When you -and I met at St. Albans laft,

Your legs did better service 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

ftay.

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 flew thy father, call'ft thou him a child?
RICH. Ay, like a daftard and a treacherous coward,
As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;
But, ere fun-fet, I'll make thee curfe the deed.

K. HEN. Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.

QUEEN. Defy them then, or elfe 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, unfheath thy fword:
By him that made us all, I am refolv'd,
That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.
EDW. Say, Henry, fhall I have my right, or no?
A thousand men have broke their fafts to-day,
That ne'er fhall dine, unless 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-shapen ftigmatick,

Mark'd by the deftinies to be avoided,

As venomous 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 fhould be call'd the fea,

Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,
To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

Edw. A wifp of ftraw were worth a thousand crowns, To make this fhameless callat know herself. -Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou, Although thy hufband may be Menelaus ; And ne'er was Agamemnon's brother wrong'd By that falfe 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 matcht according to his state, Me 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-shine 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 flipt 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 root;

And though the edge hath fomething hit ourselves,
Yet know thou, fince 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 refolution I defy thee;

Not willing any longer eonference,

Since thou deny it the gentle king to peak.

--Sound trumpets, let our bloody colours wave,
And either victory, or eife a grave.

QUEEN. Stay, Edward→→

EDW. No, wrangling, woman, we'll no longer stay; Thefe words will coit ten thousand lives this day.

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE V. Changes to a field of battle at Fërribridge in Yorkshire.

Alarm. Excurfions. Enter Warwick.

WAR. Fore-spent 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 strength;
And, fpight of fpight, needs must I reft a while.

Enter Edward running,

EDW. Smile, gentle heav'n! or strike, 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.

CLA. Our hap is lofs, our hope but fad despair;

Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us,

What counfel give you? whither shall we fly?

EDW. Bootlefs is flight, they follow us with wings; And weak we are, and cannot fhun pursuit.

Enter Richard.

RICH. Ah, Warwick, why haft thou withdrawn thyfelf? 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 cry'd,
(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 ftand we like foft-hearted women here,
Wailing our loffes, whiles the foe doth rage,
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were plaid in jeft by counterfeiting actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above,
I'll never pause again, never ftand still,

Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine,
Or fortune give me measure of revenge.

EDW. Or Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,

And in this vow do chain my foul with thine.
And ere my knee rife from the earth's cold face,
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,
Thou fetter up, and plucker down, of kings!
Befeeching thee, if with thy will it stands
That to my foes this body must be prey,
Yet that thy brazen gates of heav'n may ope,

And give sweet paffage to my finful foul.

Now, lords, take leave until we meet again;

Where-e'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 fo.

WAR. Away, away. Once more, fweet lords farewel.
CLA. 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 fuch 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-flow no longer, make we hence amain.

Excurfions. Enter Richard and Clifford.

[Exeunt.

RICH. Now, Clifford, I have fingled 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 flew thy brother Rutland;
And here's the heart that triumphs in their death,
And cheers thefe hands that flew thy fire and brother,
To execute the like upon thyfelf;

And fo have at thee.

They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies. RICH. Nay, Warwick, fingle out some other chase, For I myself will hunt this welf to death,

[Exeunt.