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 to thee: His dukedom and his chair with me is 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 Forces. 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 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 since then befali’n. 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, Master'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends, And very well appointed, as I thought, 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 hated 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, 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, post-haste, are core 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,
Numb'ring our Ave-Maries with our beads?
Or shall we on the helmets of our foes
Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?
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 ery-Charge upon our foes!
But never once again turn back, and fly.
Rich. Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick
speak:
may

Ne'er 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 fall'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 thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,)
I come to pierce it,-or to give thee mine.
Edw. Then strike up, drums ;-God, and St. George,
for us!

Enter a Messenger.

War. How now? what news?

Mes. 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. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, the Prince of Wales, Clifford, and Northumberland, with Forces.

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 peek, 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 with 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,
As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep,
Than in possession any jot of pleasure.
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 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 pringe.
Enter a Messenger.

Mes. 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

tune.

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, Saint George! March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers.

Edw. Now, perjur'd 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 caus'd 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 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
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-swoln 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,

2. 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 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, unsheath thy sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolv'd,
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 every thing 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,
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,)
Sham'st 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 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 false woman, as this king by thee.
His father revell'd in the heart of France,

And tam'd the king, and made the dauphin stoop;
And, had he match'd according to his state,
He might have kept that glory to this day:
But, when he took a beggar to his bed,
And grae'd thy poor sire with his bridal day ;
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 hath 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 shipp'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 bath'd 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.

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. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe: For strokes receiv'd, 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 lost, 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 smoaking 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 clos'd these eyes of mine,
Or fortune given me measure of revenge.

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,-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 all together 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.

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. [Exeunt. 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, nor night.
Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea,
Fore'd by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea
Fore'd 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 this fell war.
Here on this mole-hill 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! it 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.
When this is known then to divide the times:

So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
hours must I sport myself;

So many

So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece;
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Pass'd over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery?
O, yes it doth; a thousand fold it doth.

And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,

Is far beyond a prince's delicates,

His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his Father, drag. ging in the dead Body.

Son. Ill blows the wind, that profits nobody.This man, whom hand to hand 1 slew in fight, May be possessed with some store of crowns: And I, that haply take them from him now,

May yet ere night yield both my life and them
To some man else, as this dead man doth me.-
Who's this?-O God! it is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd.
O heavy times, begetting such events!
From London by the king was I press'd forth;
My father, being the earl of Warwick's man,
Came on the part of York, press'd by his master;
And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life,
Have by my hands, of life bereaved him.—
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did!—
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee!-
My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks;
And no more words, till they have flow'd their fill.
K. Hen. O piteous spectacle! Ő bloody times!
Whilst lions war, and battle for their dens,
Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.
Weep, wretched man, I'll aid thee tear for tear;
And let our hearts, and eyes. like civil war,
Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharg'd with grief.
Enter a Father, who has killed his Son, with the Body
in his arms.

Fath. Thou, that so stoutly hast resisted ine,
Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold;
For I have bought it with an hundred blows.-
But let me see-Is this our foeman's face?
Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son!-
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,

Throw up thine eye; see, see, what showers arise,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart.
O, pity, God, this miserable age!-
What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!-
O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late!

K. Hen. Woe above woe! grief more than common
grief!

O, that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!
O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!—

The red rose and the white, are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houses:
The one, his purple blood right well resembles;
The other, his pale cheeks, methinks. present.
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish
If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.

Son. How will my mother, for a father's death,
Take on with me, and ne'er be satisfied?

Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son, Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied?

K. Hen. How will the country, for these woeful

chances,

Mis-think the king, and not be satisfied!

Son. Was ever son, so rued a father's death? Fath. Was ever father, so bemoan'd a son? K. Hen. Was ever king so griev'd for subjects' wee Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much. Son. I'll bear thee henee, where I may weep my fil. [Exit with the body.

Fath. These arms of mine shall be thy winding sheet;

My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre;
For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go.
My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;

And so obsequious will thy father be,
Sad for the loss of thee, having no more,

As Priam was for all his valiant sons.

I'll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will,