1    Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear
2    Is that the rebels have consumed with fire
3    Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;
4    But whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not.
Enter NORTHUMBERLAND
5    Welcome, my lord what is the news?

6    First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness.
7    The next news is, I have to London sent
8    The heads of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt, and Kent:
9    The manner of their taking may appear
10   At large discoursed in this paper here.

11   We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;
12   And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.

13   My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
14   The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely,
15   Two of the dangerous consorted traitors
16   That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

17   Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
18   Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

19   The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,
20   With clog of conscience and sour melancholy
21   Hath yielded up his body to the grave;
22   But here is Carlisle living, to abide
23   Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride.

24   Carlisle, this is your doom:
25   Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
26   More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
27   So as thou livest in peace, die free from strife:
28   For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
29   High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.

30   Great king, within this coffin I present
31   Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies
32   The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
33   Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.

34   Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought
35   A deed of slander with thy fatal hand
36   Upon my head and all this famous land.

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

38   They love not poison that do poison need,
39   Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,
40   I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
41   The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
42   But neither my good word nor princely favour:
43   With Cain go wander through shades of night,
44   And never show thy head by day nor light.
45   Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
46   That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow:
47   Come, mourn with me for that I do lament,
48   And put on sullen black incontinent:
49   I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,
50   To wash this blood off from my guilty hand:
51   March sadly after; grace my mournings here;
52   In weeping after this untimely bier.