Act V, Scene vi:
Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle.

[Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE and YORK, with Lordsand Attendants.]

BOLINGBROKE:

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?

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.

BOLINGBROKE:

We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;

And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.

[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.

BOLINGBROKE:

Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;

Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

[Enter HENRY 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.

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 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, 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.

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.

EXTON:

From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.

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 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 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.

[Exeunt]