KEEPER.
My lord, I dare not. Sir Pierce of Exton,
Who lately came from the King, commands the contrary.
RICHARD.
The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee!
Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.
[Strikes the Keeper.]
KEEPER.
Help, help, help!
Enter Exton and Servants, armed.
RICHARD.
How now! What means death in this rude assault?
Villain, thy own hand yields thy death’s instrument.
[Snatching a weapon and killing one.]
Go thou and fill another room in hell.
[He kills another, then Exton strikes him down.]
That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire
That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand
Hath with the King’s blood stained the King’s own land.
Mount, mount, my soul! Thy seat is up on high,
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.