For, with a band of thirty thousand men, Clif I would your Highness would depart the field: The Queen hath beft fuccefs when you are abfent. [tune. Queen. Ay, good my Lord, and leave us to our for. K. Henry. Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll North. Be it with refolution then to fight. [ftay. Prince. My Royal father, cheer thefe Noble Lords, And hearten thofe that fight in your defence: Unheath your fword, good father; cry, St George! SCENE IV. March. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Clarence, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers. Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for And let 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 should 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, To blot out me, and put his own fon in. Clif. And reason too: Who fhould fucceed the father but the fon? Rich. Are you there, butcher? O! I cannot fpeak. Clif. Ay, crook-back, here I stand 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 fay'ft thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown? Queen. Why, how now, long tongu'd Warwick, dare When you and I met at St Alban's laft, [you speak ? Your legs did better service than your hands. War. Then it was my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine. Glif. 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.- Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer. Glif. I flew thy father, call'ft thou him a child? Rich. Ay, like a dastard and a treach'rous coward, As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland. But ere fun-fet I'll make thee curfe the deed. K. Henry. Have done with words, my Lords, and hear me speak. Queen. Defie them then, or else hold close thy lips. K. Henry. I pr`ythee give no limits to my tongue; Fam a King, and privileg'd to speak. Clif. My Liege, the wound that bred this meeting Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still. [here, Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right or no? 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 hast thy mother's tongue. Queen. But thou art neither like thy fire nor dam, But like a foul mis-fhapen ftigmatic Mark'd by the deftinies to be avoided, As venomous toads, or lizards' dreadful stings.. Whofe father bears the title of a King, (As if a channel should be call'd the fea), Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart? Ed. A wifp of straw were worth a thousand crowns, To make this fhameless callat know herself. Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou, Altho' thy husband may be Menelaus ; And ne'er was Agamemnon's brother wrong'd 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, Not willing any longer conference, Since thou deny ft the gentle King to fpeak. Queen, Stay, Edward Edw. No, wrangling woman, we'll no longer stay; Thefe words will coft ten thousand lives this day. SCENE V. [Exeunt omnes. Changes to a field of battle at Ferrybridge in Yorkshire. Alarum. 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 strength; And, fpight of fpight, needs mult 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. Cla. Our hap is lofs, our hope but fad despair 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, That ftain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood, War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood Were play'd in jeft by counterfeiting actors? Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine, It was not the Marquis of Montague who was flair in this battle, but a natural brother of the Earl of Warwick, And in this vow do chain my foul with thine. Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and gentle WarLet me embrace thee in my weary arms: I that did never weep, now melt with woe, That winter fhould cut off our spring-time fo [wick, War. Away, away: once more, fweet Lords, farewel This may plant courage in their quailing breafts, Fore-flow no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunt. Rich. Now, Clifford, I have fingled thee alone;. Cliff. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone. And fo have at thee. They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies. Rich. Nay, Warwick, fingle out fome other chace,. For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. [Exeunt. |