York. How now? is Somerset at liberty?

Then, York, unloofe thy long imprifon'd thoughts,
And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart.
Shall I endure the fight of Somerfet?

Falfe King! why haft thou broken faith with me,
Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse?
King did I call thee? no, thou art no King:
Not fit to govern and rule multitudes,

Which durft not, no, nor canft not rule a traitor.
That head of thine doth not become a crown:`
Thy hand is made to grafp a palmer's staff,
And not to grace an awful princely fcepter.
That gold muft round engirt thefe brows of mine,
Whofe fmile and frown (like to Achilles' fpear)
Is able with the change to kill and cure.
Here is a hand to hold a scepter up,

And with the fame to act controlling laws:
Give place; by heav'n, thou fhalt rule no more
O'er him, whom heav'n created for thy ruler.

Som. O monftrous traitor! I arreft thee, York,
Of capital treafon 'gainst the King and crown;
Obey, audacious traitor, kneel for grace.

York. Sirrah, call in my fons to be my bail; (20) Would't have me kneel ? first, let me ask of these, If they can brook I bow a knee to man.

I know, ere they will let me go to ward,
They'll pawn their fwords for my enfranchisement.
Q. Mar. Call hither Clifford, bid him come amain,
To fay, if that the baftard boys of York

Shall be the furety for their traitor father.
York. O blood-befpotted Neapolitan,
Out-caft of Naples, England's bloody fcourge !
The fons of York, thy betters in their birth,

(20) Would't have me kneel? fift, let me ask of thefe,

If they can brook I bow a knee to man.

Sirrab, call in my fons to be my bail.] As thefe lines have hitherto Rood, I think the fenfe perplex'd and obfcure. I have ventur'd to tranfpofe them, and make a flight alteration, by the advice of my ingenious friend Mr. Warburton.

Shall

Shall be their father's bail, and bale to thofe (21)
That for my furety will refuse the boys,

Enter Edward and Richard,

See, where they come; I'll warrant, they'll make it good. Enter Clifford.

Q. Mar. And here comes Clifford, to deny their bail. Clif. Health and all happiness to my Lord the King! York. I thank thee, Clifford; fay, what news with thee? Nay, do not fright us with an angry look:

We are thy Sovereign, Clifford, kneel again;
For thy mistaking fo, we pardon thee.

Clif. This is my King, York, I do not mistake;
But thou miftak'ft me much, to think I do ;
To Bedlam with him, is the man grown mad?

K. Henry. Ay, Clifford, a Bedlam and ambitious humour Makes him oppofe himself against his King.

Clif. He is a traitor, let him to the Tower, And crop away that factious pate of his.

Q. Mar. He is arrested, but will not obey: His fons, he fays, fhall give their words for him. York. Will you not, fons ?

E. Plan. Ay, noble father, if our words will ferve. R. Plan. And if words will not, then our weapons fhall. Clif. Why, what a brood of traitors have we here York. Look in a glafs, and call thy image fo I am thy King, and thou a falfe-heart traitor; Call hither to the ftake my two brave bears, That with the very shaking of their chains

(21) Shall be their father's bail, and bane to thofe,] Confidering, how our author loves to play on words fimilar in their found, but oppofite in their fignification, I make no doubt but I have here restor'd his genuine reading. Bale, (from whence our common adjective, baleful) fignifies, detriment, ruin, misfortune, &c. We meet with this word again in Locrine, a play afcrib'd to our author, and printed above 20 years before his death

Yea, with these eyes thou haft feen her, and therefore pull them out, for they will work thy bale.

But I hall have occafion to enlarge my authorities for its ufage, when, I come to Coriolanus.

They

They may aftonish these fell-lurking curs:
Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me.

Enter the Earl of Warwick and Salisbury.

Clif. Are these thy bears? we'll bait thy bears to death, And manacle the bearward in their chains, If thou dar'ft bring them to the baiting place.

R. Plan. Oft have I feen a hot o'er-weening cur Run back and bite, becaufe he was with-held; Who, being fuffer'd with the bear's fell paw, Hath clapt his tail betwixt his legs and cry'd: And fuch a piece of fervice will you do, If you oppofe yourselves to match Lord Warwick. Chif. Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigefted lump, As crooked in thy manners, as thy fhape.

York. Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon.
Clif. Take heed, left by your heat you burn yourselves.
K. Henry. Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to bow?
Old Salisbury, fhame to thy filver hair,

Thou mad mif-leader of thy brain-fick fon,
What, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian,
And feek for forrow with thy fpectacles?
Oh, where is faith? oh, where is loyalty?
If it be banish'd from the frofty head,
Where fhall it find a harbour in the earth?
Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war,
And fhame thine honourable age with blood?
Why art thou old, and want'ft experience?
Or wherefore doft abuse it, if thou haft it?
For fhame, in duty bend thy knee to me,
That bows unto the grave with mickle age.
Sal. My Lord, I have confider'd with myself
The title of this most renowned Duke;

And in my confcience do repute his Grace
The rightful heir to England's royal feat.

K. Henry. Haft thou not fworn allegiance unto me?

Sal. I have.

[an oath K. Henry. Canft thoù difpenfe with heav'n for fuch Sal. It is great fin to fwear unto a fin;

But greater in to keep a finful oath :

Who

Who can be bound by any folemn vow
To do a murd'rous deed, to rob a man,
To force a spotlefs virgin's chastity,
To reave the orphan of his patrimony,
To wring the widow from her custom'd right,
And have no other reason for his wrong,
But that he was bound by a folemn oath ?

Q. Mar. A fubtle traitor needs no fophifter. K. Henry. Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself. York. Call Buckingham and all the friends thou hast, I am refolv'd for death or dignity.

Old Clif. The first I warrant thee; if dreams prove true.
War. You were beft go to bed and dream again,
To keep thee from the tempeft of the field.

Old Clif. I am refolv'd to bear a greater ftorm
Than any thou canft conjure up to-day:
And that I'll write upon thy burgonet,
Might I but know thee by thy houfe's badge.

War. Now by my father's badge, old Nevil's creft,
The rampant bear chain'd to the ragged staff,
This day I'll wear aloft my burgonet,
(As on a mountain-top the cedar fhews,
That keeps his leaves in fpight of any form,)
Ev'n to affright thee with the view thereof.

Old Clif. And from thy burgonet I'll rend thy bear, And tread it under foot with all contempt, Defpight the bear-ward, that protects the bear. Y. Clif. And fo to arms, victorious noble father, To quell the rebels and their complices.

R. Plan. Fy, charity for fhame, fpeak not in fpight, For you fhall fup with Jefu Chrift to-night.

Y.Clif. Foul ftigmatick, that's more than thou canst tell. R. Plan. If not in heav'n, you'll furely fup in hell. [Exeunt, feverally.

SCENE

SCENE changes to a Field of Battle at St. Albans.

Enter Warwick,

War. Clifford of Cumberland, 'tis Warwick calls;

And if thou doft not hide thee from the bear, (Now when the angry trumpet founds alarum, And dying mens cries do fill the empty air,) Clifford, I fay, come forth and fight with me; Proud northern Lord, Clifford of Cumberland, Warwick is hoarfe with calling thee to arms.

Enter York.

War. How now, my noble Lord? what all a-foot York. The deadly-handed, Clifford flew my fteed: But match to match I have encountred him, And made a prey for carrion kites and crows Ev'n of the bonny beaft he lov'd fo well.

Enter Clifford.

War. Of one or both of us the time is come. York. Hold, Warwick: feek thee out fome other chace, For I myself muft hunt this deer to death.

War. Then nobly, York; 'tis for a crown thou fight'ft; As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to-day,

It grieves my foul to leave thee unaffail'd. [Exit War. Clif. What feeft thou in me, York? why doft thou paufe? York. With thy brave bearing should I be in love, But that thou art so fast mine enemy.

Clif. Nor fhould thy prowefs want praise and esteem, But that 'tis fhewn ignobly, and in treafon.

York. So let it help me now against thy fword,

As I in juftice and true right express it.

Clif. My foul and body on the action both !

York. A dreadful lay, addrefs thee inftantly. [Fight. Clif. La fin couronne les œuvres.

[Dies.

York. Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art ftill; Peace with his foul, heav'n, if it be thy will! [Exit.

Enter