The crown of England, father, which is yours.
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 outrun 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 canst 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 dyed
Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart.
York. Richard, enough: I will be king, or die.—
Brother, thou shalt to London presently,
And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.-
Thou, Richard, shalt 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,
Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit.-
While you are thus employ'd, what resteth 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?
Mess. The queen, with all the northern earls and lords,
Intends here to besiege you in your castle.
She is hard by with twenty thousand men,
And therefore fortify your hold, my lord.
York. 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 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 mean 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?
Edw. I hear their drums: let's set our men in order, And issue forth, and bid them battle straight.
When as the enemy hath been ten to one: Why should I not now have the like success? [Alarum. Exeunt.
SCENE III.-Plains near Sandal Castle. Alarums: Excursions. Enter RUTLAND, and his Tutor. Rut. Ah! whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands? Ah, tutor! look, where bloody Clifford comes. Enter CLIFFORD, and Soldiers.
Clif. Chaplain, away: thy priesthood saves thy life.
As for the brat of this accursed duke,
Whose father slew my father, he shall die.
Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company.
Clif. Soldiers, away with him.
Tut. Ah, Clifford ! murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man.
[Exit, forced off by Soldiers. 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 lion 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 asunder.Ah, gentle Clifford ! kill me with thy sword, And not with such a cruel threatening look. Sweet Clifford! hear me speak before I die: I am too mean a subject for 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 stopp'd 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 brethren here, their lives, and thine, Were not revenge sufficient for me.
No; if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves,
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
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.
Therefore-
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 slay me?
Clif. Thy father hath.
Rut.
But 'twas ere I was born.
Thou hast one son, for his sake pity me,
Lest, in revenge thereof, sith God is just,
He be as miserably slain 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.
[CLIFFORD stabs him. Rut. Dii faciant, laudis summa sit ista tuæ! [Dies. Clif. Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet! And this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade, Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood Congeal'd with this do make me wipe off both. [Exit. SCENE IV.-The Same.
York. The army of the queen hath got the field:
York. Five men to twenty!-though the odds be great, My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;
I doubt not, uncle, of our victory. Many a battle have I won in France,
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 cried,-"Courage, father! fight it out:"
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple falchion, painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encounter'd him:
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cried,-"Charge! and give no foot of ground!"
And cried," A crown, or else a glorious tomb!
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!"
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 short 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 shun their fury.
The sands are number'd that make up my life;
Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
Enter Queen MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND,
and Soldiers.
Come, bloody Clifford,―rough Northumberland,—
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage.
I am your butt, and I abide your shot.
North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Clif. Ay, to such mercy, as his ruthless arm
With downright payment show'd unto my father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noon-tide prick.
York. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth
A bird that will revenge upon you all;
And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven,
Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not?-what! multitudes, and fear?
Clif. So cowards fight when they can fly no farther;
So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons;
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.
York. O, Clifford! but bethink thee once again, And in thy thought o'er-run my former time; And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face, And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice, Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this. Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word, But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one. Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes I would prolong awhile the traitor's life.Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland. North. Hold, Clifford ! do not honour him so much To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart: What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot away? It is war's prize to take all vantages, And ten to one is no impeach of valour.
[They lay hands on YORK, who struggles. Clif. Ay, ay; so strives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the coney struggle in the net. [YORK is taken prisoner. York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty; So true men yield, with robbers so o'er-match'd. North. What would your grace have done unto him now?
Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,
Come, make him stand upon this molehill here,
That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.-
What! was it you, that would be England's king?
Was't you that revell'd in our parliament,
And made a preachment of your high descent?
Where are your mess of sons to back you now,
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George?
And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy,
Dicky your boy, that, with his grumbling voice,
Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies?
Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland?
Look, York: I stain'd this napkin with the blood
That valiant Clifford with his rapier's point
Made issue from the bosom of the boy;
And, if thine eyes can water for his death,
I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. [Throwing it.
Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly,
I should lament thy miserable state.
I pr'ythee, grieve to make me merry,
York:
What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails,
That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death?
Why art thou patient, man? thou should'st be mad;
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Thou would'st be fee'd, I see, to make me sport:
York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown.-
A crown for York !-and, lords, bow low to him.
Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on.—
[Putting a paper Crown on his Head.
Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king.
Ay, this is he that took king Henry's chair;
And this is he was his adopted heir.—
But how is it, that great Plantagenet
Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath?
As I bethink me, you should not be king,
Till our king Henry had shook hands with death.
And will you pale your head in Henry's glory,
And rob his temples of the diadem,
Now in his life, against your holy oath?
O! 'tis a fault too, too unpardonable.—
Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his head!
And whilst we breathe take time to do him dead.
Clif. That is my office for my father's sake.
Q. Mar. Nay, stay; let's hear the orisons he makes.
York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of
Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth,
How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex,
To triumph, like an Amazonian trull,
Upon their woes whom fortune captivates?
But that thy face is, visor-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use of evil deeds,
I would essay, proud queen, to make thee blush:
To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriv'd,
Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not
shameless.
Thy father bears the type of king of Naples,
Of both the Sicils, and Jerusalem,
Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman.
Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?
It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen;
Unless the adage must be verified,
That beggars mounted run their horse to death.
'Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud;
But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small.
'Tis virtue that doth make them most admir'd;
The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at.
'Tis government that makes them seem divine;
The want thereof makes thee abominable.
Thou art as opposite to every good,
As the Antipodes are unto us,
Or as the south to the septentrion.
O, tiger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman's hide!
How could'st thou drain the life-blood of the child,
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,
And yet be seen to bear a woman's face?
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;
Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Bid'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:
Would'st have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will;
For raging wind blows up incessant showers,
And, when the rage allays, the rain begins.
These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies,
And every drop cries vengeance for his death,
'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false French-
North. Beshrew me, but his passions move me so, That hardly can I check my eyes from tears. York. That face of his The hungry cannibals would not have touch'd, Would not have stain'd the rose's hues with blood: But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, O! ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania. See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears: This cloth thou dipp'dst in blood of my sweet boy, And I with tears do wash the blood away. Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this; [Throwing it back to her.
And if thou tell'st the heavy story right,
Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears;
Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears,
And say,-"Alas! it was a piteous deed."-
There, take the crown, and with the crown my
And in thy need such comfort come to thee,
As now I reap at thy too cruel hand!—
Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world:
My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads!
North. Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin,
I should not, for my life, but weep with him,
To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.
Q. Mar. What! weeping-ripe, my lord Northumberland?
Think but upon the wrong he did us all, And that will quickly dry thy melting tears. Clif. Here's for my oath; here's for my father's death. [Stabbing him. Q. Mar. And here's to right our gentle-hearted king. [Stabbing him. York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God! My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee. [Dies. Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York gates: So York may overlook the town of York. [Flourish. Exeunt.
SCENE I.-A Plain near Mortimer's Cross in Here
A March. Enter EDWARD and RICHARD, with their Power.
Edw. I wonder, how our princely father 'scap'd; Or whether he be 'scap'd away, or no, From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit. Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news; Had he been slain, we should have heard the news; Or had he 'scap'd, methinks, we should have heard The happy tidings of his good escape.— How fares my brother? why is he so sad?
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolv'd
Where our right valiant father is become.
I saw him in the battle range about,
And watch'd him how he singled Clifford forth.
Methought, he bore him in the thickest troop,
As doth a lion in a herd of neat:
Or as a bear encompass'd round with dogs,
Who having pinch'd a few, and made them cry,
The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him.
So far'd our father with his enemies;
So fled his enemies my warlike father:
Methinks, 'tis prize enough to be his son.
See, how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewell of the glorious sun:
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trimm'd like a younker, prancing to his love!
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?
Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun,
Not separated with the racking clouds,
But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky.
See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vow'd some league inviolable:
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun!
In this the heavens figure some event.
Edw. 'Tis wondrous strange; the like yet never heard of.
I think, it cites us, brother, to the field,
That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our meeds,
Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together,
And over-shine the earth, as this the world.
Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my target three fair shining suns.
Rich. Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I speak it;
You love the breeder better than the male.
Enter a Messenger in haste.
But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretel
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?
Mess. Ah! one that was a woful looker on,
When as the noble duke of York was slain,
Your princely father, and my loving lord.
Edw. O! speak no more, for I have heard too much.
Rich. Say, how he died, for I will hear it all.
Mess. Environed he was with many foes;
And stood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks, that would have enter'd Troy.
But Hercules himself must yield to odds;
And many strokes, though with a little axe,
Hew down, and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
By many hands your father was subdu'd;
But only slaughter'd by the ireful arm
Of unrelenting Clifford, and the queen,
Who crown'd the gracious duke in high despite ;
Laugh'd in his face; and, when with grief he wept,
The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks,
A napkin steeped in the harmless blood
Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain :
And, after many scorns, many foul taunts,
They took his head, and on the gates of York
They set the same; and there it doth remain,
The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd.
Edw. Sweet duke of York! our prop to lean upon,
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.
O Clifford! boisterous Clifford! thou hast slain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry;
And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him,
For hand to hand he would have vanquish'd thee.
Now, my soul's palace is become a prison:
Ah! would she break from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest,
For never henceforth shall I joy again;
Never, O! never, shall I see more joy.
Rich. I cannot weep, for all my body's moisture
Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart;
Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden,
For self-same wind, that I should speak withal,
Is kindling coals that fire all my breast,
And burn me up with flames that tears would quench.
To weep is to make less the depth of grief.
Tears, then, for babes; blows, and revenge, for me!-
Richard, I bear thy name; I'll venge thy death,
Or die renowned by attempting it.
Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left with
thee;
His dukedom and his chair with me are left.
Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,
Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun:
For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say;
Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.
March. Enter WARWICK and MONTAGUE, with their
Army.
With promise of high pay, and great rewards,
But all in vain; they had no heart to fight,
And we in them no hope to win the day;.
So that we fled: the king unto the queen.
Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,
In haste, poste-haste, are come to join with you;
For in the marches here, we heard, you were,
Making another head to fight again.
Edw. Where is the duke of Norfolk, gentle War-
wick?
And when came George from Burgundy to England?
War. Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers;
And for your brother, he was lately sent
From your kind aunt, duchess of Burgundy,
With aid of soldiers to this needful war.
Rich. 'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled:
Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,
But ne'er, till now, his scandal of retire.
War. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear;
For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine
Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head,
And wring the awful sceptre from his fist,
Were he as famous, and as bold in war,
As he is fam'd for mildness, peace, and prayer.
Rich. I know it well, lord Warwick; blame me not.
'Tis love, I bear thy glories, makes me speak.
But in this troublous time what's to be done?
Shall we go throw away our coats of steel,
And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,
Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads?
Or shall we on the helmets of our foes
War. How now, fair lords! What fare? what news Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?
abroad?
Rich. Great lord of Warwick, if we should recount
Our baleful news, and at each word's deliverance,
Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,
The words would add more anguish than the wounds.
O, valiant lord! the duke of York is slain.
Edw. O, Warwick Warwick! that Plantagenet,
Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption,
Is by the stern lord Clifford done to death.
War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears;
And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things sith then befallen.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp,
Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,
Were brought me of your loss, and his depart.
I, then in London, keeper of the king,
Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends,
March'd towards Saint Albans to intercept the queen,
Bearing the king in my behalf along;
For by my scouts I was advertised,
That she was coming with a full intent
To dash our late decree in parliament,
Touching king Henry's oath, and your succession.
Short tale to make, we at Saint Albans met;
Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought;
But, whether 'twas the coldness of the king,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen,
That robb'd my soldiers of their heated spleen,
Or whether 'twas report of her success,
Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,
Who thunders to his captives blood and death,
I cannot judge; but, to conclude with truth,
Their weapons like to lightning came and went:
Our soldiers', like the night-owl's lazy flight,
Or like a lazy thrasher with a flail,
Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.
I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause,
If for the last, say-Ay, and to it, lords.
War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you
out,
And therefore comes my brother Montague.
Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen,
With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland,
And of their feather many more proud birds,
Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax.
He swore consent to your succession,
His oath enrolled in the parliament;
And now to London all the crew are gone,
To frustrate both his oath, and what beside
May make against the house of Lancaster:
Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong.
Now, if the help of Norfolk, and myself,
With all the friends that thou, brave earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,
| Why, Via! to London will we march amain,
And once again bestride our foaming steeds,
And once again cry-Charge! upon our foes;
But never once again turn back, and fly.
Rich. Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick
speak.
Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day,
That cries-Retire, if Warwick bid him stay.
Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean;
And when thou fail'st, (as God forbid the hour!)
Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forefend!
War. No longer earl of March, but duke of York:
The next degree is, England's royal throne;
For king of England shalt thou be proclaim'd
In every borough as we pass along;
And he that throws not up his cap for joy,
Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.
King Edward,-valiant Richard,-Montague,-
Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,
But sound the trumpets, and about our task.
Rich. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel, As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep, As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds, Than in possession any jot of pleasure. Ah, cousin York! would thy best friends did know,
I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.
Edw. Then strike up, drums!-God, and Saint How it doth grieve me that thy head is here! George, for us!
Enter a Messenger.
War. How now! what news?
Mess. The duke of Norfolk sends you word by me, The queen is coming with a puissant host, And craves your company for speedy counsel. War. Why then, it sorts: brave warriors, let's away. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.-Before York.
Flourish. Enter King HENRY, Queen MARGARET, the Prince of WALES, CLIFFORD, and NORTHUMBERLAND, with Drums and Trumpets.
Q. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of
York.
Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy,
That sought to be encompass'd with your crown:
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?
K. Hen. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their
wreck :
To see this sight, it irks my very soul.—
Withhold revenge, dear God! 'tis not my fault;
Not wittingly have I infring'd my vow.
Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity
And harmful pity, must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?
Not his that spoils her young before her face.
Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?
Not he that sets his foot upon her back.
The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on
And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.
Ambitious York did level at thy crown;
Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows:
He, but a duke, would have his son a king,
And raise his issue like a loving sire;
Thou, being a king, bless'd with a goodly son,
Didst yield consent to disinherit him,
Which argued thee a most unloving father.
Unreasonable creatures feed their young;
And though man's face be fearful to their eyes,
Yet, in protection of their tender ones,
Who hath not seen them, even with those wings
Which sometime they have us'd in fearful flight,
Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest,
Offering their own lives in their young's defence?
For shame, my liege! make them your precedent.
Were it not pity, that this goodly boy
Should lose his birthright by his father's fault,
And long hereafter say unto his child,—
"What my great-grandfather and grandsire got,
My careless father fondly gave away."
Ah! what a shame were this. Look on the boy;
And let his manly face, which promiseth
Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart
To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.
K. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play'd 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 hoarding 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,
Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits: our foes
And this soft carriage makes your followers faint.
You promis'd knighthood to our forward son:
Unsheath your sword, and dub him presently.—
Edward, kneel down.
K. Hen. 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.
Mess. 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 battle, for they are at hand.
Clif. I would, your highness would depart the field: The queen hath best success when you are absent. Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our for
K. Hen. Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll
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, "Saint
George!"
March. Enter Edward, George, RICHARD, WARWICK,
NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, and Soldiers.
Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for
And set thy diadem upon my head,
Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?
Q. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy: Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms, Before thy sovereign, 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 act of parliament,
To blot out me, and put his own son in.
Who should succeed the father, but the son?
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 sort.
Rich. "Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it
Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.
Rich. For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight.
War. What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the
crown?
Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick! | dare you speak?
When you and I met at Saint Albans last,
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
North. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.
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