Should lofe his birth-right by his father's fault?
And long hereafter fav unto his child,
What my great grandfather and grandfire got,
My careless father fondly gave away!

Ah, what a fhame was this! Look on the boy,
And let his manly face, which promifeth
Successful fortune, fteel thy melting heart

[tor,

To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.
K. Henry. Full well hath Clifford plaid the ora
Inferring arguments of mighty force.
But Clifford, tell me, didft thou never hear,
That things ill got had ever bad fuccess?
And happy always was it for that son,
Whofe father for his hoarding went to hell?
I'll leave my fon my virtuous deeds behind;
And 'would my father had left me no more!
For all the rest is held at fuch a rate,

As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep,
Than in poffeffion any jot of pleasure.

Ah, coufm 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 fon, Unfheath your fword, and dub him prefently. Edward, kneel down.

K. Henry. Edward Plantagenet, arife a Knight; And learn this leffon, draw thy fword 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 fpoken like a toward Prince.
Enter a Messenger.

Me. 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.

* That is, range your hoft, put your hosts in order, VOL. VI

S

Clif. I would your Highnefs would depart the field, The Queen hath beft fuccefs when you are abfent. Queen. Ay, good my Lord, and leave us to our for

tune.

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 these noble Lords, And hearten thofe that fight in your defence. Unfheath your fword, good father. Cry St George!

March. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Clarence, Norfolk, Montague and Soldiers.

Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for And fet thy diadem upon my head,

Or 'bide the mortal fortune of the field?

[grace,

Queen. Go rate thy minions, proud infulting boy. Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms Before thy Sovereign 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 fon in.

Clif. And reafon too:

Who fhould fucceed the father but the fon?

Rich. Are you there, butcher?—O, I cannot fpeak.

Clif. Ay, crook-back, here I ftand to answer thee, Or any he the proudest 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 fignal to the fight, War. What fayft thou, Henry, will thou yield the crown?

Queen Why, how now, long tongu'd Warwick, dare you speak?

When you and I met at St Albans last,

Your legs did better fervice 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 parle, for fcarce I can refrain The execution of my big-fwoln heart Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

Clif. I flew thy father, call'fl thou him a child? Rich. Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward, As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland; But, ere fun-fet, I'll make thee curse the deed. K. Henry. Have done with words, my Lords, and hear me speak.

Queen. Defy them then, or elfé hold close thy lips. K. Henry Ipr'ythee, give no limits to my tongue; I am a king, and privileg'd to speak.

Clif. My Liege, the wound that bred this meeting here,

Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still.
Rich. Then, executioner, unfheath thy fword:
By him that made us all, I am refolv'd
That Clifford's manhood lyes upon his tongue.
Edw. Say, Henry, fhall I have right or no?
A thousand men have broke their fails to day,
That ne'er fhall dine, unlefs 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.

Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands, For, well I wot, thou haft thy mother's tongue. Queen. But thou art neither like thy fire nor dam. But like a foul mif-fhapen ftigmatic,

Mark'd by the Destinies to be avoided,
As venomous toads, or lizards' dreadful flings.
Rich. Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,

Whofe father bears the title of a king,
As if a channel fhould be call'd the fea,

Sham'ft thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,

To let thy tongue detect thy bafe-born heart?
Edw. A wilp of straw were worth a thousand

crowns,

To make this fhameless callat know herself.
-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 falle 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 ftate,
He might have kept that glory to this day.
But when he took a beggar to his bed,
And grac'd thy poor fire with his bridal day,
Even then that fun-fhine brew'd a fhow'r for him,
That wash'd his father's fortunes forth of France,
And heap'd fedition on his crown at home.
For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy pride?
Hadft thou been meek, our title still had flept,
And we, in pity of the gentle king,

Had Apt our claim until another age.

Cla. But when we faw our fun-fhine made thy fpring,

And that thy fummer bred us no increase,
We fet the ax to thy ufurping roots;

And though the edge hath fomething hit ourselves,
Yet know thou, fince we have begun to ftrike,
We'll never leave 'till we have hewn thee down,
Or bath'd thy growing with our heated bloods.
Edw. And in this refolution I defy thee;

Not willing any longer conference,
Since thou deny'ft 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 stay: Thefe words will coft ten thousand lives this day.

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE V.

Changes to a Field of Battle at Ferrybridge in: Yorkshire.

Alarm. Excurfions. Enter Warwick. War. Fore-fpent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe; For ftrokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid, Have robb'd my ftrong-knit finews of their ftrength; And, fpight of fpight, needs must I reft a while. Enter Edward running.

Edw. Smile, gentle Heav'n! or ftrike, ungentle death!

For this world frowns, and Edward's fun is clouded. War. How now, my Lord, what hap? what hope of good?

Enter Clarence.

4

Cla. Our hap is lofs, our hope but fad defpair; Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us. What counfel give you? whither fliall we fly? Edw. Bootlefs is flight, they follow us with wings; And weak we are, and cannot fhun purfuit. Enter Richard...

Rich Ah, Warwick, why haft thou withdrawn.: thyfelf?

Thy brother's blood* the thirfty 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 difinal clangor heard from far)

Warwick, revenge; brother, revenge my death.'
So underneath the belly of their steeds.
That ftain'd their fetlocks in his fmoaking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

It was not the Marquis of Montague who was flain: in this battle, but a natural brother of the Earl of Wars wick...