Puslapio vaizdai
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But thou preferr'ft thy Life before thine honour.
And feeing thou doft, I here divorce my felf,
Both from thy Table, Henry, and thy Bed,
Until that A&t of Parliament be repealed,
Whereby my Son is difinherited.

The Northern Lords, that have forfworn thy Colours,
Will follow mine, if once they fee them fpread:
And fpread they fhall be, to thy foul difgrace,
And utter ruin of the Houfe of York,

Thus do I leave thee; come Son, let's away,
Our Army is ready, come, we'll after them.

K. Henry. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me fpeak. Queen. Thou haft fpoke too much already; get thee gone.

K.Henry. Gentle Son Edward, thou wilt ftay with me? Queen. Ay, to be murther'd by his Enemies.

Prince. When I return with Victory from the Field, I'll fee your Grace; 'till then I'll follow her.

Queen. Come, Son, away, we may not linger thus. [Exeunt Queen and Prince.

K. Henry. Poor Queen,

How love to me, and to her Son,

Hath made her break out into terms of Rage.
Reveng'd may fhe be on that hateful Duke,
Whofe haughty Spirit, winged with defire,
Will coft my Crown, and like an empty Eagle,
Tire on the Flefh of me, and of my Son.
The lofs of thofe three Lords torments my Heart;
I'll write unto them, and entreat them fair;
Come, Coufin, you shall be the Messenger.
Exe. And I hope fhall reconcile them all.

[Exit.

Enter Richard, Edward, and Mountague.
Rich. Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave.
Edw. No, I can better play the Orator.
Mount. But I have reafons ftrong and forcible.

Enter the Duke of York.

York. Why, how now Sons and Brother, at a strife?
What is your Quarrel? how began it firft?

Edw. No Quarrel, but a flight Contention.
York, About what?

Rich. About that which concerns your Grace and us, The Crown of England, Father, which is yours.

Torki

York, Mine, Boy? not 'till King Henry be dead. Rich. Your Right depends not on his Life, or Death. Edw. Now, you are Heir, therefore enjoy it now: By giving the House of Lançafter leave to breathe, It will out-run you, Father, in the end.

York. I took an Oath, that he should quietly Reign. Edw. But for a Kingdom any Oath may be broken: I would break a thoufand Oaths to Reign one Year. Rich. No; God forbid your Grace fhould be forfworn, York. I fhall be, if I claim by open War.

Rich. I'll

prove the contrary, if you'll hear me speak.
York. Thou can'ft not, Son, it is impoffible.
Rich. An Oath is of no moment, being not took
Before a true and lawful Magiftrate,

That hath Authority over him that Swears.
Henry had none, but did ufurp the Place.
Then feeing 'twas he that made you to depofe,
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 whofe Circuit is Elyfium,
And all that Poets feign of Blifs and Joy.
Why do we linger thus? I cannot reft,
Until the white Rofe that I wear, be dy'd
Even in the lukewarm Blood of Henry's Heart.
Tork. Richard, enough: I will be King, or die.
Brother, thou shalt to London presently,
And whet on Warwick to this Enterprize.
Thou, Richard, shalt go to the Duke of Norfolk,
And tell him privily of our intent.

You, Edward, fhall unto my Lord Cobham,
With whom the Kenti fhmen will willingly rife.
In them I truft; for they are Soldiers,

Witty, courteous, liberal, full of Spirit.

While you are thus employ'd, what refteth more,
But that I feek occafion how to rife?

And yet the King not privy to my drift,

Nor any of the Houfe of Lancaster.

Enter Gabriel.

But ftay, what News? why com'ft thou in fuch poft?

Gab. The Queen,

With all the Northern Earls and Lords,
in your Caftle.

Intend here to besiege you

She is hard by, with twenty thousand Men;
And therefore fortifie your Hold, my Lord.
York, Ay, with my Sword.

What, think'ft thou that we fear them?
Edward and Richard, you fhall ftay with me,
My Brother Montague fhall poft to London.
Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the reft,
Whom we have left Protectors of the King,
With powerful Policy ftrengthen themselves,
And truft not fimple 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 Montague, Enter Sir John Mortimer, 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 means to befiege us.

Sir John. She fhall not need, we'll meet her in the Field.
Tork. What, with five thousand Men?

Rich. Ay, with five hundred, Father, for a need.

A Woman's General; what fhould we fear?

Edw. I hear their Drums:

[A march afar off.

Let's fet our Men in order,

And iffue forth, and bid them Battel ftreight.

York. Five Men to twenty, though the odds be great, I doubt not, Uncle, of our Victory.

Many a Battel have I won in France,

When as the Enemy hath been ten to one :

Why should I not now have the like Success?

[Alarum.

Enter Rutland, and his Tutor.

Rut. Ah, whether shall I flie, to fcape their Hands? Ah, Tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes.

Enter Clifford.

Clif. Chaplain, away, thy Priesthood faves thy Life; As for the Brat of this accurfed Duke,

Whofe Father flew my Father, he shall die.

Tutor. And I, my Lord, will bear him Company.

Exit.

Clif. Soldiers, away with him.

Tutor. Ah Clifford, murther not this innocent Child,
Left thou be hated both of God and Man.
Clif. 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 Lyon o'er the wretch,
That trembles under his devouring Paws:
And fo he walks, infulting o'er his Prey,
And fo he comes to rend his Limbs afunder.
Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy Sword,
And not with fuch a cruel threatning Look.
Sweet Clifford, hear me fpeak before I die:
I am too mean a fubject of thy wrath,
Be thou reveng'd on Men, and let me live.
Clif. In vain thou fpeak'ft, poor Boy:
My Father's Blood hath ftopt the paffage
Where thy Words should enter.

Rut. Then let my 'Father's Blood open it again,
He is a Man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

Clif. Had I thy Brethren here, their lives and thine
Were not revenge fufficient for me:

No, if I digg'd up thy Fore-fathers Graves,
And hung their rotten Coffins up in Chains,
It could not flake mine Ire, nor eafe my Heart.
The fight of any of the Houfe of York,
Is as a fury to torment my Soul:
And 'till I root out their accurfed Line,
And leave not one alive, I live in Hell.
Therefore

[Exit.

Rut. O let me pray before I take my Death:
To thee, I pray-fweet Clifford, pity me.
Clif. Such pity as my Rapier's point affords.
Rut. I never did thee harm; why wilt thou flay me?
Clif. Thy Father hath.

Rut. But 'twas e'er I was born.

Thou haft one Son, for his fake pity me,
Left in revenge thereof, fith God is just,
He be as miferably flain as I.

Ah, let me live in Prifon all my Days,
And when I give occafion of Offence,

Then

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

[Stabs him.

Clif. No caufe? thy Father flew my Father, therefore die.
Rut. Dii faciant, laudis fumma fit ista tue.
Clif. Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet.
And this thy Son's Blood cleaving to my Blade,
Shall ruft upon my Weapon, 'till thy Blood
Congeal'd, with this, do make me wipe off both.

Alarum. Enter Richard Duke of York.
York. The Army of the Queen hath got the Field:
My Uncles both are flain in refcuing me,
And all my Followers, to the eager Foe
Turn back, and fly, like Ships before the Wind,
Or Lambs purfu'd by hunger-ftarved 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 cry'd, Courage, Father, fight it out:
And full as oft come Edward to my fide,
With Purple Falchion, painted to the Hilt
In Blood of thofe that had encountred him;
And when the hardieft Warriors did retire,
Richard cry'd, Charge, and give no foot of Ground;
And cry'd, a Crown, or elfe a glorious Tomb,
A Scepter, or an Earthly Sepulcher.
With this we charg'd again; but out alas,
We bodg'd again; as I have feen a Swan
With bootlefs labour fwim against the Tide,

And spend her ftrength with over-matching Waves.

[Exit.

[A fort Alarum within.

Ah hark, the fatal Followers do purfue,
And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury.

And were I ftrong, I would not fhun their fury.
The Sands are numbred that make up my Life,

Here muft I ftay, and here my Life muft end.

Enter the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland, the Prince of Wales, and Soldiers.

Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,

I dare your quenchlefs fury to more rage:

I am your Butt, and I abide your fhot.

North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.

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