(King Henry; Duke of York; Lords; Attendants; Northumberland; Lord Fitzwater; Harry Percy; Bishop of Carlisle; Exton)
Henry hears that the rebellions against him have been put down, and the majority of the rebel leaders executed. He nevertheless pardons the Bishop of Carlisle. Exton brings in Richard’s body in a coffin, but Henry gives him no thanks, realizing the harm this will do to his reputation, and though he admits he had hoped Richard would die, he banishes Exton and swears to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land to clear himself of his guilt in the murder. (52 lines)
Flourish. Enter Bullingbrook, now King Henry, with the Duke of York with other Lords and Attendants.
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.
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 Salisbury, Spencer, 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.
Enter Lord 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.
Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot,
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.
Enter Harry Percy and the Bishop of Carlisle.
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 reverent 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 honor in thee have I seen.
Enter Exton with Attendants bearing the coffin.
Great King, within this coffin I present
Thy buried fear. Herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Burdeaux, by me hither brought.
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.
From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.
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 labor,
But neither my good word nor princely favor.
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.