Oh Clifford, boift'rous Clifford, thou haft flain
The Flower of Europe for his Chivalry,
And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him,
For Hand to Hand he would have vanquish'd thee;
Now my Soul's Palace is become a Prison:
Ah, would fhe break from hence, that this my Body
Might in the Ground be clofed up in reft;
For never henceforth fhall I joy again,
Never, oh never fhall I fee more joy.
Rich. I cannot weep, for all my Body's moisture
Scarce ferves to quench my Furnace-burning Heart:
Nor can my Tongue unload my Heart's great burthen,
For felf-fame Wind that I fhould speak withal,
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 'gainft the Sun:
For Chair and Dukedom, Throne and Kingdom fay,
Either that is thine, or elfe thou wert not his.
March. Enter Warwick, Marquis 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 Poniards in our Flesh, 'till all were told,
The Words would add more anguish than the Wounds.
O, valiant Lord, the Duke of York is flain.
Edw. O, Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet.
Which held thee dearly as his Soul's Redemption,
Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to Death.
War. Ten days ago I drown'd thefe News a tears,
And now to add more measure to your Woes,
I come to tell you things fith then befaln.
After the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave Father breath'd his latest Gafp,
Tidings, as fwiftly as the Pofts 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 flocks of Friends,
March'd towards St. Albans to intercept the Queen,
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, and 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,
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 Threasher with a Flail,
Fell gently down, as if thy truck 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 felf,
In hafte, Post-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, Detchefs of Burgundy,
With aid of Soldiers to this needful War.
Rich. 'Twas odds belike when valiant Warwick fled; Oft have I heard his Praifes in Purfuit,
But ne'er, till now, his Scandal of Retire.
War Nor now my Scandal, Richard, doft thou hear: For thou fhalt 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 know 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 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 eafie-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 againft the Houfe of Lancaster
Their Power, I think, is thirty thousand ftrong:
Now if the help of Norfolk, and my felf,
With all the Friends that thou brave Earl of March,
Amongst 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 Focs,
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 cries 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 Heav'n forfend.
War. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York:
The next degree is England's Royal Throne:
For King of England halt 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 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.
Enter a Meffeager.
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.
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
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 afide:
To whom do Lions caft their gentle Looks?
Not to the Beast that would ufurp their Den.
Whofe Hand is that the Foreft Bear doth lick?
Not his that spoils her young before her Face.
Who feapes the lurking Serpent's mortal Sting?
Not he that fets his Foot upon her Back.
The smallest Worm will turn, being trodden on,
And Doves will peck in fafeguard of their Brood.
Ambitious York did level at thy Crown,
Thou fmiling, while he knit his angry Brows.
He but a Duke, would have his Son a King,
And raise 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 tho' 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 clim'd unto their Neft,
Offering their own Lives in their Young's Defence ?
For Shame, my Liege, make them 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, feel 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 Success.
And happy always was it for that Son,
Whose Father for his hoording went to Hell:
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