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 beft fuccefs when you are abfent. [tune. Queen. Ay, good my Lord, and leave us to our forK. 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: Unfheathe your fword, good father; cry, St. George!

S CE NE IV.

March. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Clarence, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers.

Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for And fet 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 fhould 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,
Have caus'd him by new act of parliament

To blot out me, and put his own fon in.
Clif. And reafon too:

Who thould fucceed the father but the fon?

Rich. Are you there, butcher: O! I cannot speak. Clif Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee, Or any, he the proudeft 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't 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 lalt, [you speak? Your

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 fied. 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 parly, for fcarce I can refrain
The execution of my big fwoln heart

Upon
Clif

t Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

flew 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 fun-fet I'll make thee curfe the deed.

K. Henry. Have done with words, my Lords, and hear me fpeak.

Queen. Defie them then, or else hold close thy lips. K. Henry. I pr'ythee give no limits to my tongue; I am a King, and privilege'd to speak.

Clif. My Liege, the wound that bred this meeting Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still. [here, Rich. Then, executioner, unfheathe 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 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 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-fhapen ftigmatic,

Mark'd by the deftinies to be avoided,

As venomous toads, or lizards' dreadful ftings.
Rich. Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,
Whofe 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,

Το

To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

Edw. A wifp of ftraw were worth a thoufand crowns, To make this fhamelefs 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 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 ftoop: And had he match'd according to his itate, He might have kept that glory to this day. But when he took a beggar to his bed, And grace'd thy poor fire with his bridal-day, Even then that fun-fhine 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? Hadit 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 ftrike,
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 defie thee;

Not willing any longer conference,

Since thou deny'ft the gentle King to speak.
Sound trumpets, let our bloody colours wave,
And either victory, or else a grave.

Queen. Stay, Edward

Edw. No, wrangling woman, we'll no longer stay; These words will cost 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 spight, 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 defpair; Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us. What counfel give you? whither shall we fly?

Edw. Bootleis 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 thirty earth hath drunk,
Broach'd with the fteely point of Clifford's lance:
And in the very pangs of death he cry'd,
(Like to a difmal 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 gholt.

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

I'll kill my horfe, 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 play'd in jeft by counterfeiting actors?
Here on my knee, I vow to God above,
I'll never paufe again, never ftand still,

Till either death hath clos'd thefe eyes of mine,

Or Fortune given me measure of

revenge.

Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,

It was not the Marquis of Montague who was flain in this battle,

but a natural brother of the Earl of Warwick,

And

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 ftands
That to my foes this body must be prey,
Yet that thy brazen gates of heav'n may ope,
And give fweet paffage to my finful foul!
Now, Lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where-e'er it be, in heav'n or on earth.

Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle WarLet me embrace thee in my weary arms:

[wick,

I that did never weep, now melt with woe,
That winter fhould cut off our fpring-time fo..
War. Away, away: once more, fweet Lords, farewel.
Cla. Yet let us all together to our troops;
And give them leave to fly that will not ftay,
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 breafts,
For yet is hope of life and victory;

Fore-flow no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunt.
Excurfions. Enter Richard and Clifford.

Rich. Now Clifford, I have fingled thee alone; Suppofe this arm is for the Duke of York, And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge, Wert thou inviron'd with a brazen wall.

Cliff. 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 fome other chace, For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. [Exeunt.

SCENE