For Shame, my Liege, make them your Prefident: Ah, what a Shame was this? look on the Boy, Ah Coufin 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 foft Courage makes your Followers faint: You promis'd Knighthood to our forward Son, King. Edward Plantagenet, arise a Knight, And learn this Leffon, draw thy Sword in right. I'll draw it as apparent to the Crown, And in that Quarrel ufe it to the Death. Clif. Why that is spoken like a toward Prince. Mef. Royal Commanders, be in readiness, For with a Band of thirty thousand Men Clif. I would your Highness would depart the Field, Queen. Ay, good my Lord, and leave us to our Fortune. Prince. My Royal Father, cheer thefe Noble Lords, Edw. Now perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for Grace, And fet thy Diadem upon my Head; Or bide the Mortal Fortune of the Field? Queen. Go rate thy Minions, proud infulting Boy, Edw. I am his King, and he fhould bow his Knee; Since when, his Oath is broke: for as I hear, You that are King, though he do wear the Crown, Clif. And reafon too: Who fhould fucceed the Father, but the Son? Rich. Are you there, Butcher? O, I cannot fpeak. Or any he, the proudeft of thy fort. Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not? Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not fatisfy'd. Rich. For God's fake, Lords, give Signal to the Fight. War. What fay'ft 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 laft, Your Legs did better Service than your Hands. [fpeak? War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine. War. 'Twas not your Valour, Clifford, drove me thence. Break off the Parley, for fearce I can refrain 1 The The Execution of my big-fwoln Heart Upon that Clifford, that cruel Child-killer. Clif. I flew thy Father, call'ft thou him a Child? Rich. Ay, like a Daftard, and a treacherous Coward, As thou didit kill our tender Brother Ruland: But e'er Sun fet, I'll make thee curfe the Deed. K. Henry. Have done with Words, my Lords, and hear me speak. Queen. Defie them then, or else hold clofe thy Lips. K. Henry. I prithee give no Limits to my Tongue, I am a King, and privileg'd to fpeak. Clif. My Liege, the Wound that bred this Meeting here Cannot be cur'd by Words, therefore be ftill. Rich. Then, Execution, re-unfheath thy Sword: Prince. If that be right, which Warwick fays is right, There is no Wrong, but every thing is right. War. Who ever got thee, there thy Mother stands, Mark'd by the Deftinies to be avoided, (As if a Kennel fhould be call'd the Sea) Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy Tongue detect thy bafe-born Heart, Edw. A Wilp of Straw were wortha thousand Crowns, To make this fhamelefs Callet know her felf. 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 falfe Woman, as this King by thee. His Father revell'd in the Heart of France, And And tam'd the King, and made the Dauphin ftoop: And grac'd thy poor Sire with his Bridal Day, Had flipt our Claim until another Age. Cla. But when we faw our Sunshine made thy Spring, And that thy Summer bred us no encrease, We fet the Ax to thy ufurping Root: And though the Edge hath fomething hit our felves, Queen. Stay, Edward Edw. No, wrangling Woman, we'll no longer ftay. Thefe Words will coft ten thousand Lives this Day. [Exeunt omnes. 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 robb'd my strong-knit Sinews of their Strength, Enter Edward running. Edw. Smile, gentle Heav'n; or ftrike, ungentle Death; For this World frowns, and Edward's Sun is clouded. War. How now, my Lord, what hap? What hope of good? Enter Clarence. Cla. Our Hap is Lofs, our Hope but fad Despair, Our Ranks are broke, and Ruin follows us. . What What Counsel give you? whether fhall we fly? Rich. AhWarwick, why haft thou withdrawn thy felf? That ftain'd their Fetlocks in his fmoaking Blood, The Noble Gentleman gave up the Ghost. War. Then let the Earth be drunken with our Blood; I'll kill my Horfe because I will not fly: Why ftand we like foft-hearted Women here, Edw. Warwick, I do bend my Knee with thine, Give me thy Hand, and gentle Warwick, Once more, fweet Lords, farewel. Cla |