Page images
PDF
EPUB

The crown of England, father, which is yours.

When as the enemy hath been ten to one: York. Mine, boy? not till king Henry be dead. Why should I not now have the like success ? Rich. Your right depends not on his life, or death.

[Alarum. Exeunt. Edw. Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now:

SCENE III.- Plains near Sandal Castle. By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe,

Alarums: Excursions. Enter RUTLAND, and his Tutor. It will outrun you, father, in the end.

York. I took an oath that he should quietly reign. Rut. Ah! whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands ?

Edw. But for a kingdom any oath may be broken: Ah, tutor! look, where bloody Clifford comes. I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year.

Enter CLIFFORD, and Soldiers.
Rich. No; God forbid, your grace should be forsworn. Clif. Chaplain, away: thy priesthood saves thy life.
York. I shall be, if I claim by open war.

As for the brat of this accursed duke,
Rich. I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me speak. Whose father slew my father, be shall die.
York. Thou canst not, son: it is impossible.

Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company.
Rich. An oath is of no moment, being not took Clif. Soldiers, away with him.
Before a true and lawful magistrate,

Tut. Ah, Clifford ! murder not this innocent child, That hath authority over him that swears :

Lest thou be hated both of God and man. Henry had none, but did usurp the place;

[Erit, forced off by Soldiers. Then, seeing 'twas he that made you to depose,

Clif. How now! is he dead already ? Or, is it fear, Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous.

That makes him close his eyes!—I'll open

them. Therefore, to arms! And, father, do but think, Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown,

That trembles under his devouring paws: Within whose circuit is Elysium,

And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey, And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.

And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.Why do we linger thus ? I cannot rest,

Ah, gentle Clifford ! kill me with thy sword, Until the white rose, that I wear, be dyed

And not with such a cruel threatening look. Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart. Sweet Clifford ! hear me speak before I die:

York. Richard, enough: I will be king, or die. I am too mean a subject for thy wrath; Brother, thou shalt to London presently,

Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live. And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.

Clif. In vain thou speak’st, poor boy: my father's Thou, Richard, shalt to the duke of Norfolk,

blood And tell him privily of our intent.

Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter. You, Edward, shall unto my lord Cobham,

Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again : With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise : He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. In them I trust; for they are soldiers,

Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives, and thine, Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit.

Were not revenge sufficient for me.
While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more, No; if I digg’d up thy forefathers' graves,
But that I seek occasion how to rise,

And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
And yet the king not privy to my drift,

It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
Nor
any
of the house of Lancaster?

The sight of any of the house of York
Enter a Messenger.

Is as a fury to torment my soul ;
But, stay.-What news? Why com’st thou in such post? And till I root out their accursed line,

Mess. The queen, with all the northern earls and lords, And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Intends here to besiege you in your castle.

ThereforeShe is hard by with twenty thousand men,

Rut. O! let me pray before I take my death.And therefore fortify your hold, my lord.

To thee I pray: sweet Clifford, pity me! York. Ay, with my sword.' What, think'st thou, Clif. Such pity as my rapier's point affords. that we fear them ?

Rut. I never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me? Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me:

Clif. Thy father hath. My brother Montague shall post to London.

Rut.

But 'twas ere I was born. Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,

Thou hast one son, for his sake pity me, Whom we have left protectors of the king,

Lest, in revenge thereof, sith God is just, With powerful policy strengthen themselves,

He be as miserably slain as I.
And trust not simple Henry, nor his oaths.

Ah! let me live in prison all my days,
Mont. Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not: And when I give occasion of offence,
And thus most humbly I do take my leave. [Exit. Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.
Enter Sir John and Sir Hugh MortimER.

Clif. No cause?
York. Sir John, and sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles, Thy father slew my father: therefore, die.
You are come to Sandal in a happy hour;

[Clifford stabs him. The army of the queen mean to besiege us.

Rut. Dii faciant, laudis summa sit ista tuæ ! [Dies. Sir John. She shall not need, we'll meet her in the Clif. Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet! field.

And this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade, York. What, with five thousand men ?

Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need. Congeal’d with this do make me wipe off both. [Erit. A woman's general; what should we fear?

SCENE IV.-The Same. [A March afar off. Edw. I hear their drums: let's set our men in order,

Alarum. Enter York. And issue forth, and bid them battle straight.

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.

And all my followers to the eager foe Many a battle have I won in France,

Turn back, and fly like ships before the wind,

Or lambs pursu'd by hunger-starved wolves.

That raught at mountains with outstretched arms, My sons—God knows, what hath bechanced them, Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.But this I know,—they have demean’d themselves What! was it you, that would be England's king? Like men born to renown by life or death.

Was't you that revell’d in our parliament, Three times did Richard make a lane to me,

And made a preachment of your high descent? And thrice cried,—"Courage, father! fight it out:” Where are your mess of sons to back you now, And full as oft came Edward to my side,

The wanton Edward, and the lusty George? With purple falchion, painted to the hilt.

And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy, In blood of those that had encounter'd him:

Dicky your boy, that, with his grumbling voice, | And when the hardiest warriors did retire,

Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies? Richard cried, -"Charge! and give no foot of ground!" Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland ? And cried,—“A crown, or else a glorious tomb! Look, York: I stain'd this napkin with the blood I A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!”

That valiant Clifford with his rapier's point With this, we charg'd again; but, out alas !

Made issue from the bosom of the boy; | We bodg'd again: as I have seen a swan

And, if thine eyes can water for his death, With bootless labour swim against the tide,

I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. [Throwing it. And spend her strength with over-matching waves. Alas, poor York ! but that I hate thee deadly,

[A short Alarum within. I should lament thy miserable state. Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue,

I pr'ythee, grieve to make me merry, York: And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury;

What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails, And, were I strong, I would not shun their fury. That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death? The sands are number'd that make up my life; Why art thou patient, man? thou should'st be mad; Here must I stay, and here my life must end. And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. Enter Queen MARGARET, Clifford, NORTHUMBERLAND, Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. and Soldiers.

Thou would'st be fee'd, I see, to make me sport: Come, bloody Clifford, -rough Northumberland, York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown.I dare your quenchless fury to more rage.

A crown for York !-and, lords, bow low to him. I am your butt, and I abide

your
shot.

Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on.-
North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.

[Putting a paper Crown on his Head. Clif. Ay, to such mercy, as his ruthless arm Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king. With downright payment show'd unto my father. Ay, this is he that took king Henry's chair; Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,

And this is he was his adopted heir. And made an evening at the noon-tide prick. But how is it, that great Plantagenet

York. My ashes, as the phenix, may bring forth Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath ? A bird that will revenge upon you all;

As I bethink me, you should not be king, And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven, Till our king Henry had shook hands with death. Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.

And will you pale your head in Henry's glory, Why come you not ?-what! multitudes, and fear? And rob his temples of the diadem,

Clif. So cowards fight when they can fly no farther; Now in his life, against your holy oath ? So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons; O! 'tis a fault too, too unpardonable.So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives, Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his head ! Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.

And whilst we breathe take time to do him dead. York. 0, Clifford ! but bethink thee once again, Clif. That is my office for my father's sake. And in thy thought o'er-run my former time;

Q. Mar. Nay, stay; let's hear the orisons he makes. And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face,

York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice, France; Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this. Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth,

Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word, How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex, But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one. To triumph, like an Amazonian trull,

Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes Upon their woes whom fortune captivates ? I would prolong awhile the traitor's life.

But that thy face is, visor-like, unchanging, Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland. Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

North, Hold, Clifford ! do not honour him so much I would essay, proud queen, to make thee lush: To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart: To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom deriv'd, What valour were it, when a cur doth grin,

Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not For one to thrust his hand between his teeth,

shameless. When he might spurn him with his foot away? Thy father bears the type of king of Naples, It is war's prize to take all vantages,

Of both the Sicils, and Jerusalem, And ten to one is no impeach of valour.

Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. [They lay hands on York, who struggles. Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult? Clif. Ay, ay; so strives the woodcock with the gin. It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen; North. So doth the coney struggle in the net. Unless the adage must be verified,

[York is taken prisoner. That beggars mounted run their horse to death. York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty; 'Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; So true men yield, with robbers so o'er-match'd. But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small. North. What would your grace have done unto him 'Tis virtue that doth make them most admir'd; now?

The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at. Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumber- 'Tis government that makes them seem divine ; land,

The want thereof makes thee abominable. Come, make him stand upon this molehill here, Thou art as opposite to every good,

As the Antipodes are unto us,

And if thou tellist the heavy story right, Or as the south to the septentrion.

Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears; O, tiger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman's bide!

Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears, How could'st thou drain the life-blood of the child, And say,—"Alas! it was a piteous deed."To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,

There, take the crown, and with the crown my And yet be seen to bear a woman's face?

curse; Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible ;

And in thy need such comfort come to thee,
Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. As now I reap at thy too cruel hand !-
Bid'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish : Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world :
Would'st have me weep? 'why, now thou hast thy will; My soul to heaven, my blood upon your

heads! For raging wind blows up incessant showers,

'North. Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin, And, when the rage allays, the rain begins.

I should not, for my life, but weep with him,
These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies, To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.
And every drop cries vengeance for his death,

Q. Mar. What! weeping-ripe, my lord Northum'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false French

berland ?

Think but upon the wrong he did us all, North. Beshrew me, but his passions move me so, And that will quickly dry thy melting tears. That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.

Clif. Here's for my oath; here's for my father's York.

That face of his
death.

[Stabbing him. The hungry cannibals would not have touch’d,

Q. Mar. And here's to right our gentle-hearted Would not have stain'd the rose's hues with blood :

king.

(Stabbing him. But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,

York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God! 0! ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania.

My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee. See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears :

[Dies. This cloth thou dipp'dst in blood of my sweet boy,

Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York gates: And I with tears do wash the blood away.

So York may overlook the town of York. Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this ;

[Flourish. Exeunt. [Throwing it back to her.

woman.

ACT II.

SCENE I.-A Plain near Mortimer's Cross in Here

fordshire.
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 in violable :
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 arın
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.

With promise of high pay, and great rewards,
Edw. Sweet duke of York! our prop to lean upon, But all in vain; they had no heart to fight,
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay: And we in them no hope to win the day ;.
O Clifford ! boisterous Clifford ! thou hast slain So that we fled: the king unto the queen.
The flower of Europe for his chivalry;

Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself, And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him, In haste, poste-haste, are come to join with you; For hand to hand he would have vanquish'd thee.

For in the marches here, we heard, you were, Now, my soul's palace is become a prison:

Making another head to fight again. Ah! would she break from hence, that this my body Edw. Where is the duke of Norfolk, gentle WarMight in the ground be closed up in rest,

wick? For never henceforth shall I joy again;

And when came George from Burgundy to England ? Nerer, O! never, shall I see more joy.

War. Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers; Rich. I cannot weep, for all my body's moisture And for your brother, he was lately sent Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart; From your kind aunt, duchess of Burgundy, Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden, With aid of soldiers to this needful war. For self-same wind, that I should speak withal,

Rich. 'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled: Is kindling coals that fire all my breast,

Oft hare I heard his praises in pursuit, And burn me up with flames that tears would quench. But ne'er, till now, his scandal of retire. To weep is to make less the depth of grief.

War. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear; Tears, then, for babes; blows, and revenge, for me!- For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine Richard, I bear thy name; I'll venge thy death, Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head, Or die renowned by attempting it,

And wring the awful sceptre from his fist, Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left with Were he as farnous, and as bold in war, thee;

As he is fam'd for mildness, peace, and prayer. His dukedom and his chair with me are left.

Rich. I know it well, lord Warwick; bìame me not. Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird, 'Tis love, I bear thy glories, makes me speak. Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun :

But in this troublous time what's to be done? For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say ; Shall we go throw away our coats of steel, Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, March. Enter Warwick and Montague, with their Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads ? Army.

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?

If for the last, say-Ay, and to it, lords. Rich. Great lord of Warwick, if we should recount War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you Our baleful news, and at each word's deliverance,

out, Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,

And therefore comes my brother Montague. The words would add more anguish than the wounds. Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen, O, valiant lord! the duke of York is slain.

With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland, Edw. O, Warwick ! Warwick! that Plantagenet, And of their feather many more proud birds, Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption, Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax. Is by the stern lord Clifford done to death.

He swore consent to your succession, War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears; His oath enrolled in the parliament; And now, to add more measure to your woes,

And now to London all the crew are gone, I come to tell you things sith then befallen.

To frustrate both his oath, and what beside After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,

May make against the house of Lancaster: Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp, Their

power, I think, is thirty thousand strong. Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,

Now, if the help of Norfolk, and myself, Were brought me of your loss, and his depart. With all the friends that thou, brave earl of March, I, then in London, keeper of the king,

Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends, Will but amount to five and twenty thousand, March'd towards Saint Albans to intercept the queen, Why, Via! to London will we march amain, Bearing the king in my behalf along;

And once again bestride our foaming steeds, For by my scouts I was advertised,

And once again cry-Charge! upon our foes; That she was coming with a full intent

But never once again turn back, and fly. To dash our late decree in parliament,

Rich. Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick Touching king Henry's oath, and your succession. Short tale to make,,we at Saint Albans met;

he live to see a sunshine day, Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought; That cries—Retire, if Warwick bid him stay. But, whether 'twas the coldness of the king,

Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean; Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen,

And when thou fail'st, (as God forbid the hour!) That robb’d my soldiers of their heated spleen, Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forefend ! Or whether 'twas report of her success,

War. No longer earl of March, but duke of York :
Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour, The next degree is, England's royal throne;
Who thunders to his captives blood and death, For king of England shalt thou be proclaim'd
I cannot judge; but, to conclude with truth,

In every borough as we pass along;
Their weapons like to lightning came and went: And he that throws not up his cap for joy,
Our soldiers’, like the night-owl's lazy flight,

Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.
Or like a lazy thrasher with a flail,

King Edward,—valiant Richard, -Montague,-
Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends. Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,
I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause,

But sound the trumpets, and about our task.

speak.

Ne'er may

fault;

tune.

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. I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.

Ah, cousin York! would thy best friends did know, Edw. Then strike up, drums !—God, and Saint How it doth grieve me that thy head is here ! George, for us!

Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits : our foes Enter a Messenger.

are nigh, War. How now! what news ?

And this soft carriage makes your followers faint. Mess. The duke of Norfolk sends you word by me, You promis'd knighthood to our forward son : The queen is coming with a puissant host,

Unsheath your sword, and dub him presently.And craves your company for speedy counsel. Edward, kneel down. War. Why then, it sorts: brave warriors, let's away. K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;

[Exeunt. And learn this lesson,—Draw thy sword in right. SCENE II.-Before York.

Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave,

I'll draw it as apparent to the crown, Flourish. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, the And in that quarrel use it to the death.

Prince of Wales, Clifford, and NorthUMBERLAND, with Drums and Trumpets.

Clif. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.

Enter a Messenger.
Q. Mar. Welcome, my lord, this brave town of Mess. Royal commanders, be in readiness :
York.

For, with a band of thirty thousand men,
Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy,

Comes Warwick, backing of the duke of York;
That sought to be encompass’d with your crown: And, in the towns, as they do march along,
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord ? Proclaims him king, and many fly to him.
K. Hen. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.
wreck :

Clif. I would, your highness would depart the field: To see this sight, it irks my very soul.

The queen hath best success when you are absent. Withhold revenge, dear God ! 'tis not my

Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our forNot wittingly have I infring'd my vow.

Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity K. Hen. Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll And harmful pity, must be laid aside.

stay. To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?

North. Be it with resolution, then, to fight. Not to the beast that would usurp their den.

Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble lords, Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?

And hearten those that fight in your defence. Not his that spoils her young before her face. Unsheath your sword, good father: cry,

“ Saint Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?

George !" Not he that sets his foot upon her back.

March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, WARWICK, The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on;

Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers. And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for Ambitious York' did level at thy crown;

grace, Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows : And set thy diadem upon my head, He, but a duke, would have his son a king,

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field ? And raise his issue like a loving sire ;

Q. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy: Thou, being a king, bless'd with a goodly son, Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms, Didst yield consent to disinherit him,

Before thy sovereign, and thy lawful king? Which argued thee a most unloving father.

Edw. I am his king, and he should bow his knee: Unreasonable creatures feed their young;

I was adopted heir by his consent;
And though man's face be fearful to their eyes, Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,
Yet, in protection of their tender ones,

You, that are king, though he do wear the crown,
Who hath not seen them, even with those wings Have caus'd him, by new act of parliament,
Which sometime they have us'd in fearful flight, To blot out me, and put his own son in.
Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest,

Clif. And reason too: Offering their own lives in their young's defence ? Who should succeed the father, but the son ? For shame, my liege! make them your precedent. Rich. Are you there, butcher?-0! I cannot speak. Were it not pity, that this goodly boy

Clif. Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer thee, Should lose his birthright by his father's fault, Or any he the proudest of thy sort. And long hereafter say unto his child,

Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it “ What my great-grandfather and grandsire got,

not? My careless father fondly gave away."

Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. Ah! what a shame were this. Look on the boy ; Rich. For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight. And let his manly face, which promiseth

War. What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart

crown? To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him. Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick! K. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play'd the orator,

dare you speak ? Inferring arguments of mighty force.

When

you

and I met at Saint Albans last, But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear,

Your legs did better service than your hands. That things ill got had ever bad success ?

War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine. And happy always was it for that son,

Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled. Whose father for his hoarding went to hell ?

War. 'Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind,

thence. And would my father had left me no more ;

North. No, nor your manhood that durst make you For all the rest is held at such a rate,

stay.

« PreviousContinue »