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 Ladon all the crew are gone,
To frustrate bo 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 we will 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 fail'st (as God forbid the hour!) Must Edward fall, which peril Heaven forfend!

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 proclaimed
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 shewn it flinty by thy deeds),
I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.
Edw. Then strike up, drums :—God and Sai n
George for us!

Enter a Messenger.

War. How now; what news?

Mess.The Duke of Norfolk sends youword byme, The Queen is coming with a puissant host: And craves your company for speedy counsel. War. Why then it sorts, brave warriors: let's away. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.-Before York.

Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, the PRINCE OF WALES, CLIFFORD, and NORTHUMBERLAND, with Forces.

Q. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.

Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy
That sought to be encompassed with your crown
Doth not the object cheer your heart my lord?
K. Hen. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that
fear their wreck:

To see this sight it irks my very soul.
Withhold revenge, dear God! 't is not my fault
Not wittingly have I infringed my vow.

Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity
And harmful pity must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?
Not his that spoils her young before her face.
Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?
Not he that sets his foot upon her back.
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, blessed 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 wing)
Which sometime they have used with fearful flights
Make war with him that climbed 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 played 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 promised knighthood to our forward son: Unsheath your sword, and dub him presently.Edward, kneel down.

K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight: And learn this lesson,-Draw thy sword in right. Prince. My gracious 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.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Royal commanders, be in readiness; 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 best success when you are absent. Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.

K. Hen. Why that's my fortune too: therefore I'll stay.

North. Be it with resolution, then, to fight. Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble lords, And hearten those that fight in your defence. Unsheath your sword, good father: cry "Saint George!"

A March.

Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, WARWICK, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, and Soldiers. Edw. Now, perjured Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace?

And set thy diadem upon my head;

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Q. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy!

Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms,
Before thy sovereign and thy lawful King?

Edw. I am his king, and he should bow his knee: I was adopted heir by his consent:

Since when his oath is broke: for, as I hear,
You, that are king, though he do wear the crown,
Have caused him by new act of parliament,
To blot out me, and put his own son in.
Clif. And reason too:

Who should succeed the father but the son? Rich. Are you there, butcher?-O, I cannot speak!

Rich. For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight.

War. What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?

Q. Mar. Why,how now, long-tongued Warwick! dare you speak?

When you and I met at Saint Alban's last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.
War. Then 't was my turn to fly, and now 't is

thine.

Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled. War. 'T was not your valour, Clifford, drove

me thence.

North. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.

Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently: Break off the parle; for scarce I can refrain The execution of my big swoln heart Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

Clif. I slew 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 sunset I'll make thee curse the deed.
K. Hen. Have done with words, my lords, and
hear me speak.

Q. Mar. Defy them, then, or else hold close thy lips.

K. Hen. I pr'y thee give no limits to my tongue: I am a king, and privileged to speak.

Clif. My liege, the wound that bred this

meeting here

Cannot be cured by words: therefore be still.

Rich. Then, executioner, unsheath thy sword. By Him that made us all, I am resolved That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.

Edw. Say, Henry, shall 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 justice puts his armour on.

Prince. If that be right which Warwick says

is right,

There is no wrong, but every thing is right.

Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands: For well I wot thou hast thy mother's tongue. Q.Mar. But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam; But like a foul misshapen stigmatic, Marked by the destinies to be avoided, As venom toads' or lizards' dreadful stings. Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt, Whose father bears the title of a king (As if a channel should be called the sea), Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,

To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

Edw. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand

crowns,

To make this shameless callet know herself.-
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy husband may be Menelaus:
And ne'er was Agamemnon's brother wronged
By that false woman as this King by thee.
His father revelled in the heart of France,
And tamed the king and made the dauphin
stoop:

And had he matched according to his state,
He might have kept that glory to this day.
But when he took a beggar to his bed,
And graced thy poor sire with his bridal day;
Even then that sunshine brewed a shower for
him

That washed his father's fortunes forth of
France,

And heaped sedition on his crown at home.
For what hath broached this tumult but thy
pride?

Hadst thou been meek our title still had slept,
And we in pity of the gentle King,
Had slipped our claim until another age.

Geo. But when we saw our sunshine made thy
spring,

And that thy summer bred us no increase,
We set the axe to thy usurping root:

And though the edge hath something hit our

selves,

Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike,
We'll never leave till we have hewn thee down,
Or bathed thy growing with our heated bloods.
Edw. And in this resolution I defy thee:
Not willing any longer conference,
Since thou deny'st the gentle King to speak.—
Sound trumpets: let our bloody colours wave:
And either victory or else a grave!

Q. Mar. Stay, Edward.

Edw. No wrangling woman; we 'll no longer stay:

These words will cost ten thousand lives to-day.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III-A Field of Battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter WARWICK. War. Fore spent with toil, as runners with a

race,

I lay me down a little while to breathe:
For strokes received, and many blows repaid,
Have robbed my strong-knit sinews of their

strength,

And spite of spite needs must I rest awhile.

Enter EDWARD, running.

Edw. Smile, gentle Heaven; or strike, ungentle death!

For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded. War. How now, my lord: what hap? what hope of good?

Enter GEORGE.

Geo. Our hap is lost, our hope but sad despair: Our ranks are broke and ruin follows us. What counsel give you; whither shall we fly? Edw. Bootless is flight; they follow us with wings:

And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit.

Enter RICHARD.

Rich. Ah Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?

Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk
Broached with the steely point of Clifford's lance:
And in the very pangs of death he cried,
Like to a dismal clangour heard from far,
"Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!"
So underneath the belly of their steeds,
That stained their fetlocks in his smoking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

War. Then let the earth be drunken with our

blood:

I'll kill my horse because I will not fly.
Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were played in jest by counterfeiting actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above,
I'll never pause again, never stand still,
Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine,
Or fortune given me measure of revenge.

Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,
And in this vow do chain my soul to thine:
And, ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face,
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to Thee,
Thou setter-up and plucker-down of kings!
Beseeching Thee, if with Thy will it stands
That to my foes this body must be prey,
Yet that Thy brazen gates of heaven may ope,
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul!—
Now, lords, take leave, until we meet again,
Where'er it be, in heaven or on earth.

Rich. Brother, give me thy hand: and, gentle

Warwick,

Let me embrace thee in my weary arms.
I, that did never weep, now melt with woe
That winter should cut off our spring-time so.
War. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords,

farewell.

Geo. Yet let us all together to our troops, And give them leave to fly that will not stay;

Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea,
Forced to retire by fury of the wind:
Sometime the flood prevails; and then the wind:
Now one the better; then another best:
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror nor conqueréd:
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
Here on this molebill will I sit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory:
For Margaret my Queen, and Clifford too,
Have chid me from the battle; swearing both
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
'Would I were dead, if God's good will were so:
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and

years,

Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah what a life were this! how sweet, how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?
O yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
And to conclude,—the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade
(All which secure and sweetly he enjoys),
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couchéd in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his Father, dragging in the dead body.

Son. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight, May be possessed with some store of crowns: And I, that haply take them from him now,

May yet ere night yield both my life and them
To some man else, as this dead man doth me.—
Who's this?-O God! it is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I unwares have killed.
O heavy times, begetting such events!
From London by the King was I pressed forth:
My father, being the Earl of Warwick's man,
Came on the part of York, pressed by his master :
And I who at his hands received my life,
Have by my hands of life bereavéd him.
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did!
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee!
My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks;
And no more words till they have flowed their

fill.

K. Hen. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times! Whilst lions war and battle for their dens, Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.— Weep, wretched man, I 'll aid thee tear for tear; And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharged with grief.

Enter a Father who has killed his Son, with the body in his arms.

Fath. Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me,
Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold;
For I have bought it with an hundred blows.
But let me see: is this our foeman's face?
Ah no, no, no, it is mine only son!
Ah boy, if any life be left in thee,
Throw up thine eye; see, see, what showers arise,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart!
O pity, God, this miserable age!
What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!
O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late!
K. Hen. Woe above woe; grief more than
common grief!

O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!-
O pity, pity, gentle Heaven, pity;—
The red rose and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houses:
The one his purple blood right well resembles;
The other his pale cheeks, methinks, present:
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish!
If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.

Son. How will my mother for a father's death,
Take on with me and ne'er be satisfied?
Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son,
Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied?
K. Hen. How will the country, for these
woeful chances,

Misthink the King, and not be satisfied?