Wilt thou yeeld the Crowne? Qu. Why how now long-tongu'd Warwicke, dare you speak? When you and I, met at S. Albons last, Your legges did better service then your hands. 110 War. Then 'twas my turne to fly, and now 'tis thine: Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled. War. 'Twas not yout valor Clifford drove me thence. Nor. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay. Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently, Breake off the parley, for scarse I can refraine The execution of my big-swolne heart Upon that Clifford, that cruell Child-killer. Clif. I slew thy Father, cal'st thou him a Child? 120 Rich. I like a Dastard, and a treacherous Coward, As thou didd'st kill our tender Brother Rutland, But ere Sunset, Ile make thee curse the deed. King. Have done with words (my Lords) and heare me speake. Qu. Defie them then, or els hold close thy lips. I am a King, and priviledg'd to speake. Clif. My Liege, the wound that bred this meeting here, Cannot be cur'd by Words, therefore be still. Rich. Then Executioner unsheath thy sword: 130 Ed. Say Henry, shall I have my right, or no: A thousand men have broke their Fasts to day, That ne're shall dine, unlesse thou yeeld the Crowne. War. If thou deny, their Blood upon thy head, For Yorke in justice put's his Armour on. 114. yout: your-2-4F. Pr. Ed. If that be right, which Warwick saies is right, There is no wrong, but every thing is right. 140 War. [Rich.] Who ever got thee, there thy Mother stands, For well I wot, thou hast thy Mothers tongue. Qu. But thou art neyther like thy Sire nor Damme, But like a foule mishapen Stygmaticke, Mark'd by the Destinies to be avoided, As venome Toades, or Lizards dreadfull stings. Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,1 151 Ed. A wispe of straw were worth a thousand Crowns, To make this shamelesse Callet know her selfe: Helen of Greece was fayrer farre then thou, Although thy Husband may be Menelaus; 1extracted And ne're was Agamemnons Brother wrong'd By that false Woman, as this King by thee. His Father revel'd in the heart of France, 160 And tam'd the King, and made the Dolphin stoope: And grac'd thy poore Sire with his Bridall day, 141. given to Richard-Qo. War.: out-POPE. Had slipt our Claime, untill another Age. 170 Cla. But when we saw, our Sunshine made thy Spring, And though the edge hath something hit our selves, Qu. Stay Edward. 180 Ed. No wrangling Woman, wee'l no longer stay, These words will cost ten thousand lives this day. Exeunt omnes. [Scene iii. A field of battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire.] Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwicke. War. Fore-spent1 with Toile, as Runners with a Race, I lay me downe a little while to breath: lexhausted For strokes receiv'd, and many blowes repaid, Enter Edward running. Ed. Smile gentle heaven, or strike ungentle death, For this world frownes, and Edwards Sunne is clowded. War. How now my Lord, what happe? what hope of good? 180. denied'st: deniest-QQ. I I Enter Clarence. Cla. Our hap is losse, our hope but sad dispaire, Our rankes are broke, and ruine followes us. What counsaile give you? whether shall we flye? Ed. Bootlesse is flight, they follow us with Wings, And weake we are, and cannot shun pursuite. Enter Richard. Rich. Ah Warwicke, why hast thou withdrawn thy selfe? | Thy Brothers blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, That stain'd their Fetlockes in his smoaking blood, 20 War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood: Were plaid in jest, by counterfetting Actors. Till either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine, 30 Ed. Oh Warwicke, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chaine my soule to thine: And ere my knee rise from the Earths cold face, I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, Thou setter up, and plucker downe of Kings: 40 Beseeching thee (if with thy will it stands) Rich. Brother, Give me thy hand, and gentle Warwicke, Once more sweet Lords farwell. Cla. Yet let us altogether to our Troopes, [Scene iv. Excursions. Another part of the field.] Enter Richard and Clifford. 50 60 1 delay Exeunt Rich. Now Clifford, I have singled thee alone, Clif, Now Richard, I am with thee heere alone, This is the hand that stabb'd thy Father Yorke, And this the hand, that slew thy Brother Rutland, And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death, 49-50. I 1.-POPE. 54-5. I 1.-Q. |