SCENE II-A room in Sandal Castle, near Wakefield, in Yorkshire. Enter Edward, Richard, and Montague.

Rich. Brother, though I be youngest, give me
leave.

Edw. No, I can better play the orator.
Mont. But I have reasons strong and forcible.
Enter York.

'York. Why, how now, sons and brother, at a strife?

'What is your quarrel? how began it first?

Edw. No quarrel, but a slight contention.
York. About what?

Rich. About that which concerns your grace,

and us;

The crown of England, father, which is yours. York. Mine, boy? not till king Henry be dead. Rich. Your right depends not on his life, or

death.

Edw. Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now: By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe, It will outrun you, father, in the end.

⚫ York. I took an oath, that he should quietly reign.

Edw. But, for a kingdom, any oath may be

broken:

· I'd break a thousand oaths, to reign one year. 'Rich. No; God forbid, your grace should be forsworn.

'York. I shall be, if I claim by open war. Rich. I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me speak.

York. Thou canst not, son; it is impossible. Rich. An oath is of no moment, being not took 'Before a true and lawful magistrate, "That hath authority over him that swears: 'Henry had none, but did usurp the place; "Then, seeing 'twas he that made you to depose, "Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous. Therefore, to arms. And, father, do but think,

*How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown;
* Within whose circuit is Elysium,
* And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.
Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest,

* Until the white rose, that I wear, be died
Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart.
York. Richard, enough; I will be king, or
die.-

'Brother, thou shalt to London presently,
And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.-
Thou, Richard, shalt unto the duke of Norfolk,
And tell him privily of our intent.-
You, Edward shall unto my lord Cobham,
With whom the Kentish-men will willingly rise:
In them I trust; for they are soldiers,
Witty and courteous, liberal, full of spirit.-
While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more,
But that I seek occasion how to rise;
And yet the king not privy to my drift,
'Nor any of the house of Lancaster?

Enter a Messenger.

(1) Of sound judgment

Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me ;My brother Montague shall post to London : *Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest, *Whom we have left protectors of the king, *With powerful policy strengthen themselves, *And trust not simple Henry, nor his oaths.

* Mont. Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not: *And thus most humbly I do take my leave. [Ex. Enter Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer. York. Sir John, and sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles!

You are come to Sandal in a happy hour; The army of the queen mean to besiege us. Sir John. She shall not need, we'll meet her in the field.

York. What, with five thousand men? Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need. A woman's general; what should we fear? [A march afar off.

Edw. I hear their drums; let's set our men in order;

And issue forth, and bid them battle straight.
⚫ York. Five men to twenty-though the odds
be great,

I doubt not, uncle, of our victory.
Many a battle have I won in France,
When as the enemy hath been ten to one;
Why should I not now have the like success?
[Alarum. Exeunt.

SCENE III.-Plains near Sandal Castle. Alarums: Excursions. Enter Rutland, and his Tutor.

child,

Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

[Exit, forced off by Soldiers. Clif How now! is he dead already? Or, is it fear, That makes him close his eyes?--I'll open them.

Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch
That trembles under his devouring paws:
And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey;

And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.-
Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword,
And not with such a cruel threat'ning look.
Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die ;—
I am too mean a subject for thy wrath,
Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live.

Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood

Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should

⚫ And till I root out their accursed line, And leave not one alive, I live in hell. Therefore

[Lifting his hand. Rut. O, let me pray before I take my death :To thee I pray; Sweet Clifford, pity me! Clif. Such pity as my rapier's point affords. Rut. I never did thee harm; Why wilt thou slay me?

Clif. Thy father hath.
Rut.
But 'twas ere I was born.
Thou hast one son, for his sake pity me;
Lest, in revenge thereof,-sith! God is just,-
He be as miserably slain as I.

Ah, let me live in prison all my days;
And when I give occasion of offence,

Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.
Clif. No cause?

Thy father slew my father; therefore, die.
[Clifford stabs him.
Rut. Dii faciant, laudis summa sit ista tuæ !?
[Dies.

Clif. Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet! And this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade, Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, Congeal'd with this, do inake me wipe off both. [Exit. SCENE IV.-The same. Alarum. Enter York.

York. The army of the queen hath got the field: My uncles both are slain in rescuing me; And all my followers to the eager foe Turn back, and fly, like ships before the wind, 'Or lambs pursu'd by hunger-starved wolves.

My sons-God knows, what hath bechanced them: But this I know,-they have demean'd themselves Like men born to renown, by life, or death.

• Three times did Richard make a lane to me;
And thrice cried,-Courage, father! fight it out!
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple falchion, painted to the hilt

In blood of those that had encounter'd him:
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cried,-Charge! and give no foot of
ground!

And cried,-A crown, or else a glorious tomb! A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre! With this we charg'd again: but, out, alas! 'We bodg'd' again; as I have seen a swan With bootless labour swim against the tide, And spend her strength with over-matching waves. [A short alarum within. Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue; 'And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury: And, were I strong, I would not shun their fury "The sands are number'd, that make up my life; 'Here must I stay, and here my life must end. Enter Queen Margaret, Clifford, Northumberland,

and Soldiers.

'Come, bloody Clifford,-rough Northumberland,-
'I dare your quenchless fury to more rage;
I am your butt, and I abide
your shot.
North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Clif Ay, to such mercy, as his ruthless arm,
With downright payment, show'd unto my father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noontide prick.4
York. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth
A bird that will revenge upon you all :.
And, in that hope, I throw mine eyes to heaven,
Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.

(1) Since.

(2) Heaven grant this may be your greatest boast. Ovid. Epist.

So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons; So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives, Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.

York. O, Clifford, but bethink thee once again, And in thy thought o'er-run my former time: *And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face; And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice,

Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this. Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word; But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one.

[They lay hands on York, who struggles. Clif. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the coney struggle in the net. [York is taken prisoner. York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd

booty;

Come, make him stand upon this mole-hill here;
That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,
What! was it you, that would be England's king?
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.—
Was't you that revell'd in our parliament,
And made a preachment of your high descent?
Where are your mess of sons to back you now;
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George?

And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy,
Dicky your boy, that, with his grumbling voice,
Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies?
Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland?
Look, York; I stain'd this napkin' with the blood
That valiant Clifford, with his rapier's point,
Made issue from the bosom of the boy:
And, if thine eyes can water for his death,
I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal.
Ålas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly,
I should lament thy miserable state.

I

pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York: Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails, That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death? *Why art thou patient, man? thou should'st be mad; Thou would'st be fee'd, I see, to make me sport; *And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown.— A crown for York; and, lords, bow low to him. Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on.

[Putting a paper crown on his head.

(3) i. e. We boggled, made bad or bungling work of our attempt to rally.

(4) Noontide point on the dial. (5) Honest men. (6) Reached. (7) Handkerchief.

'Rich. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. Mess. Environed he was with many foes; And stood against them as the hope of Troy2 Against the Greeks, that would have enter'd *But Hercules himself must yield to odds; * And many strokes, though with a little axe, *Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak. 'By many hands your father was subdu'd; 'But only slaughter'd by the ireful arm 'Of unrelenting Clifford, and the queen: 'Who crown'd the gracious duke in high despite; 'Laugh'd in his face; and, when with grief he wept, 'The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks, 'A napkin steeped in the harmless blood 'Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain: And, after many scorns, many foul taunts, They took his head, and on the gates of York "They set the same; and there it doth remain, The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd.

Edw. Sweet duke of York, our prop to lean upon; Now thou art gone, we have no staff no stay! *O Clifford, boist'rous Clifford, thou hast slain The flower of Europe for his chivalry; And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him, *For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd thee !

Now my soul's palace is become a prison:
Ah, would she break from hence! that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest:
For never henceforth shall I joy again,
'Never, O never, shall I see more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep: for all my body's moisture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart: *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

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 come 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

Warwick?

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 War wick 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 cry-Charge upon our foes!
But never once again turn back, and fly.

Rich. Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick speak:

Ne'er may 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 Saint
George, for us!

Enter a Messenger.

War. How now? what news?

The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on;
And doves will peck, 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.

K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight; And learn this lesson,-Draw thy sword in right. Prince. My gracions 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 prince. (3) Foolishly.