Tell our Devotion with revengeful Arms?
If for the last, say Ay, and to it Lords.
War. Why therefore Warwick came to seek you out,
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 easie-melting King, like Wax;
He swore consent to your Succession,
His Oath enrolled in the Parliament,
And now to London all the Crew are gone,
To frustrate both his Oath, and what befide
May make against the House of Lancaster.
Their Power, I think, is thirty thousand strong:
Now if the help of Norfolk, and my felf,
With all the Friends that thou brave Earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welchmen, canst procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,
Why Via! to London will we march,
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 Sun-shine Day,
That crys Retire, if Warwick bid him stay.
Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy Shoulder will I lean,
And when thou fail'ft (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 proclaim'd
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 found 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 St. George for us.
Enter a Messenger.
War. How now? What News?
Mes. The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,
The Queen is coming with a puissant Hoft,
And craves your Company for speedy Counsel.
War. Why then it forts, brave Warriors let's away.
Enter King Henry, the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland, and the Prince of Wales, with Drums and Trumpets. Queen. Welcome, my Lord, to this brave Town of York, Yonder's the Head of that Arch-enemy, That fought to be encompast with your Crown. Doth not the Object cheer your Heart, my Lord?
K. Henry. Ay,asthe Rocks cheer them that fear their Wrack;
To fee this fight it irks my very Soul:
With-hold Revenge, dear God, 'tis not my faulta
Nor wittingly have I infring'd my Vow.
Clif. My gracious Liege, this too much Lenity
And harmless Pity must be laid afide:
To whom do Lions cast their gentle Looks?
Not to the Beast that would ufurp 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 raife his Issue like a loving Sire;
Thou being a King, blest 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 Wings,
Which fometimes they have us'd with fearful flight,
Make War with him that climb'd unto their Neft,
Offering their own Lives in their Young's Defence?
For Shame, my Liege, make them your Prefident:
Were it not pity, that this goodly Boy
Should lose his Birth-right by his Father's Fault,
And long hereafter say unto his Child,
What my great Grandfather and Grandfire got,
My careless Father fondly gave away.
Ah, what a Shame was this? look on the Boy,
And let his manly Face, which promifeth
Successful Fortune, steel thy melting Heart,
To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him,
King. Full well hath Clifford plaid 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 hoording 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 Poffeffion any jot of Pleasure.
Ah Cousin York, would thy best Friends did know,
How it doth grieve me that thy Head is here.
Queen. My Lord, cheer up your Spirits, our Foes are nigh, And this foft Courage makes your Followers faint: You promis'd Knighthood to our forward Son, Unheath your Sword, and dub him presently. Edward, kneel down.
King. Edward Plantagenet, arife 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.
Mef. 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 Battel, they are near at hand.
Clif. I would your Highness would depart the Field, The Queen hath best Succefs when you are absent.
Queen. Ay, good my Lord, and leave us to our Fortune. K. Henry. Why that's my Fortune too, therefore I'llstay. 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 St. George. March. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Clarence, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers.
Edw. Now perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for Grace,
And fet thy Diadem upon my Head;
Or bide the Mortal Fortune of the Field?
Queen. Go rate thy Minions, proud insulting Boy,
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in Terms,
Before thy Soveraign, 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 caus'd him, by new Act of Parliament,
To blot out me, and put his own Son in.
Who should fucceed the Father, but the Son ?
Rich. Are you there, Butcher? O, I cannot speak.
Clif. Ay, Crook-back, here I stand to answer thee,
Or any he, the proudest of thy sort.
Rich. 'Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not? Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not fatisfy'd.
Rich. For God's fake, Lords, give Signal to the Fight. War. What say'st thou, Henry,
Wilt thou yield the Crown?
Queen. Why how now, long-tongu'd Warwick, dare you
When you and I met at St. Albans last,
Your Legs did better Service than your Hands.
War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine.
Clif. You faid so much before, and yet you fled.
War. 'Twas 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 Parley, for scarce I can refrain
The Execution of my big-swoln Heart
Upon that Clifford, that cruel Child-killer.
Clif. I flew 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 e'er Sun set, I'll make thee curse the Deed.
K. Henry. Have done with Words, my Lords, and hear me speak.
Queen. Defie them then, or else hold close thy Lips.
K. Henry. I prithee give no Limits to my Tongue,
I am a King, and privileg'd to speak.
Clif. My Liege, the Wound that bred this Meeting here Cannot be cur'd by Words, therefore be still.
Rich. Then, Execution, re-unsheath thy Sword:
By him that made us all, I am refolv'd
That Clifford's Manhood lyes 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.
War. Who ever got thee, there thy Mother stands,
For well I wot, thou hast thy Mother's Tongue.
Queen. But thou art neither like thy Sire nor Dam,
But like a foul mishapen Stigmatick,
Mark'd by the Destinies to be avoided,
As venomous Toads, or Lizards dreadful Stings.
Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English Gilt,
Whose Father bears the Title of a King,
(As if a Kennel should be call'd 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 her self.
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy Husband may be Menelaus,
And ne'er was Agamemnon's Brother wrong'd
By that false Woman, as this King by thee.
His Father revell'd in the Heart of France,
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