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But thou preferr’st thy Life before thine honour.
And seeing thou dost, I here divorce my self,
Both from thy Table, Henry, and thy Bed,
Until that Ad of Parliament be repealed,
Whereby my Son is disinherited.
The Northern Lords, that have forsworn thy Colours,
Will follow mine, if once they see them spread :
And spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace,
And utter ruin of the House 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 speak.
Queen. Thou hast spoke too much already; get thee gone.
K.Henry. Gentle Son Edward, thou wilt stay with me?
Queen. Ay, to be murther'd by his Enemies.
Prince. When I return with Vi&ory from the Field,
I'll see 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 she be on that hateful Duke,
Whose haughty Spirit, winged with desire,
Will cost my Crown, and like an empty Eagle,
Tire on the Flesh of me, and of
The loss of those three Lords torments my Heart;
I'll write unto them, and entreat them fáir;
Come, Cousin, you shall be the Messenger.
Exe. And I hope shall 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 reasons strong and forcible.
Enter the Duke of York.
York. Why, how now Sons and Brother, at a strife?
What is your Quarrel? how began it first?
Edw. No Quarrel, but a slight Contention.
York. About what?
Rich. About that which concerns your Grace and us, The Crown of England, Father, which is yours. Tork
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 Lancaster 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 thousand Oaths to Reign one Year.
Rich. No; God forbid your Grace should be forsworn,
York. I shall be, if I claim by open War.
Rich. I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me speak.
York. Thou can'st not, Son, it is impossible.
Rich. An Oath is of no moment, being not took
Before a true and lawful Magistrate,
That hath Authority over him that Swears.
Henry had none, but did usurp the Place.
Then seeing 'twas he that made you to depose,
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 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, shall unto my Lord Cobham,
With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise.
In them I trust; for they are Soldiers,
Witry, courteous, liberal, full of Spirit.
While you are thus employ'd, what restech 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.
But stay, what News? why com'st thou in such post?
Gab. 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 fortifie your Hold, my Lord.
Tork. 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.
Enter Sir John Mortimer, and Sir Hugh Mortimer.
Tork. Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine Uncles,
You are come to Sandal in a happy hour.
The Army of the Queen means 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 of
Edw. I hear their Drums:
Let's set our Men in order,
And issue 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?
Enter Rutland, and his Tutor.
Rut. Ah, whether shall I die, to scape their Hands?
Ah, Tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes.
Clif. Chaplain, away, thy Priesthood saves thy Life;
As for the Brat of this accursed Duke,
Whose Father slew my Father, he shall die.
Twor. And I, my Lord, will bear him Company.
Clif. Soldiers, away with him.
Tutor. Ah Clifford, murther not this innocent Child, Lest chou be hated both of God and Man. [Exit.
Clif. How now? is he dead already?
Or is it fear that makes him close his Eyes?
I'il open them.
Rut. So looks the pent-up Lyon 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 alunder.
Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy Sword,
And not with such a cruel threatning Look.
Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die:
I am too mean a subje& of thy wrath,
Be thou reveng'd on Men, and let me live.
Clif. In vain thou speak’st, poor Boy:
My Father's Blood hath stopt 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.
Clif. Had I thy Brer hren here, their lives and thine
Were not revenge sufficient 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, por eafe
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.
Rut. O let me pray before I take my Death:
To thee, I pray-sweet Clifford, pity me.
Clif. Such pity as my Rapier's point affords.
Rut. I never did thee harm; why wilt thou May me?
Clif. Thy Father hath.
Rut. But 'twas e'er I was born.
Thou halt one Son, for his sake pity me,
Lest in revenge thereof, fith God is just,
He be as miserably Nain 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.
Clif. No cause? thy Father slew my Father, therefore die.
Rur. Dii faciant, landis summa fit ifta txe. [Stabs him.
Clif. Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet.
And this thy Son's Blood cleaving to my Blade,
Shall rust upon my Weapon, 'till thy Blood
Congeald, 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 fiain 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 cry'd, Courage, Father, fight it out:
And full as oft come Edward to my side,
With Purple Falchion, painted to the Hilt
In Blood of those that had encountred him;
And when the hardiest Warriors did retire,
Richard cry'd, Charge, and give no foot of Ground;
And cry'd, a Crown, or else 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 seen a Swan,
With bootless labour swim against the Tide,
And spend her strength with over-matching Waves.
[A fiort 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 (hun their fury.
I he Sands are numbred that make up my Life,
Here must I stay, and here my Life must 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 Burt, and I abide your mot.
North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.