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)
Muft 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 pafs along,

And he that throws not up his Cip 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 thce mine.

Edw. Then ftrike up Drums, God and St. George for us.

Enter a Meffenger.

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.

[Exeunt omnes.

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.

[Wrack

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 fpoils her young before her Face.
Who fcapes 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 raife 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 feen 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 your Prefident:
Were it not pity, that this goodly Boy

Should lofe his Birth-right by his Father's Fault,
And long hereafter say 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 promiseth
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,
Whofe Father for his hoording went to Hell:

I'll leave my Son my virtuous Deeds behind,
And would my Father had left me no more:
For all the rest is held at fuch a Rate,

As brings a thousand fold more Care to keep,
Than in Poffeffion any jot of Pleasure.

Ah Cousin York, would thy beft Friends did know,
How it doth grieve me that thy Head is here.

Queen. My Lord, cheer up your Spirits, our Foes are nigh,
And this foft Courage makes your Followers faint:
You promis'd Knighthood to our forward Son,
Unfheath your Sword, and dub him presently.
Edward, kneel down.

King. Edward Plantagenet, arise a Knight,
And learn this Leffon, draw thy Sword in right.
Prince. My gracious Father, by your Kingly Leave,
I'll draw it as Apparent to the Crown,

And in that Quarrel use 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 Highness would depart the Field, The Queen hath beft Success 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 stay. North. Be it with Resolution then to fight.

Prince. My Royal Father, cheer thefe Noble Lords, And hearten thofe 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; Q5

Or

Or bide the Mortal Fortune of the Field?

Queen. Go rate thy Minions, proud infulting Boy,
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in Terms,
Before thy Sovereign, and thy lawful King?

Edw. I am his King, and he fhould bow his Knee;
I was adopted Heir by his Confent;

Since when, his Oath is broke: for as I hear,
You that are King, though he do wear the Crown,
Have caus'd him, by new Act of Parliament,
To blot out me, and put his own Son in,
Clif. And reafon too:

Who fhould fucceed the Father, but the Son?

Rich. Are you there, Butcher? O, I cannot fpeak. Clif. Ay, Crook back, here I ftand to answer thee, Or any he, the proudest 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?

Queen. Why how now, long-tongu'd Warwick, dare you When you and I met at St. Albans last,

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 Aed. War. 'Twas not your Valour, Clifford, drove methence, North. No, nor your Manhood that durft make you stay. 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 flew thy Father, call' 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 Deed.

K. Henry. Have done with Words, my Lords, and hear me fpeak.

Queen. Defie them then, or elfe hold close thy Lips,
K. Henry. I prithee give no Limits to my Tongue,

I am a King, and privileg'd to fpeak.

Clif. My Liege, the Wound that bred this meeting hereCannot be cur'd by Words, therefore be still.

Rich. Then, Execution, re-unfheath thy Sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolv'd
That Clifford's Manhood lyes upon his Tongue.
Edw. Say, Henry, fhall I have my right, or no:
A thousand Men have broke their Fafts to Day,
That ne'er fhall dine, unless thou yield the Crown.
War. If thou deny, their Blood upon thy Head,
For York in juftice puts his Armour on.

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.
Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English Gilt,
Whose Father bears the Title of a King,
(As if a Channel should be call'd the Sea)

Sham'ft thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught
To let thy Tongue detect thy base-born Heart.

Edw. A Wifp of Straw were worth a thousand Crowns,
To make this fhameless 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