KING HENRY
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.
KING HENRY
Welcome, my lord. What is the news?
NORTHUMBERLAND
First, to 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.
KING HENRY
We thank , gentle Percy, for pains,
And to worth will add right worthy gains.
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 dire overthrow.
KING HENRY
pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot.
Right noble is merit, well I wot.
PERCY
The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,
With clog of conscience and sour melancholy,
yielded up his body to the grave.
But here is Carlisle living, to abide
kingly doom and sentence of his pride.
KING HENRY
Carlisle, this is your doom:
Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
More than , and with it joy life.
So as liv’st in peace, die free from strife;
For though mine enemy ever been,
High sparks of honour in have I seen.
EXTON
Great king, within this coffin I present
buried fear. Herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of greatest enemies,
Richard of Bordeaux, by me brought.
KING HENRY
Exton, I thank not, for wrought
A deed of slander with fatal hand
Upon my head and all this famous land.
EXTON
From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.
KING HENRY
They love not poison that do poison need,
Nor do I . Though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
The guilt of conscience take for labour,
But neither my good word nor princely favour.
With Cain go wander thorough shades of night,
And never show 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.