O, let no noble eye profane a tear For me, if I be gored with Mowbray’s spear. As confident as is the falcon’s flight Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. My loving lord, I take my leave of you. Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle; Not sick, although I have to do with death, But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath. Lo! as at English feasts, so I regreet The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet. O thou, the earthly author of my blood, Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up To reach at victory above my head, Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers, And with thy blessings steel my lance’s point, That it may enter Mowbray’s waxen coat And furbish new the name of John o’ Gaunt, Even in the lusty haviour of his son.

Bolingbroke Monologue from Richard II

Rehearse Bolingbroke's monologue