Enter PERCY, and the BISHOP OF CARLISLE.
HENRY PERCY: 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.
HENRY BOLINGBROKE: 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 livest in peace, die free from strife:
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.
Enter EXTON, with persons bearing a coffin.
EXTON: Great king, within this coffin I present 
Thy buried fear; herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.
HENRY BOLINGBROKE: 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.
EXTON: From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.
HENRY BOLINGBROKE: 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 labour,
But neither my good word nor princely favour:
With Cain go wander through 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 that 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.