SCENE V.

Changes to a Field of Battle at Ferribridge in Yorkshire,

War.

F

Alarm. Excurfions. Enter Warwick.

ORE-spent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe, For ftrokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid, Have robb'd my ftrong-knit finews of their ftrength; And, fpight of spight, needs must I rest a while.

Enter Edward running.

Edw. Smile, gentle heav'n! or ftrike, ungentle death!

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

Enter Clarence.

Cla. Our hap is lofs, our hope but fad despair;
Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us.
What counsel give you? whither shall we fly?

Edw. Bootlefs is flight, they follow us with wings; And weak we are, and cannot fhun pursuit.

*

Enter Richard.

Rich. Ah, Warwick, why haft thou withdrawn thyfelf?

Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,

*Thy Brother's Blood the thirfty Earth bath drunk,] This Paffage, from the Variation of the Copies, gave me no little Perplexity. The old 4to applies this Defcription to the Death of

Broach'd

Salisbury, Warwick's Father. But this was a notorious Deviation from the Truth of History. For the Earl of Salisbury in the Battle at Wakefield, wherein Rich ard Duke of York loft his Life,

was

Broach'd with the fteely point of Clifford's lance,
And in the very pangs of death he cry'd,
(Like to a difmal clangor heard from far)
Warwick, revenge; brother, revenge my death.
So underneath the bell of their fleeds,

That ftain'd their fetlocks in his fmoaking blood,
The noble Gentleman gave up the ghost.

War. Then let the Earth be drunken with our blood;
I'll kill my horfe, because I will not fly.
Why stand we like foft-hearted women here,
Wailing our loffes, whiles the foe doth rage,
And look upon, as if the Tragedy
Were plaid in jeft by counterfeiting Actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above,
I'll never paufe again, never stand still,
Till either Death hath clos'd thefe eyes of mine,
Or Fortune give me meafure of revenge.

Edw. Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,
And in this vow do chain my foul with thine.
And ere my knee rife from the earth's cold face,
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,
Thou Setter up, and Plucker down, of Kings!
Befeeching thee, if with thy will it ftands
That to my foes this body must be

prey,
Yet that thy brazen gates of heav'n may ope,
And give fweer paffage to my finful soul.—
Now, Lords, take leave until we meet again;
Where-e'er it be, in heaven or on earth.

was taken Prifoner, beheaded at Pomfret, and his Head, together with the Duke of York's, fix'd over York-gates. Then, the only Brother of Warwick, introduc'd in this Play, is the Marquefs of Montacute; (or Mountague, as he is call'd by our Author:) but he does not dye, till ten years after, in the Battle at Barnet; where Warwick likewife was kill'd.

The truth is, the Brother here mention'd, is no Ferfon in the Drama: and his Death is only an incidental Piece of Hiftory. Confulting the Chronicles, upon this Action at Ferribridge, I find him to have been a natural Son of Salisbury, (in that refpect, a Brother to Warwick;) and efteem'd a valiant young Gentleman. THEOBALD.

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 fpring time fo.
War. Away, away. Once more, fweet Lords, farewel,
Cla. Yet let us all together to our troops,
And give them leave to fly, that will not stay,
And call them pillars that will ftand to us,
And, if we thrive, promise them fuch rewards.
As Victors wear at the Olympian Games.

This may plant courage in their quailing breasts,
For yet is hope of life and victory.

-Fore-flow no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunt.

Excurfions. Enter Richard and Clifford.

Rich. Now, Clifford, I have fingled thee alone;
Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York,
And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge,
Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall.

Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone,
This is the hand that ftabb'd thy father York;
And this the hand that flew thy brother Rutland;
And here's the heart that triumphs in their death,
And cheers these hands that flew thy fire and brother,
To execute the like upon thyfelf;

And fo have at thee.

They fight. Warwick enters, Clifford flies

Rich. Nay, Warwick, fingle out fome other chase, For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

[Exeunt.

K. Henry. This battle fares like to the morning's war, When dying clouds contend with growing light,

What time the fhepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now fways it this way like a mighty fea
Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now fways it that way, like the self-same sea
Forc'd 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, breaft to breast,
Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered,
So is the equal poize of this fell war.
Here on this mole-hill will I fit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret my Queen and Clifford too
Have chid me from the battle; fwearing both,
They profper best of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead, if God's good will were fo,
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! methinks it were a happy life 2
To be no better than a homely fwain,
To fit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials queintly, point by point,
Thereby to fee the minutes how they run,
How many make the hour full compleat,
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 time;
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours muft I take my reft;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I fport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;

2

methinks it were a happy life] This speech is mournful and foft, exquifitely fuited to the charactor of the king, and makes a pleafing interchange,

by affording, amidft the tumult and horrour of the battle, an unexpected glimpfe of rural innocence and paftoral tranquillity.

So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many months ere I fhall fheer the fleece;
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years,
Paft over, to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah! what a life were this! how fweet, how lovely!
Gives not the haw-thorn bush a sweeter shade
To fhepherds looking on their filly fheep,
Than doth a rich-embroider'd canopy

To Kings, that fear their fubjects' treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
And, to conclude, the fhepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted fleep under a fresh tree's fhade,
All which secure and fweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a Prince's delicates,
His viands fparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched on a curious bed,

When care, mistrust and treasons wait on him.

Alarm. Enter a Son that had kill'd his Father.*
Son. Ill blows the wind, that profits no body.-
This man, whom hand to hand I flew in fight,
May be poffeffed with fome ftore of crowns;
And I that haply take them from him now,
May yet, ere night, yield both my life and them
To fome man elfe, as this dead man doth me.
-Who's this! oh God! it is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd:
Oh heavy times, begetting fuch events!
From London by the King was I prest forth;
My father, being the Earl of Warwick's man,
Came on the part of York, preft by his master:
And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life,
Have by my hands of life bereaved him.

*Thefe two horrible incidents are felected to show the innumerable calamities of civil war.

Pardon