Edw. But for a kingdom any oath may be broken : I'd break a thousand oaths to reign one year

Rich. No; God forbid your Grace should be forfworn! York. I fhall be, if I claim by open by war.

Rich. I ll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me fpeak. York. Thou canst not, fon; it is impoffible.

Rich. An oath is of no moment, being not took
Before a true and lawful magistrate,

That hath authority o'er him that fwears.
Henry had none; but did ufurp the place.
Then feeing 'twas he that made you to depofe,
Your oath, my Lord, is vain and frivolous.
Therefore to arms! and, father, do but think
How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown;
Within whofe circuit is Elyfium,
And all that poets feign of blefs and joy.
Why do we linger thus ? I cannot reft,
Until the white rofe that I wear be dy'd
Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart.
York. Richard, enough: I will be King or die.
Brother, thou shalt to London presently,
And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.

Thou, Richard, fhalt to th' Duke of Norfolk go,
And tell him privily of our intent.

You, Edward, fhall unto my Lord of Cobham,
With whom the Kentifhmen will willingly rife.
In them I trust; for they are foldiers,
Wealthy and courteous, liberal, full of fpirit.
While you are thus employed, what refteth more
But that I feek occafion how to rife;

And yet the King not privy to my drift,

Nor any of the houfe of Lancaster?

Enter Messenger.

But stay, what news? why com'ft thou in fuch post? Me. The Queen, with all the northern Earls and Intends here to befiege you in your

caftle

She is hard by with twenty thousand men ;

And therefore fortify your hold, my Lord.

[Lords,

York. Ay, with my fword. What! think'st thou

that we fear them?

Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me;

My brother Montague fhall post to London.
Let Noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,
Whom we have left Protectors of the King,
With powerful policy ftrengthen themselves,
And truft not fimple Henry nor his oaths.
Mont. Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not.
And thus most humbly I do take my leave.
[Exit Montague.

Enter Sir John Mortimer and Sir Hugh Mortimer.

York. Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles, You are come to Sandal in a happy hour.

The army of the Queen means to befiege us.

Sir John. She fhall not need, we'll meet her in the field.

York. What, with five thousand men?

Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need. A woman's General; what fhould we fear?

[A march afar off. Edo. I hear their drums : let's set our men in order, And iffue forth, and bid them battle ftrait.

York. Five men to twenty! though the odds be great, I doubt not, uncle, of our victory.

Many a battle have I won in France,

When as the enemy hath been ten to one :

Why fhould I not now have the like fuccefs?

SCENE

[Alarum. Exeunt.

V.

A field of battle betwixt Sandal-caftle and Wakefield.

Enter Rutland and his Tutor.

Rut. Ah, whither, fhall I fly to 'fcape their hands? Ah, Tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes.

Enter Clifford, and Soldiers.

Clif Chaplain, away! thy priesthood faves thy life; As for the brat of this accurfed Duke,

Whofe father flew my father, he shall die.

Tutor. And I, my Lord, will bear him company. Clif. Soldiers, away, and drag him hence perforce. Tutor. Ah, Clifford! murther not this innocent child,

Left thou be hated both of God and man.

[Exit, dragg'd off. Clif. How now? is he dead already? or is it fear That makes him clofe his eyes? I'll open them. Rut. So looks the pent up lion o'er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws; And fo he walks infulting o'er his prey, And fo he comes to rend his limbs afunder. Ab, gentle Clifford ! kill me with thy fword, And not with fuch a cruel threat'ning look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die : I am too mean a fubject of thy wrath; Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live.

Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy: my father's blood

Hath ftopt the paffage where thy words fhould enter.
Rut. Then let my father's blood open't again.
He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine Were not revenge fufficient for me :

No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves,
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not flake mine ire, nor eafe my heart.
The fight of any of the house of York

Is as a fury to torment my foul :
And till I root out their accursed line,
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore

Rut. O let me pray before I take
To thee I

my death: pray fweet Clifford, pity me.

Clif. Such pity as my rapier's point affords.

Rut. I never did thee harm; why wilt thou lay me?" Clif. Thy father hath.

Rut. But 'twas ere I was born.

Thou haft one fon, for his fake pity me;

Left in revenge thereof (fith God is juft)

He be as miferably flain as I.

Ah, let me live in prifon all my days;
And when I give. occafion of offence,

Then let me die; for now thou haft no cause..
Clif. No Caufe!

Thy father flew my father, therefore die.

[Clif. ftabs him. Rut. Dii faciant laudis fumma fit ifta tuæ * ! [Dies. Clif. Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet !

And this thy fon's blood cleaving to my blade
Shall ruft upon my weapon, till thy blood,
Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both. [Exit.

8 CENE VI.

Alarum. Enter Richard Duke of York.

York The army of the Queen hath got the field : My uncles both are flain in refcuing me,

And all my followers to the eager foe,

Turn back, and fly like fhips before the wind,
Or lambs purfu'd by hunger-ftarved wolves.
My fons, God knows what hath bechanced them:
But this I know, they have demean'd themselves
Like men born to renown, by life or death.
Three times did Richard make a lane to me,
And thrice cry'd, Courage, father! fight it out:
And full as oft came Edward to my fide,
With purple falchion painted to the hilt

In blood of those that had encounter'd him:
And when the hardieft warriors did retire,

Richard cry'd, Charge! and give no foot of ground;
And cry'd, A crown, or elfe a glorious tomb;
A fceptre, or an earthly fepulchre.

With this we charg'd again : but out! alas,
We bodg'd again; as I have seen a swan
With bootle's labour fwim against the tide,
And spend her strength with over-matching waves.
[Afhort alarum within.

Ah! hark, the fatal followers do pursue :-
And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury.
And were I ftrong, I would not fhun their fury.
The fands are number'd that make up my life;

Here must I stay, and here my life must end..

Enter the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland, the Prince of Wales, and folaiers.

Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,

Ovid.

I dare your quenchlefs fury to more rage:
I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Clif Ay to fuch mercy as his ruthlefs arm
With downright payment fhew'd unto my father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noon-tide prick.
York. My afhes, as the phoenix, may bring forth
A bird that will revenge upon you all :

And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heav'n,
Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.

Why come you not? what! multitudes and fear?
Clif. So cowards fight when they can fly no farther ;;
So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons;
So defp'rate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.

York Oh, Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought o'er-run my former time;
And, if thou canft for blufhing, view this face,
And bite thy tongue that flanders him with cowardice,
W hofe frown had made thee faint and fly ere this.
Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word,
But buckle with thee blows twice two for one.

Queen. Hold, valiant Clifford; for a thousand caufes I would prolong a while the traitor's life: Wrath makes him deaf. Speak thou, Northumberland. North. Hold, Clifford; do not honour him fo much, To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart. What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, When he might fpurn him with his foot away?! It is war's praise to take all 'vantages;

And ten to one is no impeach of valour.

Clif. Ay, ay; fo ftrives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the coney ftraggle in the net.

[In the struggle York is taken prisoner. Tork. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty; So true men yield with robbers fo o'er-match'd

North. What would your Grace have done unto him: now?

Queen. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come make him ftand upon this mole-hill here,