Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous.
Therefore, to arms. And, father, do but think,
How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown;
Within whose circuit is Elysium,
And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.
Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest,
Until the white rose, that I wear, be died
Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart.
York. Richard, enough; I will be king, or die.—
Brother, thou shalt to London presently,

And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.-
Thou, Richard, shalt unto the duke of Norfolk,
And tell him privily of our intent.-

You, Edward, shall unto my lord Cobham,
With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise:
In them I trust; for they are soldiers,
Witty and courteous, liberal, full of spirit.-
While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more,
But that I seek occasion how to rise;
And yet the king not privy to my drift,

Nor any of the house of Lancaster?

Enter a Messenger.

But, stay; What news? Why com'st thou in such post?
Mess. The queen, with all the northern earls and lords,
Intend here to besiege you in your castle :

She is hard by with twenty thousand men;
And therefore fortify your hold, my lord.

York. Ay, with my sword. What! think'st thou, that we fear them?

Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me;-
My brother Montague shall post to London:
Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,
Whom we have left protectors of the king,
With powerful policy strengthen themselves,
And trust not simple Henry, nor his oaths.
Mont. Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not:
And thus most humbly I do take my leave.

[Exit.

Enter SIR JOHN and SIR HUGH MORTIMER. York, Sir John, and sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles!

You are come to Sandal in a happy hour;

The army of the queen mean to besiege us.

Sir John. She shall not need, we'll meet her in the field. York. What, with five thousand men?

Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need. A woman's general; what should we fear?

[A March afar off. Edw. I hear their drums; let's set our men in order; And issue forth, and bid them battle straight.

York. Five men to twenty!-though the odds be great, I doubt not, uncle, of our victory.

Many a battle have I won in France,

When as the enemy hath been ten to one;

Why should I not now have the like success?

[Alarum. Exeunt.

SCENE 111. Plains near SANDAL CASTLE.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter RUTLAND and his Tutor. Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands? Ah, tutor! look, where bloody Clifford comes!

Enter CLIFFORD and Soldiers.

Cliff Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life. As for the brat of this accursed duke,

Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company.
Cliff. Soldiers, away with him.

Tut. Ah, Clifford! murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

[Exit, forced off by Soldiers. Cliff. How now! is he dead already? Or, is it fear, That makes him close his eyes?-I'll open them. Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws: And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey; And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, And not with such a cruel threat'ning look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die;

I am too mean a subject for thy wrath,

Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live.

Cliff. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's
blood

Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter.
Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again;
He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

Cliff. Had I thy brethren here, their lives, and thine, Were not revenge sufficient for me;

No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers'

graves,
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
The sight of any of the house of York
Is as a fury to torment my soul;

And till I root out their accursed line,
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore-

[Lifting his Hand. Rut. O, let me pray before I take my death:

To thee I pray; Sweet Clifford, pity me!

Cliff. Such pity as my rapier's point affords.

Rut. I never did thee harm; Why wilt thou slay me? Cliff. Thy father hath.

Rut.

But 'twas ere I was born.
Thou hast one son, for his sake pity me;

Lest, in revenge thereof,-sith God is just,-
He be as miserably slain as I.

Ah, let me live in prison all my days;
And when I give occasion of offence,

Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.

Cliff. No cause?

Thy father slew my father; therefore, die.

[Clifford stabs him.

Rut. Dii faciant, laudis summa sit ista tua! [Dies.
Cliff Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet!

And this thy son's blood, cleaving to my blade,
Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood,

Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both. [Exit..

SCENE IV. The same.

Alarum. Enter YORK.

York. The army of the queen hath got the field:
My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;
And all my followers to the eager foe

Turn back, and fly, like ships before the wind,
Or lambs pursu❜d by hunger-starved wolves.
My sons-God knows, what hath bechanced them:
But this I know,-they have demean'd themselves
Like men born to renown, by life, or death.
Three times did Richard make a lane to me;
And thrice cried,-Courage, father! fight it out!
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple falchion, painted to the hilt

In blood of those that had encounter'd him:
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cried,-Charge! and give no foot of ground!
And cried,—A crown, or else a glorious tomb.
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!
With this we charg'd again: but, out, alas!
We bodg'd again; as I have seen a swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide,
And spend her strength with over-matching waves.
[A short alarum within.
Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue;

And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury:
And, were I strong, I would not shun their fury:
The sands are number'd, that make up my life;
Here must I stay, and here my life must end.

Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUM-
BERLAND, and Soldiers.

Come, bloody Clifford,-rough Northumberland,—
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage;
I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Cliff. Ay, to such mercy, as his ruthless arm,
With downright payment, show'd unto my father.

Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,

And made an evening at the noontide prick.

York. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth
A bird that will revenge upon you all:

And, in that hope, I throw mine eyes to heaven,
Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not? what! multitudes, and fear?
Cliff. So cowards fight, when they can fly no further;
So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons;
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.

York. O, Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought o'er-run my former time:
And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face;
And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice,
Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this.
Cliff. I will not bandy with thee word for word;
But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one. [Draws.
Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes,
I would prolong awhile the traitor's life:-
Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland.
North. Hold, Clifford; do not honour him so much,
To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart:
What valour were it, when a cur doth grin,
For one to thrust his hand between his teeth,
When he might spurn him with his foot away?
It is war's prize to take all vantages;

And ten to one is no impeach of valour.

[They lay Hands on York, who struggles. Cliff. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the coney struggle in the net.

[York is taken Prisoner. York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty So true men yield, with robbers so o'er-match'd. [now North. What would your grace have done unto him Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford, and Northumberland,

Come, make him stand upon this molehill here;
That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.-