Puslapio vaizdai

For Shame, my Liege, make them your Prefident:
Were it not pity, that this goodly Boy
Should lofe his Birth-right by his Father's Fault,
And long hereafter fay 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 promiseth
Successful Fortune, fteel 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, didit thou never hear,
That things ill got, had ever bad Succefs,
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 reft is held at fuch a Rate,
As brings a thousand Fold more Care to keep,
Than in Poffeffion any jot of Pleasure.

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,
Unsheath your Sword, and dub him presently.
Edward, kneel down.

King. Edward Plantagenet, arise a Knight,

And learn this Leffon, 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 ufe 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 York.
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 beft Succefs 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 Refolution then to fight.

Prince. My Royal Father, cheer thefe Noble Lords,
And hearten thofe 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 fet thy Diadem upon my Head;

Or bide the Mortal Fortune of the Field?

Queen. Go rate thy Minions, proud infulting Boy,
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in Terms,
Before thy Soveraign, and thy lawful King?

Edw. I am his King, and he fhould bow his Knee;
I was adopted Heir by his Confent;

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 Act of Parliament,
To blot out me, and put his own Son in.

Clif. And reafon too:

Who fhould fucceed the Father, but the Son?

Rich. Are you there, Butcher? O, I cannot fpeak.
Clif. Ay, Crook-back, here I ftand to answer thee,

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.


War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine.
Clif. You faid fo much before, and yet you fled.

War. 'Twas not your Valour, Clifford, drove me thence.
North. No, nor your Manhood that durft make you stay.
Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently,

Break off the Parley, for fearce I can refrain



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:
By him that made us all, I am refolv'd
That Clifford's Manhood lyes upon his Tongue.
Edw. Say, Henry, thall I have my right, or no:
A thoufand Men have broke their Fafts to Day,
That ne'er fhall dine, unless thou yield the Crown.
War. If thou deny, their Blood upon thy Head,
For York in juftice puts his Armour on.

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,
For well I wot, thou haft thy Mother's Tongue.
Queen. But thou art neither like thy Sire nor Dam,
But like a foul mishapen Stigmatick,

Mark'd by the Deftinies 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 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 tam'd the King, and made the Dauphin ftoop:
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?
Hadft thou been meek, our Title ftill had flept,
And we in Pity of the gentle King,

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,
Yet know thou, fince we have begun to frike,
We'll never leave, 'till we have hewn thee down,
Or bath'd thee growing with our heated Bloods.
Edw. And in this Refolution I defie thee,
Not willing any longer Conference,
Since thou deny'dft the gentle King to speak.
Sound Trumpets, let our bloody Colours wave,
And either Victory, or elfe a Grave.

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,
And fpight of fpight, needs muft I reft a while.

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 Counsel give you? whether fhall we fly?
Edw. Bootlefs is flight, they follow us with Wings,
And weak we are, and cannot fhun pursuit.
Enter Richard.

Rich. AhWarwick, why haft thou withdrawn thy felf?
Thy Brother's Blood the thirsty Earth hath drunk,
Broach'd with the fteely point of Clifford's Lance:
And in the very pangs of Death he cry'd,
Like to a difmal Clangor heard from far,
Warwick, revenge; Brother, revenge my Death.
So underneath the Belly of his Steeds,

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,
Wailing our Loffes, whiles the Foe doth rage,
And look upon, as if the Tragedy
Were plaid in jeft by counterfeiting A&tors.
Here on my Knee I vow to God above,
I'll never pause again, never ftand ftill,
'Till either Death hath clos'd these Eyes of mine,
Or Fortune given me measure of revenge.

Edw. Warwick, I do bend my Knee with thine,
And in this Vow do chain my Soul to thine.
And e'er my Knee rife from the Earth's cold Face,
I throw my Hands, mine Eyes, my Heart to thee,
Thou Setter up, and Plucker down of Kings,
Befeeching thee (if with thy Will it ftands)
That to my Foes this Body must be prey,
Yet that thy Brazen Gates of Heaven may ope,
And give fweet paffage to my finful Soul.
Now Lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where-e'er it be, in Heaven, or in the Earth.
Rich. Brother,

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 fhould cut off our Spring-time fo.
War. Away, away:

Once more, fweet Lords, farewel.


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