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For Shame, my Liege, make them your President:
Were it not pity, that this goodly Boy
Should lose his Birth-right by his Father's Fault,
And long hereafter say unto his Child,
What my great Grandfather and Grandfire got,
My careless Father fondly gave away.
Ah, what a Shame was this? look on the Boy,
And let his
manly Face, which promisech
Successful Fortune, steel thy melting Heart,
To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.
King. Full well hath Clifford plaid the Orator,
Inferring Arguments of mighty Force:
But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear,
That things ill got, had ever bad Success,
And happy always was it for that Son,
Whose Father for his hoording went to Hell:
I'll leave my Son my virtuous Deeds behind,
And would my Father had left me no more:
For all the rest is held at such a Rate,
As brings a thousand Fold more Care to keep,
Than in Poffesion any jot of Pleasure.
Ah Cousin York, would thy best Friends did know,
How it doth grieve me that thy Head is here.
Queen. My Lord, cheer up your Spirits, our foes are nigh,
And this soft Courage makes your Followers faint:
You promis'd Knighthood to our forward Son,
Unsheath your Sword, and dub him presently.
Edward, kneel down.
King. Edward Plantagenet, arise a Knight,
And learn this Lesson, draw thy Sword in right.
Prince. My gracious Father, by your Kingly Leave,
I'll draw it as apparent to the Crown,
And in that Quarrel use it to the Death.
Clif. Why that is spoken like a toward Prince.
Enter a Messenger.
Mef. Royal Commanders, be in readiness,
For with a Band of thirty thousand Men
Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of Tork.
And in the Towns, as they do march along,
Proclaims him King, and many fly to him.
Darraign your Battel, they are near at hand.
Clif. I would your Highness would depart the Field, The Queen hath best Success when you are abfent
Queen. Ay, good my Lord, and leave us to our Fortune.
K. Henry. Why that's my Fortune too, therefore I'll stay.
North. Be it with Resolution then to fight.
Prince. My Royal Father, cheer these Noble Lords,
And hearten those that fight in your Defence :
Unsheath your Sword, good Father; cry St. George.
March. Enter Edward,' Warwick, Richard, Clarence,
Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers.
Edw. Now perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for Grace,
And let thy Diadem upon my Head;
Or bide the Mortal Fortune of the Field?
Queen. Go rate thy Minions, proud insulting Boy,
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in Terms,
Before thy Soveraign, and thy lawful King?
Edw. I am his King, and he should bow his Knee;
I was adopted Heir by his Consent;
Since when, his Oath is broke: for as I hear,
You that are King, though he do wear the Crown,
Have caus'd. him, by new A&' of Parliament, . To blot out me, and put his own Son in.
Clif. And reason too:
Who should fucceed the Father, but the Son 3
Rich. Are you there, Butcher? O, I cannot speak.
Clif. Ay, Crook-back, here I stand to answer thee,
Or any he, the proudest of thy fort.
Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not?
Clif. Ay, and old Tork, and yet not satisfy'd.
Rich. For God's fake, Lords, give Signal to the Fight.
War. What say'st thou, Henry,
Wilt thou yield the Crown?
Queen. Why how now, long-tongu'd Warwick, dare you When you and I met at St. Albans last,
[fpeak? Your Legs did better Service than your Hands.
War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine.
Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled.
War. 'Twas not your Valour, Clifford, drove me thence.
North. No, nor your Manhood that durst make you stay.
Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently,
Break off the Parley, for scarce I can refrain
The Execution of my big-fwolo Heart
Upon that Clifford, that cruel Child-killer.
Clif. I flew thy Father, call'At thou him a Child?
Rich. Ay, like a Daftard, and a treacherous Coward,
As thou did it kill our tender Brother Ruland:
But e'er Sun fet, I'll make thee curse the Decc.
K. Henry. Have done with Words, my Lords, and hear me speak.
Queen, Defie them then, or else hold close thy Lips.
K. Henry. I prithee give no Limits to my Tongue, I am a King, and privileg’d to speak.
Clif. My Liege, the Wound that bred this Meeting here Cannot be cur'd by Words, therefore be ftill.
Rich. Then, Execution, re-un sheath thy Sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolu'd
That Clifford's Manhood lyes upon his Tongue.
Edw. Say, Henry, thall I have my right, or no:
A thousand Men have broke their Fafts to Day,
That ne'er Mall dine, unless thou yield the Crown.
War. If thou deny, their Blood upon thy Head, For Tork in justice puts his Armour on.
Prince. If that be right, which Warwick says is right, There is no Wrong, but every thing is right.
War. Who ever got thee, there thy Mother stands,
For well I wot, thou hast thy Mother's Tongue.
Queen. But thou art neither like thy Sire nor Dam,
But like a foul milhapen Stigmatick,
Mark'd by the Destinies to be avoided,
As venomous Toads, or Lizards dreadful Stings.
Rich, Iron of Naples, hid with English Gilt,
Whose Father bears the Title of a King,
(As if a Kennel should be call'd the Sea)
Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,
To let thy Tongue dete& thy bafe-born Heart,
Edw. A Wisp of Straw were wortha thousand Crowns,
To make this thameless Callet know her self.
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy Husband may be Menelaus,
And ne'er was Agamemnon's Brother wrong'd
By that false Woman, as this King by thee.
His Father revell'd in the Heart of France,
And tam'd the King, and made the Dauphin stoop:
And had he match'd according to his State,
He might have kept that Glory to this Day.
But when he took a Beggar to his Bed,
And grac'd thy poor Sire with his Bridal Day,
Even then that Sun-fhine brew'd a Shower for him,
That wash'd his Father's Fortunes forth of France,
And heap'd Sedition on his Crown at home:
For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy Pride?
Hadst thou been meek, our Title still had slept,
And we in Pity of the gentle King,
Had flipt our Claim until another Age.
Cla. But when we saw our Sunshine made thy Spring,
And that thy Summer bred us no encrease,
We set the Ax to thy usurping Root:
And though the Edge hath something hit our felves,
Yet know thou, since we have begun to firike,
We'll never leave, 'till we liave hewn thee down,
Or bath'd thee growing with our heated Bloods.
Edw. And in this Resolution I defie thee,
Not willing any longer Conference,
Since thou denyidst the gentle King to speak.
Sound Trumpers, let our bloody Colours wave,
And either Vi&tory, or else a Grave.
Queen. Stay, Edward
Edw. No, wrangling Woman, we'll no longer stay.
These Words will cost ten thousand Lives this Day.
Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwick.
War. Fore-spent with Toil, as Runners with a Race,
I lay me down a little while to breathe :
For Strokes receiv'd, and many Blows repaid,
Have robbid my strong-knit Sinews of their Strength,
And spight of spight, needs must I rest a while.
Enter Edward running.
Edw. Smile, gentle Heav'n; or trike, ungentle Death;
For this World frowns, and Edward's Sun is clouded.
War. How now, my Lord, what hap? What hope of good?
Cla. Our Hap is Loss, our Hope but sad Despair,
Our Ranks are broke, and Ruin follows us.
What Counsel give you? whether shall we fly?
Edw. Bootless is Aight, they follow us with Wings, And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit.
Rich. Ah Warwick, why haft thou withdrawn thy self ?
Thy Brother's Blood the thirsty Earth hath drunk,
Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's Lance:
And in the very pangs of Death he cry'd,
Like to a dismal Clangor heard from far,
Warwick, revenge; Brother, revenge my Death.
So underneath the Belly of his Steeds,
That stain'd their Fetlocks in his smoaking Blood,
The Noble Gentleman gave up the Ghost.
War. Then let the Earth be drunken with our Blood;
I'll kill my Horse because I will not fly:
Why stand we like soft-hearted Women here,
Wailing our Losses, whiles the Foe doth rage, ,
And look upon, as if the Tragedy
Were plaid in jest by counterfeiting A&ors.
Here on my Knee I vow to God above,
I'll never pause again, never stand still,
; 'Till either Death hath clos’d these Eyes of mine,
Or Fortune given me measure of revenge.
Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my Knee with thine,
And in this Vow do chain my Soul to thine.
And e'er my Knee rise from the Earth's cold Face,
I throw my Hands, mine Eyes, my Heart to thee,
Thou Setter up, and Plucker down of Kings,
Beseeching thee (if with thy Will it stands)
That to my Foes this Body must be prey,
Yet that thy Brazen Gates of Heaven may ope,
And give sweet passage to my finful Soul.
Now Lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where-e'er it be, in Heaven, or in the Earth.
Give me thy Hand, and gentle Warwick,
Let me embrace thee in my weary Arms:
I that did never weep, now melt with woe,
That Winter should cut off our Spring-time fo.
War. Away, away:
Once more, sweet Lords, farewel.