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Phæbus ! hadlt thou never giv'n confent That Phaeton should check thy fiery steeds, Thy burning car had never scorch'd the earth ; And Henry, hadft thou sway'd as kings thould do, Or as thy father and his father did, Giving no ground unto the house of York, They never then had sprung like summer flies. I, and ten thousand in this luckless realm, Had left no mourning widows for our death; And thou this day hadît kept thy chair in peace. For what doth cherish weeds, but gentle air ? And what makes robbers bold, but too much lenity? Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds; No way to fly, nor ftrength to hold our flight. The foe is merciless, and will not pity, For at their hands I have deserv'd go pity. The air hath got into my deadly wounds, And much effuse of blood doth make me faint. Come, York, and Richard ; Warwick, and the rest; I ftabb'd your fathers' boloms, split my breaft. (He faints,

Alarm and retreat. Enter Edwarı, Warwick, Richard,

Montague, Clarence, and soldiers. Edw. Now breathe we, lords, good fortune bids us pause; And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks. Some troops purfue the bloody-minded queen, 'That led calm Henry, though he were a king, As doth a fail, fill'd with a fretting gult, Command an argolie to ftem the waves. But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?

WAR. No, 'uis imposible he should eftare : For though before his face lipeak the word,

Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave :
And wherefoe’er he is, he's surely dead. (Clifford groans.

Rich. Whole foul is that which takes her hearty leave?
A deadly groan, like lice and death's departing.
See who it is.

Edw. And now the battle's ended,
If friend or foe, let him be gently used.

Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford ;
Who not contented that he lopp'd the branch,
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth;
But sent his murd'ring knife unto the root
From whence that tender {pray did sweetly spring ;
I mean, our princely father, duke of Yorks.

War. From off the gates of York fetch down the head, Your father's head, which Clifford placed there, Instead whereof, let his supply the room. Measure for measure must be answered.

Edw. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our hous That nothing sung but death to us and ours; . Now death shall stop his dismal chreatning found, And his ill-boading tongue no more shall speak.

War. I think, his understanding is bereft.
-Speak, Clifford, doft thou kaow who speaks to thee?
Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life,
And he nor sees, nor hears us what we say.

Rich. O, would he did ! and so, perhaps he doth.
?Tis but his policy to counterfeit,
Because he would avoid such bitter taunts,
As in the time of death he gave our father.

CLA. If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words.
Ricu. Clifford, ask mercy, and obtain no grace.
Edw. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.

War. Clifford, devise excuses for thy fau!ts.
CLA. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.
Rich. Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.
Edw. Thou pitied'it Rutland, I will pity thee.
Cla. Where's captain Margaret to fence you now?
War. They mock thee, Clifford, swear as thou wast

Rich. What, not an oath! nay, then the world goes
When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath,
I know by that, he's dead; and, by my soul,
If this right hand would buy but two hours' life,
That I in all despight might rail at him,
This hand should chop it off; and with the issuing blood,
Stifle the villain, whose unítanched thirst
York and young Rutland could not satisfy.

WAR. Ay, but he's dead. Off with the traitor's head,
And rear it in the place your father's stands.
And now to London with triumphant march,
There to be crowned England's royal king,
From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France,
And ask the lady Bona for thy queens
So shalt thou sinew both these lands together.
And having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread
The scatter'd foe that hopes to rise again;
For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,
Yet look to have them buz t’offend thine ears.
First, will I see the coronation,
And then to Britany I'll cross the sea,
T'effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

· Edw. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;
For on thy shoulder do I build my seat :
And never will I undertake the thing,

Wherein thy counsel, and consent, is wanting.
Richard, I will create thee duke of Glo'ster;
And George, of Clarence ; Warwick as ourself
Shall do and undo, as him pleaseth best.

Rich. Let me be duke of Clarence; George, of Glo'ster; For Glo'ster's dukedom is too ominous. :

WAR. Tut, that's a foolish observation. Richard, be duke of Glo'ster. Now to London, To see these honours in posseffion.




A wood in Lancashire.

Enter Sinklo and Humphry, with cross bows in their hands.

NDER this thick-grown brake we'll shroud ourselves,


And in this covert we will make our stand,
Culling the principal of all the deer.

Hum. I'll stay above the hill, so both may shoot.

SINK. That cannot be ; the noise of thy cross-bow
Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost;
Here stand we both, and aim we at the best,
And, for the time shall not seem tedious,
I'll tell thee what befel me on a day,
In this self-place where now we mean to stand.

Hum. Here comes a man, let's stay till he be paft.

Enter King Henry with a prayer-book. K. Hen. From Scotland am I stol'n, even of pure love, To greet mine own land with my wilhful sight.

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No, Harry, Harry, 'tis no land of thine,
Thy place is fill'd, thy scepter wrung from thee;
Thy balm washt off, wherewith thou wait anointed:
No bending knee will call thee Cæfar now,
No humble suitors press to speak for right,
No, not a man comes for redress to thee;
For how can I help them, and not myself?

SINK. Ay, here's a deer whose fkin's a keeper's fee.
This is the quondam king, let's seize upon him.

K. Hen. Let me embrace these four adversities;
For wife men say, it is the wiselt course.

Hum. Why linger we? let us lay hands upon him.
SINK. Forbear a while, we'll hear a little more.

K. Hen. My queen and son are gone to France for aid
And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick
Is thither gone to crave the French king's lister
To wife for Edward. If this news be true,
Pour queen and fon! your labour is but loft,
For Warwick is a subtle orator,
And Lewis, a prince foon won with moving words.
---By this account, then, Margaret may win him,
For she's a woman to be pitied much;
Her fighs will make a batt'ry in his breast,
Her tears will pierce into a marble heart,
The tyger will be mild, while she doth mourn,
And Nero would be tainted with remorse,
To hear, and see her plaints, her brinish tears.
-Ay, but she's come to beg, Warwick to give ;
She, on his lest lide, craving aid for Henry;
He, on his right, asking a wife for Edward.
She weeps, and says, her Henry is depos'd;
He smiles, and fays, his Edward is installed;

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