MOWBRAY                 Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal.

’Tis not the trial of a woman’s war,

The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,

Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain.

The blood is hot that must be cooled for this.

Yet can I not of such tame patience boast

As to be hushed and naught at all to say. (1.1.47-53)

Mowbray is not going to stand for this, and he tries to wrest control of the tone, and terms, of the encounter. I don’t want to get drawn into a verbal confrontation, he says, and the fact that I’m speaking at all, in cold words, is no indication that I desire to speak rather than act—quite the opposite. My words are cold, but my zeal is hot; I want to act, to fight. This trial isn’t a woman’s war, it won’t be settled by talking, the bitter clamour of two eager tongues: the opposition between women as talkers and men as doers, words and deeds, is proverbial; the fleeting vision of battling tongues is, potentially, a little ridiculous, but probably not in the heat of the moment; there’s a bit of a dig at Bolingbroke, possibly: talking’s for girls! We need to fight! The blood is hot that must be cooled for this: we are both overheated, full of ardour; our blood is up, and, even more, blood must be shed, it must be cooled (in death) to restore the humoral balance of the body politic. That’s the only outcome; one of us must die. But—at the same time—Mowbray’s not going to let Bolingbroke get away with his insults and challenges, with winning the war of words; he’s not going to stand by, with tame patience, listening and not responding at all.