O Phoebus! hadft thou never giv'n confent,
That Phaeton fhould check thy fiery Steeds,
Thy burning Car never had fcorch'd the Earth.
And Henry hadft thou fway'd as Kings fhould do,
Or as thy Father and his Father did,

Giving no ground unto the Houfe of York,
They never then had fprung like Summer Flies,
I, and ten thousand in this luckless Realm,
Had left no mourning Widows for our Death,
And thou this day hadft kept thy Chair in Peace.
For what doth cherish Weeds, but gentle Air?
And what makes Robbers bold, but too much lenity?
Bootless are Plaints, and curelefs are my Wounds,
No way to fly, nor ftrength to hold out flight;
The Foe is mercilefs, and will not pity:
For at their Hands I have deferv'd no pity.
The Air hath got into my deadly Wounds,
And much effufe of Blood doth make me faint:
Come York, and Richard, Warwick, and the rest,
I ftabb'd your Father's Bofom; fplit my Breast,

[He faints. Alarum and Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Mountague, Clarence, and Soldiers.

Edw. Now breathe we Lords, good Fortune bids us pawfe,
And smooth the frowns of War with peaceful Looks:
Some Troops purfue the bloody-minded Queen,
That led calm Henry, though he were a King,
As doth a Sail fill'd with a fretting Guft,
Command an Argofie to ftem the Waves:
But think you Lords, that Clifford fled with them?
War. No, 'tis impoffible he fhould escape:

For though before his Face I fpeak the Word,
Your Brother Richard mark'd him for the Grave;
And wherefoe'er he is, he's furely dead. [Clifford groans.
Rich. Whofe Soul is that, which takes her heavy leave?

A deadly groan, like Life and Death's departing,

See who it is,

Edw. And now the Battel's ended,

If

If Friend or Foe, let him be gently used.

Rich. Revoke that doom of Mercy, for 'tis Clifford,
Who not contented that he lopp'd the Branch
In hewing Rutland, when his Leaves

put forth,
But fet his murth'ring Knife unto the Root,
From whence that tender Spray did sweetly spring,
I mean our Princely Father, Duke of York.

War. From off the Gates of York fetch down the Head,
Your Father's Head, which Clifford placed there:
Inftead whereof, let his fupply the room.

Measure for Measure must be answered.

Edw. Bring forth that fatal Screech-owl to our House,
That nothing fung but Death to us and ours:
Now Death fhall ftop his difmal threatning found,
And his ill-boading Tongue no more shall speak.
War. I think his Understanding is bereft :
Speak Clifford, doft thou know who speaks to thee?
Dark cloudy Death o'er-fhades his Beams of Life,
And he nor fees, nor hears us, what we fay.
Rich. O would he did; and fo, perhaps, he doth,
'Tis but his Policy to counterfeit,

Because he would avoid fuch bitter taunts
Which in the time of Death he gave our Father.
Cla. If fo thou think'ft,

Vex him with eager words.

Rich. Clifford, ask Mercy, and obtain no Grace.
Edw. Clifford, repent in bootlefs Penitence.
War. Clifford, devife Excufes for thy Faults.
Cla. While we devife fell Tortures of thy Faults.
Rich. Thou didst love York, and I am Son to York,
Edw. Thou pitied'ft Rutland, I will pity thee,
Cla. Where's Captain Margaret, to fence you now?
War. They mock thee, Clifford,

Swear, as thou waft wont.

Rich. What, not an Oath! Nay, then the World goes hard, When Clifford cannot fpare his Friends an Oath:

I know by that he's dead, and by my Soul,

If this right Hand would buy but two hours Life,
That I, in all defpight, might rail at him,

This

This hand fhould chop it off; and with the iffuing Blood Stifle the Villain, whose unftanched thirst

York, and young Rutland, could not satisfie.

War. Ay, but he's dead. Off with the Traitor's Head, And rear it in the place your Father's ftands, And now to London with triumphant march, There to be crowned England's Royal King: From whence fhall Warwick cut the Sea to France, And ask the Lady Bona for thy Queen. So fhalt thou finew both thefe Lands together, And having France thy Friend, thou fhalt not dread The scatter'd Foe, that hopes to rise again: For though they cannot greatly fting to hurt, Yet look to have them buz to offend thine Ears: Firft will I fee the Coronation,

And then to Britany I'll cross the Sea,

To effect this Marriage, fo it please my Lord.
Edw. Even as thou wilt, fweet Warwick, let it be;'
For on thy Shoulder do I build my Seat

And never will I undertake the thing

Wherein thy Counsel and Confent is wanting.
Richard, I will create thee Duke of Glofter,
And George of Clarence; Warwick as our felf
Shall do, and undo, as him pleaseth best.

Rich. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Glofter,
For Glofter's Dukedom is too ominous.
War. Tut, that's a foolish Obfervation:

Richard, be Duke of Glo'fter: Now to London,
To fee these honours in poffeffion.

[Exeunt

ACT

ACT III. SCENE I.

Enter Sinklo, and Humphry, with Cross-Bows in their Hands.

Nder this thick grown brake we'll shrowd our felves;

UNd

For through this Laund anon the Deer will come,
And in this Covert will we make our stand,
Culling the principal of all the Deer.

Hum. I'll ftay above the Hill, fo both may shoot,
Sink. That cannot be, the noise of thy Cross-bow
Will scare the Herd, and fo my fhoot is loft:
Here stand we both, and aim we at the best,
And, for the time fhall not seem tedious,
I'll tell thee what befel me on a Day,

In this felf-place, where now we mean to ftand.
Sink. Here comes a Man, let's stay till he be past.

Enter King Henry with a Prayer-Book.

K. Henry. From Scotland am I ftol'n even of pure Love,
To greet mine own Land with my wishful Sight:
No Harry, Harry, 'tis no Land of thine,

Thy place is fill'd, thy Scepter wrung from thee,
Thy Balm wafht off wherewith thou waft anointed,
No bending Knee will call thee Cafar now,
No humble Sutors prefs to speak for right:
No, not a Man comes for redress to thee;
For how can I help them, and not my felf?
Sink. Ay, here's a Deer, whofe Skin's a Keeper's Fee:
This is the quondam King, let's feize upon him.
K. Henry. Let me embrace the four Adversaries,
For wile Men fay, it is the wifeft Course.

Hum. Why linger we? let us lay Hands upon him. 1 Sink. Forbear a while, we'll hear a litttle more.

K. Henry.

K. Henry. My Queen and Son are gone to France for

aid:

And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick
Is thither gone, to crave the French King's Sifter
To Wife for Edward. if this news be true,
Poor Queen, and Son, your labour is but loft:
For Warwick is a fubtle Orator;

And Lewis a Prince foon won with moving Words:
By this account then Margaret may win him,
For the's a Woman to be pitied much:

Her Sighs will make a batt'ry in his Breaft,
Her Tears will pierce into a Marble Heart:
The Tyger will be mild wdles fhe doth mourn;
And Nero will be tainted with remorse,
To hear and fee her plaints, her brinish Tears.
Ay, but the's come to beg, Warwick to give:
She on his left fide craving Aid for Henry;
He on his right, asking a Wife for Edward.
She weeps, and fays, her Henry is depos'd;
He fmiles and fays, his Edward is install'd;
That the, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more:
Whiles Warwick tells his Title, fmooths the Wrong,
Inferreth Arguments of mighty Strength,

And in conclufion wins the King from her,
With promife of his Sifter and hat elfe,
To ftrengthen and support King Edward's Place.
O Margaret, thus 'twill be, and thou (poor Soul)
Art then forfaken, as thou went'st forlorn.

Hum, Say, what art thou that talk'st of Kings, and
Queens?

K. Henry. More than I seem, and lefs than I was born to; A Man at least, for lefs I fhould not be;

And Men may talk of Kings, and why not I?

Hum. Ay, but thou talk't as if thou wert a King. K. Henry. Why fo I am. in Mind and that's enough. Hum. But if thou be a King, where is thy Crown? K.Henry. My Crown is in my Heart, not on my Head: Not deck'd with Diamonds, and Indian stones; Not to be feen: My Crown is call'a Content,

A