I'll leave my Son my virtuous Deeds behind, As brings a thoufand-fold more Care to keep, Ah Coufin York, would thy beft Friends did know, Queen. My Lord, cheer up your Spirits, our Foes are nigh, King. Edward Plantagenet, arife a Knight, And in that Quarrel ufe it to the Death. Clif. Why that is spoken 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. Clif. I would your Highnefs would depart the Field, The Queen hath beft Succefs when you are abfent. Queen. Ay, good my Lord, and leave us to our Fortune. K. Henry. Why that's my Fortune too, therefore I'll ftay.. North. Be it with Resolution then to fight. Prince. My Royal Father, cheer thefe 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 infulting Boy, Edw. I am his King, and he fhould bow his Knee; Since when, his Oath is broke: for as I hear, Who fhould fucceed the Father, but the Son? Or Rich. Are you there, Butcher? O, I cannot speak. Clif. Ay, Crook back, here I ftand to answer thee, any he, the proudeft of thy fort. Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd 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 fay'ft thou, Henry, Wilt thou yield the Crown? I Queen. Why how now, long-tongu'd Warwick, dare you When you and I met at St. Albans laft, Your Legs did better Service than your Hands. [fpeak? War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine. Clif. You faid fo much before, and yet you fled. War. 'Twas not your Valour, Clifford, drove methence. North. No, nor your Manhood that durft make you ftay. Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently, Break off the Parley, for fcarce I can refrain The Execution of my big-fwoln Heart Upon that Clifford that cruel Child-killer. Clif. I dew thy Father, call'st thou him a Child? Rich. Ay, like a Daftard, and a treacherous Coward, As thou didst kill our tender Brother Rutland: But ere Sun fet, I'll make thee curfe the Decd. K. Henry. Have done with Words, my Lords, and hear me speak. Queen. Defie them then, or elfe hold close thy Lips. K. Henry. I prithee give no Limits to my Tongue, 1 I am a King, and privileg'd to fpeak. Clif. My Liege, the Wound that bred this meeting here Cannot be cur'd by Words, therefore be still. Rich. Then, Execution, re-unfheath thy Sword: Edw. Say, Henry, fhall I have my right, or no: Prince. If that be right, which Warwick fays is right, There is no Wrong, but every thing is right. War. Who ever got thee there thy Mother ftands, For well I wot, thou haft thy Mother's Tongue. Queen. But thou art neither like thy Sire nor Dam, But like a foul mishapen Stigmatick, Mark'd by the Deftinies to be avoided, As venomous Toads, or Lizards dreadful Stings. Sham'ft thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, Edw. A Wifp of Straw were worth a thoufand Crowns, To make this fhamelefs Callet know her felf. 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 falfe Woman, as this King by thee. His Father revell'd in the Heart of France, And tam'd the King, and made the Dauphin ftoop: And had he match'd according to his State, He might have kept that Glory to this Day. But when he took a Beggar to his Bed, And grac'd thy poor Sire with his Bridal Day, Even then that Sun-fhine brew'd a Shower for him, That wash'd his Father's Fortunes forth of France, And heap'd Sedition on his Crown at home: For For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy Pride? Had flipt our Claim until another Age. Cla. But when we faw our Sunshine made thy Spring, And that thy Summer bred us no encrease, We set the Ax to thy ufurping Root; And though the Edge hath fomething hit our felves, Edw. No, wrangling Woman, we'll no longer stay. Thefe Words will coft ten thousand Lives this Day. [Exeunt omnes. Alarum. Excurfions. Enter Warwick. War, Fore-fpent with Toil, as Runners with a Race, I lay me down a little while to breathe: For Strokes receiv'd, and many Blows repaid, Have robb'd my ftrong-knit Sinews of their Strength, Enter Edward running. Edw. Smile, gentle Heav'n; or ftrike, ungentle Death; For this World frowns, and Edward's Sun 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, Eaw. 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 thy felf? Thy Brother's Blood the thirsty Earth hath drunk, That ftain'd their Fetlocks in his fmoaking Blood, War. Then let the Earth be drunken with our Blood; I'll kill my Horse because I will not fly: Why ftand we like foft-hearted Women here, Were plaid in jeft by counterfeiting Actors. 'Till either Death hath clos'd these Eyes of mine, Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my Knee with thine, Give me thy Hand, and gentle Warwick, |