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.

	[Exeunt]