I saw him in the Battaile range about,
And watcht him how he singled Clifford forth.
Me thought he bore him in the thickest troupe,
As doth a Lyon in a Heard of Neat,

20

Or as a Beare encompass'd round with Dogges:
Who having pincht a few, and made them cry,
The rest stand all aloofe, and barke at him.
So far'd our Father with his Enemies,
So fled his Enemies my Warlike Father:
Me thinkes 'tis prize enough to be his Sonne.
See how the Morning opes her golden Gates,
And takes her farwell of the glorious Sunne.
How well resembles it the prime of Youth,
Trimm'd like a Yonker, prauncing to his Love?
Ed. Dazle mine eyes, or doe I see three Sunnes?
Rich. Three glorious Sunnes, each one a perfect Sunne,
Not seperated with the racking Clouds,
But sever'd in a pale cleare-shining Skye.

See, see, they joyne, embrace, and seeme to kisse,
As if they vow'd some League inviolable.

30

Now are they but one Lampe, one Light, one Sunne: In this, the Heaven figures some event.

Edward. 'Tis wondrous strange,

The like yet never heard of.

I thinke it cites us (Brother) to the field,
That wee, the Sonnes of brave Plantagenet,
Each one alreadie blazing by our meedes,

Should notwithstanding joyne our Lights together, 40
And over-shine the Earth, as this the World.
What ere it bodes, hence-forward will I beare
Upon my Targuet three faire shining Sunnes.
Richard. Nay, beare three Daughters:

35-6. I 1.-POPE.

44-5. 1 1.-POPE.

By your leave, I speake it,

You love the Breeder better then the Male.

Enter one blowing.

But what art thou, whose heavie Lookes fore-tell
Some dreadfull story hanging on thy Tongue?

Mess. Ah, one that was a wofull looker on,
When as the Noble Duke of Yorke was slaine,
Your Princely Father, and my loving Lord.

50

Edward. Oh speake no more, for I have heard too much.

Richard. Say how he dy'de, for I will heare it all.
Mess. Environed he was with many foes,

And stood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greekes, that would have entred Troy.
But Hercules himselfe must yeeld to oddes:
And many stroakes, though with a little Axe,
Hewes downe and fells the hardest-tymber'd Oake.

By many hands your Father was subdu'd,
But onely slaught'red by the irefull Arme
Of un-relenting Clifford, and the Queene:
Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high despight,
Laugh'd in his face: and when with griefe he wept,
The ruthlesse Queene gave him, to dry his Cheekes,
A Napkin, steeped in the harmelesse blood

Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slaine:
And after many scornes, many foule taunts,
They tooke his Head, and on the Gates of Yorke
They set the same, and there it doth remaine,

The saddest spectacle that ere I view'd.

60

70

Edward. Sweet Duke of Yorke, our Prop to leane upon, Now thou art gone, wee have no Staffe, no Stay.

61. Hewes .. fells: Hew .. fell-POPE

80

Oh Clifford, boyst' rous Clifford, thou hast slaine
The flowre of Europe, for his Chevalrie,
And trecherously hast thou vanquisht him,
For hand to hand he would have vanquisht thee.
Now my Soules Pallace is become a Prison:
Ah, would she breake from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest:
For never henceforth shall I joy againe:
Never, oh never shall I see more joy.

89

Rich. I cannot weepe: for all my bodies moysture Scarse serves to quench my Furnace-burning hart: No can my tongue unloade my hearts great burthen, For selfe-same winde that I should speake withall, Is kindling coales that fires all my brest, And burnes me up with flames, that tears would quench. Το weepe, is to make lesse the depth of greefe: Teares then for Babes; Blowes, and Revenge for mee. Richard, I beare thy name, Ile venge thy death, Or dye renowned by attempting it.

Ed. His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee: His Dukedome, and his Chaire with me is left.

Rich. Nay, if thou be that Princely Eagles Bird, Shew thy descent by gazing 'gainst the Sunne: For Chaire and Dukedome, Throne and Kingdome say, Either that is thine, or else thou wer't not his. 100

March. Enter Warwicke, Marquesse Mountacute, and their Army.

Warwick. How now faire Lords? What faire? What newes abroad?

Rich. Great Lord of Warwicke, if we should recompt Our balefull newes, and at each words deliverance

105. recompt: recount-3-4F.

Stab Poniards in our flesh, till all were told,

The words would adde more anguish then the wounds. O valiant Lord, the Duke of Yorke is slaine.

Edw. O Warwicke, Warwicke, that Plantagenet 110 Which held thee deerely, as his Soules Redemption, Is by the sterne Lord Clifford done to death.

War. Ten dayes ago, I drown'd these newes in teares.
And now to adde more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things sith then befalne.
After the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave Father breath'd his latest gaspe,
Tydings, as swiftly as the Postes could runne,
Were brought me of your Losse, and his Depart.
I then in London, keeper of the King,
Muster'd my Soldiers, gathered flockes of Friends,
[And verie well appointed as I thought,]

Marcht toward S. Albons, to intercept the Queene,
Bearing the King in my behalfe along:
For by my Scouts, I was advertised
That she was comming with a full intent
To dash our late Decree in Parliament,

120

130

Touching King Henries Oath, and your Succession:
Short Tale to make, we at S. Albons met,
Our Battailes joyn'd, and both sides fiercely fought:
But whether 'twas the coldnesse of the King,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queene,
That robb'd my Soldiers of their heated Spleene.
Or whether 'twas report of her successe,
Or more then common feare of Cliffords 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:

121-2. bracketed 1.-Q.

8

Our Souldiers like the Night-Owles lazie flight,

Or like a lazie Thresher with a Flaile,

Fell gently downe, as if they strucke their Friends. 140
I cheer'd them up with justice of our Cause,
With promise of high pay, and great Rewards:
But all in vaine, they had no heart to fight,
And we (in them) no hope to win the day,
So that we fled: the King unto the Queene,
Lord George, your Brother, Norfolke, and my Selfe,
In haste, post haste, are come to joyne with you:
For in the Marches heere we heard you were,
Making another Head, to fight againe.

149

Ed. Where is the Duke of Norfolke, 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 kinde Aunt Dutchesse of Burgundie,
With ayde of Souldiers to this needfull Warre.

Rich. 'Twas oddes belike, when valiant Warwick fled; Oft have I heard his praises in Pursuite,

But ne're till now, his Scandall of Retire.

War. Nor now my Scandall Richard, dost thou heare: For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine, 160 Can plucke the Diadem from faint Henries head, And wring the awefull Scepter from his Fist, Were he as famous, and as bold in Warre, As he is fam'd for Mildnesse, Peace, and Prayer.

Rich. I know it well Lord Warwick, blame me not, 'Tis love I beare thy glories make me speake: But in this troublous time, what's to be done? Shall we go throw away our Coates of Steele, And wrap our bodies in blacke mourning Gownes,

139. a lazie: an idle-QQ.

166. make: makes-2-4F.