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Is kindling Coals that fire up all my Breaft,

And burn me up with Flames, that Tears would quench.

To weep, is to make lefs 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.

Rich. Nay, if thou be that Princely Eagle's Bird,
Shew thy defcent, by gazing 'gainst the Sun:
For Chair and Dukedom, Throne and Kingdom fay,
Either that is thine, or elfe 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 deliverance Stab Poinards in our Flesh, 'till all were told,

The Words would add more anguish than the Wounds. O, valiant Lord, the Duke of York is fin.

Edw. O, Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet,
Which held thee dearly as his Soul's Redemption,
Is by the ftern 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 fith then befale."
After the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave Father fought his latest Gafp,
Tidings, as fwiftly as the Poft could run,
Were brought me of your Lofs, and his depart,
I then in London, Keeper of the King,

Mufter'd my Soldiers, gather'd fucks of Friends,
March'd towards St. Albans to intercept the Q een,
Bearing the King in my behalf along:

For by my Scouts I was advertised

That he was coming, with a full intent
To dafh our late Decree in Parliament,

Touching King Henry's Oath, ard your Succeffion:
Short Tale to make, we at St. Albans met,
Our Battels join'd, and both fides fiercely fought;
But whether 'twas the coldness of the King,

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Who look'd full gently on his Warlike Queen,
That robb'd my Soldiers of their heated Spleen;
Or whether 'twas report of her Success,

Or more than common fear of Clifford's Rigour,
Who thunders to his Captives Blood and Death,
I cannot judge; but to conclude with Truth,
Their Weapons like to Lightning, came and went:
Our Soldiers like the Night-Owl's lazy flight,
Or like a lazy Thresher with a Flail,

Fell gently down, as if they ftruck their Friends.
I cheer'd them up with Juftice of our Cause,
With Promife of high Pay, and great Reward:
But all in vain, they had no heart to fight,
And we, in them, no hope to win the Day,
So that we fled; the King unto the Queen,
Lord George your Brother, Norfolk, and my self,
In hafte, Poft-hafte, are come to join with you:
For in the Marches here we heard you were,
Making another Head, to fight again,

Edw. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick? And when came George from Burgundy to England?

War. Some fix miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers; And for your Brother, he was lately fent

From your kind Aunt, Dutchefs of Burgundy,
With aid of Soldiers to this needful War.

Rich. 'Twas odds belike when valiant Warwick fled;
Oft have I heard his Praises in Purfuit,

But ne'er, 'till now, his Scandal of Retire.

War. Nor now my Scandal, Richard, doft thou hear: For thou shalt know this ftrong right Hand of mine Can pluck the Diadem from faint Henry's Head, And wring the awful Scepter from his Fift, Were he as famous, and as bold in War, And he is fam'd for Mildness, Peace and Prayer. Rich. I krew it well, Lord Warwick, blame me not, 'Tis love I bear thy Glories makes me fpeak. But in this troublous time what's to be done? Shall we go throw away our Coats of Steel, And wrap our Bodies in black mourning Gowns, Numb'ring our Ave Maries with our Beads. Or fhall we on the Helmets of our Foes,

Tell

Tell our Devotion with revengeful Arms?
If for the laft, fay Ay, and to it Lords.

War. Why therefore Warwick came to feek you out,
And therefore comes my Brother Montague:
Attend me Lords, the proud infulting Queen,
With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland,
And of their Feather many more proud Birds,
Have wrought the cafie-melting King, like Wax;
He fwore confent to your Succeffion,

His Oath enrolled in the Parliament,

And now to London all the Crew are gone,
To fruftrate 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,

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With all the Friends that thou brave Earl of March,
Amosgft the loving Welchmen, canft procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,
Why Via! to London will we march,
And once again beftride 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 fee a Sun-fhine 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) Muft 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 fhalt 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 He.d. 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 haft fhewn it flinty by thy Deeds,

I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.

Edw. Then ftrike up Drums, God and St. George for us.

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Enter a Messenger.

War. How now? What News?

Mef. The Duke of Norfolk fends you word by me,
The Queen is coming with a puiffant Hoft,
And craves your Company for fpeedy Counfel.

War. Why then it forts, brave Warriors let's away.
Exeunt omnes.

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,as the Rocks cheer them that fear their Wrack; To fee this fight it irks my very Soul:

With-hold Revenge, dear God, 'tis not my fault,
Nor wittingly have I infring'd my Vow.

Clif. My gracious Liege, this too much Lenity
And harmless Pity must be laid aside:
To whom do Lions çaft their gentle Looks?
Not to the Beaft that would ulurp their Den. I
Whole Hand is that the Foreft Bear doth lick?
Not his that spoils her young before her Face.
Who fcapes the lurking Serpent's mortal fting?
Not he that fets his Foot upon her Back.
The smalleft Worm will turn, being trodden on,
And Doves will peck in fafeguard of their Brood.
Ambitious Tork did level at thy Crown,
Thou fmiling, while he knit his angry Brows.
He but a Duke, would have his Son a King,
And raife his Iffue like a loving Sire;
Thou being a King, bleft with a goodly Son,
Didft yield confent to difinherit him;
Which argued thee a moft unloving Father.
Unreasonable Creatures feed their Young,
And though Man's Face be fearful to their Eyes,
Yet in protection of their tender ones,

Tho hath not feen them even with thofe Wings,
Wich 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

For Shame, my Liege, make them your Prefident:
Were it not pity, that this goodly Boy
Should lofe his Birth-right by his Father's Fault,
And long hereafter fay 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, fteel 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, didft thou never hear,
That things ill got, had ever bad Succefs.
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 reft is held at fuch a Rate,
As brings a thoufand-fold more Care to keep,
Than in Poffeffion any jot of Pleasure.

Ah Coufin York, would thy beft 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,
Unsheath your Sword, and dub him prefently.
Edward, kneel down.

King. Edward Plantagenet, arise a Knigh',
And learn this Leffon, 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.

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Clif. Why that is fpoken like a toward Prince.
Enter a Meffenger.

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.

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