear Account,

Since last I went to fetch the Queen from France. First swallow down that Lye—for Gloster's Death I slew him not, but rather to my fault Neglected my Sworn Duty in that Case, Compassion being here all my Offence. And for the rest of thy perfidious Charge, It Issues from the rancour of a Villain, The flowing Gall of a degenerate Traytor, In proof of which I summon thee to Combate, Beseeching of his Majesty the Grace To my wrong'd Fame t'appoint our Tryal-day Where Herford's Blood shall for his slanders pay, And wash the Poyson of his Tongue away.

King.

Rash men, thus long we have giv'n you the hearing, Now let the pleasure of your King be heard; And know our Wisdom shall prescribe a way To purge this Choller without letting Blood, Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed, Gaunt, see this difference end where it begun, Wee'l calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your Son.

Gaunt.

To be a Peace-maker becomes my Age Throw down my Son the Duke of Norfolk's Gage.

King.

And Norfolk throw down his.

Gaunt.

When Harry when? Obedience bids, I shou'd not bid again.

King.

Will Norfolk when the King commands be slow?

Mow.

My self dread Sov'raign at your feet I throw; My Life you may command, but not my Shame, I cannot give, nor will you ask my Fame; I am Impeacht, disgrac't before my King, Pierc't to the Soul with Slanders Venom'd Sting, Incurable but by the Traytor's Blood That breath'd the Poyson.

King.

Rage must be withstood; Give me his Gage, Lyons make Leopards tame.

Mow.

Yes, but not change their Spots, take but my shame, And I resign my Gage; my dear dread Lord, The purest Treasure Mortal times afford Is spotless honour; take but that away Men are but guilded Loam and painted Clay.

King.

Cousin, throw down his Gage, do you begin,

Bull.

Just Heav'n defend me from so foul a sin. Condemn not Sir your Blood to such disgrace! Shall I seem brav'd before my Father's Face? No, Royal Sir, ere my Blaspheaming Tongue Shall do my Loyalty so foul a wrong, Or sound so base a Parle, by th' Roots I'le tear The slavish Herrald of so vile a fear, And spit it bleeding where the worst disgrace, And slanders harbour, ev'n in Mowbray's face.

King.

Now by my Scepter you have wak't my spleen, And since we sue in vain to make ye friends, Prepare to meet before us in the Lists, You shall, and he that bauk's the Combat, dies. Behold me give your head-long fury Scope, Each to chastise the others guilty Pride. What Council cannot, let the Sword decide.

[Exeunt.

SCENE the Second.

Enter Dutchess of Glocester in Mourning.

Dutch.

How slow alas the hours of Sorrow fly, Whose Wings are dampt with Tears! my dear, dear Gloster, I have more than a Widdows loss to mourn, She but laments a Death; but I a Murder.

[Enter Gaunt.

Gaunt.

When Sister will you find the way to comfort?

Dutch.

When Gaunt has found the way to Vengeance, Comfort Before that hour were Guilty. Edwards seven Sons (whereof thy self art one) Where as seven Viols of his sacred Blood, Or seven fair Branches springing from one Stock; Some of those Streams by natures course are dry'd, Some of those Branches by the Destinies cut; But Thomas, my dear Lord, my Life, my Gloster, One flourishing Branch of that most Royal Stem, Is hew'd and all his verdant Leaves disperst, By envies hand and Murders bloody Axe.

Gaunt.

Sister, the part I have in Gloster's Blood, Do's more sollicite me than your exclaims, To stir against the Butchers of his life;

But since Revenge is Heav'ns Prerogative, Put we our Quarrel to the will of Heav'n.

Enter York.

York.

Save ye Sister—very hot! oh! hot weather and hot work: come Brother, the Lists are ready; the Fight will be worth the while: besides your concern there is somewhat more than ordi∣nary. I'faith now I cou'd be content to have Harry scape; but for all that I wou'd have the Traytor die.

Gaunt.

Cou'd my impartial eye but find him such, Fell Mow-bray's Sword should come to late.

Dutch.

Where shall my Sorrows make their last complaint, If York deny me too?

York.

What wou'd our Sister?

Dutch.

Revenge, and speedy for my Glosters death.

York.

Why there 'tis—Revenge, ho! a fine morsel for a Lady fasting, Gloster was my Brother, true—but Gloster was a Tray∣tor and that's true too—I hate a Traytor more than I love a Brother.

Dutch.

A Traytor York?

York.

'Tis somewhat a course name for a Kinsman, but yet to my thinking, to raise an Army, execute Subjects, threaten the King himself, and reduce him to answer particulars, has a very strong smatch with it——go too, you are in fault, your com∣plaints are guilty; your very Tears are Treason. No remedy but Patience.

Dutch.

Call it not patience, York, 'tis cold despair, In suffering thus your Brother to be slaughter'd, You shew the naked path to your own Lives; Ah! had his fate been yours my Gloster wou'd Have set a Nobler Prince upon your Lives.

York.

This Air grows infectious: will you go Brother.

Dutch.

But one word more, grief ever was a Talker, But I will teach him silence; of you both I take eternal leave. Comforts wait on you When I am laid in Earth: to some dark Cell Will I betake me, where this weary Life Shall with the taper waste: there shall I greet, No Visitant but Death—adieu! my Lords! If this Farewell your Patience has abus'd, Think 'twas my last, and let it be excus'd.

[Exeunt.

SCENE the Third.

A Pavilion of State before the Lists. Marshal and Aumerle from several Entrances.

Marsh.

My Lord Aumerle is Harry Herford arm'd?

Aum.

Yes, at all points and longs to enter in,

Marsh.

The Duke of Norfolk sprightfully and bold Waits but the Summons of the Appealants Trumpet, But see, the King.

Flourish, Enter King, Queen attended, Gaunt, York, Pierce, Northumberland, &c. who place themselves to view the Combat. Mowbray brought in by a Herald.

King.

Marshal demand of yonder Combatant, Why he comes here, and orderly proceed To swear him in the justice of his cause.

Marsh.

In the Kings name say who thou art and what's thy Quarrel? Speak truly on thy Knighthood and thy Oath, So Heav'n defend thee and thy Valour.

Mow.

Hither is Mowbray come upon his Oath, To justifie his Loyalty and truth, Against false Bullingbrook that has appeal'd me, And as I truly fight defend me Heav'n.

Trumpet again. Bullingbrook and Herald.

King.

Demand of yonder Knight why he comes here, And formally according to our Law, Depose him in the justice of his Cause.

Marsh.

Thy name, and wherefore thou art hither come Before King Richard in his Royal Lists, Speak like a true Knight: so defend thee Heav'n,

Bull.

Harry of Herford, Lancaster and Derby, Stands here in Arms to prove on Thomas Mowbray, That he's a Traytor to the King and State, And as I truly fight defend me Heav'n. But first Lord Marshal I entreat the Grace To kiss my Soveraigns hand and do him homage, For Mowbray and my self are like to men That vow along and weary Pilgrimage,

Therefore shou'd take a ceremonious leave And tender farewel of our several Friends.

Marsh.

Th'Appealant in all duly greets your Highness, Craving to kiss your hand and take his leave.

King.

We will descend and fould him in our Arms; Now Cousin, as thy Cause is just, So be thy Fortune in this Royal Fight; Farewel my Blood, which if thou chance to shed, Lament we may, but not revenge the dead.

Bull.

No noble eye be seen to loose a Tear On me if I be foil'd by Mowbrays Arm; As confident as is the Faulcon's flight At tim'rous Birds do I with Mowbray fight. O thou the gen'rous Author of my Blood,

[To Gaunt.

Whose youthful Spirit enflames and lifts me up To reach at Victory above my Head, Add proof to this my Armour with thy Pray'rs, And with thy Blessings point my vengeful Sword To furbish new th'illustrious name of Gaunt.

Mow.

However Heaven or Fortune cast my Lot, There lives or dies a just and loyal man: Never did wretched Captive greet the hour Of freedom with more welcome or delight Than my transported soul do's celebrate This Feast of battle—Blessings on my King, And peace on all.

King.

Farewell my Lord, Virtue and Valour guard thee: Marshal finish.

Marsh.

Harry of Herford, Lancaster and Derby, Receive thy Sword and Heav'n defend thy Right, Fear this to Mowbray.

Mow.

Curse on your tedious Ceremonies, more To us tormenting then t'expecting Bridegrooms. The signal for Heav'ns sake.

Marsh.

Sound Trumpets, and set forward Combatants. Stay, stay, the King has thrown his Warder down.

King.

Command the Knights once more back to their Posts, And let the Trumpets sound a second charge, Whilst with our Lords we briefly do advise.

Another flourish after which the King speaks.

Command 'em to resigne their Arms, and listen To what we with our Council have Decreed, For that our Eyes detest the spectacle Of Civil Wounds, from whence the dire infection Of general War may spring, we bar your Combat, Suppress those Arms that from our Coast wou'd fright Fair Peace, and make us wade in Kinsmen's Blood: And lest your Neighbour-hood cause after-broils, We banish you our Realms to different Climes, You Bullingbrook on pain of Death, Till twice five Summers have enircht our Fields.

Bull.

And must this be your Pleasure? well! Your pleasure stand, 'twill be my comfort still, The Sun that warms you here, shall shine on me And guild my Banishment.

King.

Mowbray for thee remains a heavier doom, The slow succeeding hours shall not determine The dateless limit of thy dear exile, The hopeless word of never to return, Breath we against thee upon pain of Death.

Mow.

A heavy Sentence my most Sov'raign Lord, The Language I have learnt these Forty years, My native English must I now forgo? I am too old to fawn upon a Nurse, And learn the Prattle of a forraign tongue. What is thy Sentence then, but speechless Death? You take the cruelst way to rob my Breath.

King.

Complaint comes all too late where we decree.

Mow.

Then thus I turn me from my Countries light, Pleas'd with my doom because it pleas'd the King, Farewell my Lord, now Mowbray cannot stray, Let me shun England, all the worlds my way.

King.

Return again and take an Oath with thee. Lay on our Royal Sword your banisht Hands, Swear by the duty that you owe to Heav'n Nere to embrace each others love in Banishment, Nor ever meet, nor write to reconcile This lowring tempest of your home-bred hate, Nor Plot to turn the edge of your Revenge,

On Us, our State, our Subjects and our Land.

Bull.

I Swear.

Mow.

And I to keep all this!

Bull.

By this time Mowbray, had the King permitted, One of our Souls had wandered in the Air, As now our flesh is doomd on Earth to wander, Confess thy Treason ere thou fly the Land; Since thou hast far to go, bear not along Th'incumbring Burden of a guilty Soul.

Mow.

No Bullingbrook, if ever I were false, Let Heav'n renounce me as my Country has; But what thou art, Heav'n, Thou and I do know, And all (my heart forbodes) too soon shall rue. My absence then shall yet this comfort bring, Not to behold the Troubles of my King.

[Exit.

King.

Uncle within thy tear-charg'd Eyes I read Thy hearts fell sorrow, and that troubled Look, Has from the number of his Banisht years Pluckt four away; Six frozen Winters spent, Return with welcome from thy Banishment.

Gaunt.

I thank my Liege, that in regard to me, He cuts off four years from my Sons exile, But small advantage shall I reap thereby, For ere those slow six years can change their Moons, My inch of Taper will be spent and done, Nor Gaunt have life to welcom home his Son.

King.

Despair not Uncle, you have long to live.

Gaunt.

But not a Minute King that thou canst give.

King.

Thy Son was banisht upon advice, To which thy Tongue a party—Verdict gave,

Gaunt.

My interest I submitted to your Will, You urg'd me like a Judge, and I forgot A Father's Name, and like a strict Judge doom'd Him. Alas I look'd when some of you should say, I was too strict to make my Own away! But all gave leave to my unwilling Tongue, To do my ag'd heart this unnatural wrong.

King.

Now for the Rebels that hold out in Ireland, And turn our mild forbearance to contempt, Fresh forces must be levi'd with best speed,

Ere farther leisure yield them further strength, We will our self in person to this War, And quench this flame before it spread too far.

Ex. with Attendants.

Gaunt.

O to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words, When thou shouldst breath dear farewels to thy Friends That round thee, all like silent Mourners gaze.

Bull.

They will not censure me whose scanty time And breath's too little to take leave of you. My dear Companions you have known my Heart Too long, to doubt it on a silent grief— Ha! by my swelling blood my Father's pale! How fare's your honour? good my Lords your hands.

Gaunt.

I feel a heaviness like Death, and hope It is no counterfeit—All shall be well.

Bull.

By Heav'n it shall—I feel my veins work high, And conscious glory kindling in my brest, Inspires a Thought to vast to be exprest; Where this disgrace will end the Heav'ns can tell, And Herford's Soul divines, that 'twill be well! A Beam of royal splendor strikes my Eye, Before my charm'd sight, Crowns and Scepters fly; The minutes big with Fate, too slowly run, But hasty Bullingbrook shall push'em on.

[Ex.

The End of the First Act.