Ah, cousin York! 'would thy best friends did know,
How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits! Our foes are nigh, And this soft courage makes your followers faint. You promised 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 fortune. K. Hen. Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll stay. 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 St. George!

March.-Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, WARWICK,
NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, and Soldiers.

Edw. Now, perjured Henry! Wilt thou kneel for grace, 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 caused him, by new act of parliament,
To blot out me, and put his own son in.

Clif. And reason, too:

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 not?
Clif. Ay, and ofd York, and yet not satisfied.

* I. e. arrange your army in battle array.

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-tongued Warwick? Dare you speak?

When you and I met at St. 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 thence.
North. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.
Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently!-
Break off the parle; for scarce I can refrain

The execution of my big-swollen heart

Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

Clif. I slew thy father: call'st thou him a child?
Rich. Ay, like a dastard, and a treacherous coward,

As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;

But, ere sun-set, I'll make thee curse the deed.

K. Hen. Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.
Q. Mar. Defy them, then, or else hold close thy lips.
K. Hen. I pr'ythee give no limits to my tongue;

I am a king, and privileged to speak.

Clif. My liege, the wound, that bred this meeting here,
Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still.

Rich. Then, executioner, unsheath thy sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolved,*
That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.
Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right or no?
A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day,
That ne'er shall dine, unless thou yield the crown.
War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;
For York in justice puts his armour on.

Prince. If that be right, which Warwick says is right,
There is no wrong, but everything is right.

Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;

For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother's tongue.

Q. Mar. But thou art neither like thy sire, nor dam; But like a foul misshapen stigmatic,t

Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided,

As venom toads, or lizards' dreadful stings.

Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt

Whose father bears the title of a king

(As if a channel § should be call'd the sea),

Shamest thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,
To let thy tongue detect || thy base-born heart?

Edw. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns,
To make this shameless callet T know herself.-
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy husband may be Menelaus:**

It is my persuasion.

Gilt is a superficial covering of gold.
Expose.
¶ Drab.

Branded by nature.
Kennel.

**I. e. a cuckold.

And ne'er was Agamemnon's brother wrong'd
By that false woman, as this king by thee.
His father revell'd in the heart of France, grond en
And tamed the king, and made the dauphin stoop;ye
And, had he match'd according to his state, I bro 607 534
He might have kept that glory to this day:
But, when he took a beggar to his bed, win aw
And graced thy poor sire with his bridal day: pin
Even then that sunshine 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 broach'd this tumult, but thy pride?
Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept;
And we, in pity of the gentle king,

Had slipp'd our claim until another age.

Geo. But, when we saw our sunshine made thy spring, And that thy summer bred us no increase,

We set the axe to thy usurping root:

And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,
Yet, know thou since we have begun to strike,
We'll never leave, till we have hewn thee down,
Or bathed thy growing with our heated bloods.
Edw. And, in this resolution I defy thee;
Not willing any longer conference,

Since thou deny'st the gentle king to speak.-
Sound trumpets!-Let our bloody colours wave!—
And either victory, or else a grave.

Q. Mar. Stay, Edward.

3

Edw. No, wrangling woman; we'll no longer stay:

These words will cost ten thousand lives to-day.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III-A Field of Battle between Towton and Saxton in Yorkshire.

Alarums: Excursions.-Enter WARWICK.

War. Forespent with toil, as runners with a race,

I lay me down a little while to breathe:

For strokes received, and many blows repaid,

Have robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength,

And, spite of spite, needs must I rest a while.

Enter EDWARD, running.

Edw. Smile, gentle heaven, or strike, ungentle death! For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded.

War. How now, my lord? What hap? What hope of good?

Enter GEORGE.

Geo. Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair;

Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us:

What counsel give you, whither shall we fly?

Edw. Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings: And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit.

Enter RICHARD.

Rich. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?
Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,
Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance:
And, in the very pangs of death, he cried,-
Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,-
Warwick, revenge! Brother, revenge my death!
So underneath the belly of their steeds,

That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:

I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly.

Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the tragedy

Were play'd in jest, by counterfeiting actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above,
I'll never pause again, never stand still,
Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine,
Or fortune given me measure of revenge.

なす

Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine;
And, in this vow, do chain my soul to thine.-
And ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face,
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,
Thou setter up and plucker down of kings!
Beseeching thee,t-if with thy will it stands,
That to my foes this body must be prey,-
Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope,
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul!-
Now, lords, take leave, until we meet again,
Where'er it be, in heaven, or on 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 should cut off our spring-time so.

War. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.
Geo. Yet let us altogether to our troops,

And give them leave to fly that will not stay;
And call them pillars, that will stand to us;
And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards
As victors wear at the Olympian games:

This may plant courage in their quailing breasts;
For yet is hope of life and victory.-

Fore-slow no longer, make we hence amain.

[Exeunt.

Be dilatory.

SCENE IV.-The same. Another part of the Field.

Excursions.-Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD.

Rich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone:
Suppose, this arm is for the duke of York,
And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge,
Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall.

Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone:
This is the hand that stabb'd thy father York:
And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland:
And here's the heart that triumphs in their death,
And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother,
To execute the like upon thyself;

And so, have at thee.

[They fight-WARWICK enters; CLIFFORD flies. Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase; For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

SCENE V-Another part of the Field.

Alarum.-Enter KING HENRY.

K. Hen. This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light;
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day, or night.
Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea,
Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea,
Forced to retire by fury of the wind:

Sometime the flood prevails; and then, the wind;
Now, one the better; then, another best;
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered:
So is the equal poise of the fell war.
Here on this molehill will I sit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret, my queen, and Clifford, too,
Have chid me from the battle; swearing both,
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
'Would I were dead! if God's good will were so:
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! methinks, it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.

[Exeunt.