Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

And was at last out-faced by Bolingbroke?
You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life,
Take honour from me, and my life is done.
Men judge, by the complexion of the sky,
You are my father,
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage.
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye.
Towards our assistance we do seize to us
My name is Thomas Mowbray,
And those his golden beams to you here lent
Come, gentlemen,
That will the King severely prosecute
My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge
That every stride he makes upon my land is dangerous treason.
Now, afore God, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne
As far as I could sift him on that argument,
How far brought you high Hereford on his way?
Of civil wounds ploughed up with neighbours' sword
My soul the father; and these two beget
His noble kinsman!
I spy life peering, but dare not say
'Down, king!'
My guilt be on my head, and there an end.
The bay trees in our country are all withered,
He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear
farewell.
And send defiance to the traitor, and so die?
That brings me food to make misfortune live?
With too much urging your pernicious lives,
Where is Green?
Rained from the wounds of slaughtered Englishmen.
and fold him in our arms.
Alack,
How far off lies your power?
HE GASPS
O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
Judases, each one. Worse than Judas!
And who sits here that is not Richard's subject?
If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it!
The accuser and the accused freely speak.
We'll make foul weather with despised tears.
"He Means, My Lord, That We Are Too Remiss,"
He means, my lord, that we are too remiss,
Nay, do not say, stand up
Give me the crown.
Yet ask.
With mine own breath release all duty's rites
The blood of English shall manure the ground,
Disparked my parks and felled my forest woods,
The king shall do it.
Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,
The royalties and rights of banished Hereford?
His face thou hast, for even so looked he, O Richard!
Though banished,
He hath not money for these Irish wars,
So I were from your sights.
The nobles hath he fined For ancient quarrels,
And how comest thou hither,
Whitebeards have armed their thin and hairless scalps
They love not poison
Merely in hate, against any of us all,
[SE] Mine Honour Is My Life; Both Grow In One
Will no man say amen?
Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart
Into his ruined ears, and thus deliver
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head.
Royally? Why? It contains no king.
And free from other misbegotten hate,
Thou art a banished man, and here art come,
I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?
"The King Shall Rue."
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf.
What ho, my liege! For God's sake, let me in!
Of mothers' sons
My Lord, I have from Oxford brought to London
A beggar begs that never begged before.
Filling one another,
HE LAUGHS
What will ensue here after there's none can tell.
Thou art a traitor and a miscreant,
Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.
Things past redress are now with me past care.
Boys with women's voices
Strive to speak big and clap their female joints
My liege, beware;
When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief.
Imagine it to lie that way thou goest,
Men's eyes did scowl on gentle Richard;
Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me
Nor do I thee
O king, believe not this hard-hearted man!
Where nothing lives but crosses, cares and grief.
Be judged by subject and inferior breath,
When thou wert king;
Her fairest flowers choked up,
Come, mourn with me for what I do lament,
What Eve, what serpent,
What is become of Bushy?
The sly slow hours shall not determinate
The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.
Should dying men flatter with those that live?
For aught I know, my lord.
That with usurping steps do trample thee.
Ascend his throne,
With being nothing.
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
Hath yielded up his body to the grave!
And, with a little pin, bores through his castle wall and,
How he did seem to dive into their hearts
And quite lost their hearts.
Is now leased out -
Like an unseasonable stormy day,
Great Bolingbroke,
Which for some reason, SIR,
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts
It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.
Where'er I wander, boast of this I can,
To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.
And love to Richard
And will rid his foe.
That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,
Madam, your majesty is too much sad.
Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists
Besides I say, and will in battle prove,
To keep him safely till his day of trial.
From which awaked, the truth of what we are
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary,