not made a horse;
And yet I bear a burthen like an ass,
Spurr'd, gall'd and tired by jouncing Bolingbroke.
Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.
If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away.
What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say.
My lord, will't please you to fall to?
Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do.
My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton, who
lately came from the king, commands the contrary.
The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee!
Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.
Help, help, help!
How now! what means death in this rude assault?
Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument.
Go thou, and fill another room in hell.
That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire
That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand
Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land.
Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high;
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.
As full of valour as of royal blood:
Both have I spill'd; O would the deed were good!
For now the devil, that told me I did well,
Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.
This dead king to the living king I'll bear
Take hence the rest, and give them burial here.
Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear
Is that the rebels have consumed with fire
Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;
But whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not.
Welcome, my lord what is the news?
First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness.
The next news is, I have to London sent
The heads of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt, and Kent:
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursed in this paper here.
We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
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.
Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.
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.
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