ACT SECOND

SCENE I

A plain near Mortimer's Cross in Herefordshire. A march. Enter Edward, Richard, and their power.

Edw. I wonder how our princely father 'scaped, Or whether he be 'scaped away or no

From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit. Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news;

Had he been slain, we should have heard the news;

Or had he 'scaped, methinks we should have heard

The happy tidings of his good escape.

How fares my brother? why is he so sad?

Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolved

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Where our right valiant father is become.
I saw him in the battle range about;
And watch'd him how he singled Clifford forth.
Methought he bore him in the thickest troop
As doth a lion in a herd of neat;

Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs,

14. "Neat," says Richardson, "seems properly to denote horned cattle, from the A. S. Hnit-an, cornu petere, to butt or strike with the horn."-H. N. H.

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Who having pinch'd a few and made them cry, The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him. So fared our father with his enemies; So fled his enemies my warlike father: Methinks, 'tis prize enough to be his son. See how the morning opes her golden gates, And takes her farewell of the glorious sun! How well resembles it the prime of youth, Trimm'd like a younker prancing to his love! Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns? Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun; Not separated with the racking clouds, But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky. See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss, As if they vow'd some league inviolable: Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun. In this the heaven figures some event.

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Edw. 'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.

I think it cites us, brother, to the field,
That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our meeds,

Should notwithstanding join our lights to-
gether,

20. "Methinks, 'tis prize enough to be his son"; 'Ff.; Warburton (from Qq.), "pride.”—I. G.

32. The battle of Mortimer's Cross took place February 2, 1461, and the event of the text is spoken of by the chroniclers as having happened on the morning of that day: "At which time the sunne, as some write, appeared to the earle of March like three sunnes, and suddenlie joined altogither in one. Upon which sight he tooke such courage, that he fiercelie setting on his enemies put them to flight: and for this cause men imagined, that he gave the sunne in his full brightnesse for his badge or cognizance.”—H. N. H.

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And over-shine the earth as this the world. Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear Upon my target three fair-shining suns. Rich. Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I speak it,

You love the breeder better than the male.

Enter a Messenger.

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue? Mess. Ah, one that was a woful looker-on

When as the noble Duke of York was slain, Your princely father and my loving lord! Edw. O, speak no more, for I have heard too much. Rich. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. Mess. Environed he was with many foes,

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And stood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks that would have enter'd
Troy.

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 subdued;
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 61
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, boisterous 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!

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

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Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great
burthen;

For selfsame wind that I should speak withal
Is kindling coals that fires all my breast,
And burns me up with flames that tears would
quench.

To weep is to make less the depth of grief:
Tears then for babes; blows and revenge for
me!

Richard, I bear thy name; I'll venge thy death,
Or die renowned by attempting it.

Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left with

thee:

His dukedom and his chair with me is left. 90 Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird, Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun: For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom

say;

Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. March. Enter Warwick, Marquess of Montague, and their army.

War. How now, fair lords! What fare? what news abroad?

Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount

Our baleful news, and at each word's deliver

ance

Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,

The words would add more anguish than the wounds.

O valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain! 100
Edw. O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet,
Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption,
Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.
War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears;
And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things sith then befall'n.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breathed his latest
gasp,

Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,
Were brought me of your loss and his depart.
I, then in London, keeper of the king,
Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends,

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