Against the Greeks, that would have ent'red Troy.
But Hercules himself muft yield to odds;
And many ftrokes, though with a little ax,
Hew down and fell the hardest timber'd oak.
By many hands your father was subdu'd,
But only flaughter'd by the ireful arm
Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen;
Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high defpight;
Laugh'd in his face; and, when with grief he wept,
The ruthless Queen gave him to dry his cheek
A napkin fteeped in the harmless blood

Of fweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford flain :
And, after many fcorns, many foul taunts,
They took his head, and on the gates of York
They fet the fame; and there it doth remain
The faddeft fpectacle that ere I view'd.

Edw. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no ftay.
Oh Clifford, boift'rous Clifford thou haft flain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry,

And treacheroufly haft thou vanquifh'd him;
For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd thee. -
Now my foul's palace is become a prison:

Ah, would fhe break from hence, that.this my body
Might in the ground be clofed up in rest!
For never henceforth fhall I joy again,
Never, oh never, fhall I fee more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture
Scarce ferves to quench my furnace-burning heart :
Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden; :
For felf-fame wind, that I fhould fpeak withal,
Is kindling coals that fire up all my breast!
And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench.
To weep, is to make lefs the depth of grief:
Tears then for babes; blows and revenge for me!
Richard, I bear thy hame; I'll venge thy death,
Or die renowned by attempting it.

Edw. His name that valiant Duke hath left with His dukedom and his chair with me is left. [thee: Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird, Shew thy defcent, by gazing gainst the fun; For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom, fay Either that's thine, or elfe thou wert not his wwe They

March. Enter Warwick, Marquis of Montague, and their army.

War. How now, fair Lords? what fare? what news abroad?

Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount Our baleful news, and at each word's deliv'rance 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 flain.

Edw. O Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet, Which held thee dearly as his foul's redemption, Is by the ftern 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 fith then befal'n.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp,
Tidings as fwiftly as the poft could run,
Were brought me of your lofs and his depart.
I then in London, keeper of the King,
Mufter'd my foldiers, gather'd flocks of friends,
March'd towards St Albans t'intercept the Queen,
Bearing the King in my behalf along;
For by my fcouts I was advertised

That he was coming with a full intent
To dafh our late decree in parliament,
Touching King Henry's oath, and your fucceffion.
Short tale to make, we at St Alban's met,

Our battles join'd, and both fides fiercely fought;
But whether 'twas the coldness of the King,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queen,
That robb'd my foldiers of their hated spleen;
Or whether 'twas report of her fuccefs,

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 light'ning, came and went;.
Our foldiers, like the night-owl's lazy flight,
Or like a lazy thrasher with a flail,.

Fell gently down, as if they ftruck their friends.
I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause,
With promife of high pay and great reward;
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 hafte, poft-hafte, 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
Warwick?

And when came George from Burgundy to England?
War. Some fix miles off the Duke is with his
And for your brother, he was lately fent [power;
From your kind aunt, Duchefs of Burgundy,
With aid of foldiers to this needful war.

Rich. 'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick

Oft have I heard his praifes in purfuit,
But ne'er, till now, his fcandal of retire.

[fled;

War. Nor now my scandal, Richard, doft thou hear; For thou fhalt know, this ftrong right hand of mine Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head, And wring the awful fcepter from his fist, Were he as famous and as bold in war, As he is fam'd for mildnefs, peace and prayer. Rich. I know it well, Lord Warwick, blame me not; 'Tis love I bear thy glories makes me fpeak. But in this troublous time what's to be done? Shall we go throw away our coats of fteel, And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, Numb'ring our Ave Maries with our beads? Or fhall we on the helmets of our foes Tell our devotion with revengeful arms? If for the laft, fay ay; and to it, Lords.

War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you« And therefore comes my brother Montague. [out; Attend me, Lords. The proud infulting Queen, With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland, And of their feather many more proud birds, Have, wrought the eafy-melting King, like wax. He fwore confent to your fucceflion,

His oath inrolled in the parliament;

And now to London all the crew are gone,
To fruftrate both his oath, and what befide
May make against the houfe 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 can't procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,
Why, via! to London will we march amain,
And once again bestride our foaming fleeds,
And once again cry, Charge upon our foes!
But never once again turn back and йy.

Rich. Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick
Ne'er may he live to fee a fun-fhine day, [fpeak:
That cries, Retire,- -if Warwick bid him stay.

Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy thoulder will I lean;
And when thou fail'ft, (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 thalt thou be proclaim'd
In every borough as we país 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 found the trumpets, and about our task.
Rich. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as
As thou haft fhewn it flinty by thy deeds, [fteel,
I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.
Edw. Then ftrike up, drums; God and St George

for us!

Enter a Mejenger.

War. How now? what news?

Mell. The Duke of Norfolk fends you word by me,
The Queen is coming with a puiffant hoft;
And craves your company for speedy counfel.
War. Why then it forts *; brave warriors, let's
[Exeunt omnes.

away.

Why then things are as they should be. Johnson.

Enter King Henry, the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland, and the Prince of Wales, with drums and trumpets.

Queen. Welcome, my Lord, to this brave town of Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy, [York. That fought to be encompaft with your crown. Doth not the object cheer your heart, my Lord?

K. Henry. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear To fee this fight, it irks my very foul. [their wreck. -With-hold revenge, dear God; 'tis not my fault, Nor wittingly have I infring'd my vow.

Clif My gracious Liege, this too much lenity
And harmful pity must be laid afide.

To whom do lions caft their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would ufurp their den.
Whofe hand is that the foreft bear doth lick?
Not his that fpoils her young before her face.
Who 'fcapes the lurking ferpent's mortal fting?
Not he that fets his foot upon her back.

The smallest worm will turn being trodden on;
And doves will peck in fafeguard of their brood.
Ambitious York did level at thy crown,
Thou fmiling, while he knit his angry brows.
He but a Duke, would have his fon a King,
And raise his iffue, like a loving fire :
Thou being a King, bleft with a goodly fon,
Didft, yield confent to difinherit him,
Which argu'd thee a most unloving father.
Unreasonable creatures feed their young;
And tho' man's face be fearful to their eyes,
Yet, in protection of their tender ones,
Who hath not feen them (even with thofe wings
Which fometimes they have us'd with fearful flight)
Make war with him that climb'd unto the neft,
Offering their own lives in their young's defence?
For fhame, my Liege, make them your precedent.
Were it not pity that this goodly boy. **