{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/kh63.htm","path":"sks/ff/kh63.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/kh63.htm","text":"with the death of the Duke of Yorke\nActus Primus. Scoena Prima.\nAlarum.\nEnter Plantagenet, Edward, Richard, Norfolke, Mountague,\nWarwicke, and\nSouldiers.\nWarwicke. I Wonder how the King escap'd our hands?\nPl. While we pursu'd the Horsmen of y North,\nHe slyly stole away, and left his men:\nWhereat the great Lord of Northumberland,\nWhose Warlike eares could neuer brooke retreat,\nChear'd vp the drouping Army, and himselfe.\nLord Clifford and Lord Stafford all a-brest\nCharg'd our maine Battailes Front: and breaking in,\nWere by the Swords of common Souldiers slaine\nEdw. Lord Staffords Father, Duke of Buckingham,\nIs either slaine or wounded dangerous.\nI cleft his Beauer with a down-right blow:\nThat this is true (Father) behold his blood\nMount. And Brother, here's the Earle of Wiltshires blood,\nWhom I encountred as the Battels ioyn'd\nRich. Speake thou for me, and tell them what I did\nPlan. Richard hath best deseru'd of all my sonnes:\nBut is your Grace dead, my Lord of Somerset?\nNor. Such hope haue all the line of Iohn of Gaunt\nRich. Thus do I hope to shake King Henries head\nWarw. And so doe I, victorious Prince of Yorke.\nBefore I see thee seated in that Throne,\nWhich now the House of Lancaster vsurpes,\nI vow by Heauen, these eyes shall neuer close.\nThis is the Pallace of the fearefull King,\nAnd this the Regall Seat: possesse it Yorke,\nFor this is thine, and not King Henries Heires\nPlant. Assist me then, sweet Warwick, and I will,\nFor hither we haue broken in by force\nNorf. Wee'le all assist you: he that flyes, shall dye\nPlant. Thankes gentle Norfolke, stay by me my Lords,\nAnd Souldiers stay and lodge by me this Night.\nThey goe vp.\nWarw. And when the King comes, offer him no violence,\nVnlesse he seeke to thrust you out perforce\nPlant. The Queene this day here holds her Parliament,\nBut little thinkes we shall be of her counsaile,\nBy words or blowes here let vs winne our right\nRich. Arm'd as we are, let's stay within this House\nWarw. The bloody Parliament shall this be call'd,\nVnlesse Plantagenet, Duke of Yorke, be King,\nAnd bashfull Henry depos'd, whose Cowardize\nHath made vs by-words to our enemies\nPlant. Then leaue me not, my Lords be resolute,\nI meane to take possession of my Right\nWarw. Neither the King, nor he that loues him best,\nThe prowdest hee that holds vp Lancaster,\nDares stirre a Wing, if Warwick shake his Bells.\nIle plant Plantagenet, root him vp who dares:\nResolue thee Richard, clayme the English Crowne.\nFlourish. Enter King Henry, Clifford, Northumberland,\nWestmerland, Exeter,\nand the rest.\nHenry. My Lords, looke where the sturdie Rebell sits,\nEuen in the Chayre of State: belike he meanes,\nBackt by the power of Warwicke, that false Peere,\nTo aspire vnto the Crowne, and reigne as King.\nEarle of Northumberland, he slew thy Father,\nAnd thine, Lord Clifford, & you both haue vow'd reuenge\nOn him, his sonnes, his fauorites, and his friends\nNorthumb. If I be not, Heauens be reueng'd on me\nClifford. The hope thereof, makes Clifford mourne in\nSteele\nWestm. What, shall we suffer this? lets pluck him down,\nMy heart for anger burnes, I cannot brooke it\nHenry. Be patient, gentle Earle of Westmerland\nClifford. Patience is for Poultroones, such as he:\nHe durst not sit there, had your Father liu'd.\nMy gracious Lord, here in the Parliament\nLet vs assayle the Family of Yorke\nNorth. Well hast thou spoken, Cousin be it so\nHenry. Ah, know you not the Citie fauours them,\nAnd they haue troupes of Souldiers at their beck?\nWestm. But when the Duke is slaine, they'le quickly\nflye\nHenry. Farre be the thought of this from Henries heart,\nTo make a Shambles of the Parliament House.\nCousin of Exeter, frownes, words, and threats,\nShall be the Warre that Henry meanes to vse.\nThou factious Duke of Yorke descend my Throne,\nAnd kneele for grace and mercie at my feet,\nI am thy Soueraigne\nYorke. I am thine\nExet. For shame come downe, he made thee Duke of\nYorke\nYorke. It was my Inheritance, as the Earledome was\nExet. Thy Father was a Traytor to the Crowne\nWarw. Exeter thou art a Traytor to the Crowne,\nIn following this vsurping Henry\nClifford. Whom should hee follow, but his naturall\nKing?\nWarw. True Clifford, that's Richard Duke of Yorke\nHenry. And shall I stand, and thou sit in my Throne?\nYorke. It must and shall be so, content thy selfe\nWarw. Be Duke of Lancaster, let him be King\nWestm. He is both King, and Duke of Lancaster,\nAnd that the Lord of Westmerland shall maintaine\nWarw. And Warwick shall disproue it. You forget,\nThat we are those which chas'd you from the field,\nAnd slew your Fathers, and with Colours spread\nMarcht through the Citie to the Pallace Gates\nNorthumb. Yes Warwicke, I remember it to my griefe,\nAnd by his Soule, thou and thy House shall rue it\nWestm. Plantagenet, of thee and these thy Sonnes,\nThy Kinsmen, and thy Friends, Ile haue more liues\nThen drops of bloud were in my Fathers Veines\nCliff. Vrge it no more, lest that in stead of words,\nI send thee, Warwicke, such a Messenger,\nAs shall reuenge his death, before I stirre\nWarw. Poore Clifford, how I scorne his worthlesse\nThreats\nPlant. Will you we shew our Title to the Crowne?\nIf not, our Swords shall pleade it in the field\nHenry. What Title hast thou Traytor to the Crowne?\nMy Father was as thou art, Duke of Yorke,\nThy Grandfather Roger Mortimer, Earle of March.\nI am the Sonne of Henry the Fift,\nWho made the Dolphin and the French to stoupe,\nAnd seiz'd vpon their Townes and Prouinces\nWarw. Talke not of France, sith thou hast lost it all\nHenry. The Lord Protector lost it, and not I:\nWhen I was crown'd, I was but nine moneths old\nRich. You are old enough now,\nAnd yet me thinkes you loose:\nFather teare the Crowne from the Vsurpers Head\nEdward. Sweet Father doe so, set it on your Head\nMount. Good Brother,\nAs thou lou'st and honorest Armes,\nLet's fight it out, and not stand cauilling thus\nRichard. Sound Drummes and Trumpets, and the\nKing will flye\nPlant. Sonnes peace\nHenry. Peace thou, and giue King Henry leaue to\nspeake\nWarw. Plantagenet shal speake first: Heare him Lords,\nAnd be you silent and attentiue too,\nFor he that interrupts him, shall not liue\nHen. Think'st thou, that I will leaue my Kingly Throne,\nWherein my Grandsire and my Father sat?\nNo: first shall Warre vnpeople this my Realme;\nI, and their Colours often borne in France,\nAnd now in England, to our hearts great sorrow,\nShall be my Winding-sheet. Why faint you Lords?\nMy Title's good, and better farre then his\nWarw. Proue it Henry, and thou shalt be King\nHen. Henry the Fourth by Conquest got the Crowne\nPlant. 'Twas by Rebellion against his King\nHenry. I know not what to say, my Titles weake:\nTell me, may not a King adopt an Heire?\nPlant. What then?\nHenry. And if he may, then am I lawfull King:\nFor Richard, in the view of many Lords,\nResign'd the Crowne to Henry the Fourth,\nWhose Heire my Father was, and I am his\nPlant. He rose against him, being his Soueraigne,\nAnd made him to resigne his Crowne perforce\nWarw. Suppose, my Lords, he did it vnconstrayn'd,\nThinke you 'twere preiudiciall to his Crowne?\nExet. No: for he could not so resigne his Crowne,\nBut that the next Heire should succeed and reigne\nHenry. Art thou against vs, Duke of Exeter?\nExet. His is the right, and therefore pardon me\nPlant. Why whisper you, my Lords, and answer not?\nExet. My Conscience tells me he is lawfull King\nHenry. All will reuolt from me, and turne to him\nNorthumb. Plantagenet, for all the Clayme thou lay'st,\nThinke not, that Henry shall be so depos'd\nWarw. Depos'd he shall be, in despight of all\nNorthumb. Thou art deceiu'd:\n'Tis not thy Southerne power\nOf Essex, Norfolke, Suffolke, nor of Kent,\nWhich makes thee thus presumptuous and prowd,\nCan set the Duke vp in despight of me\nClifford. King Henry, be thy Title right or wrong,\nLord Clifford vowes to fight in thy defence:\nMay that ground gape, and swallow me aliue,\nWhere I shall kneele to him that slew my Father\nHenry. Oh Clifford, how thy words reuiue my heart\nPlant. Henry of Lancaster, resigne thy Crowne:\nWhat mutter you, or what conspire you Lords?\nWarw. Doe right vnto this Princely Duke of Yorke,\nOr I will fill the House with armed men,\nAnd ouer the Chayre of State, where now he sits,\nWrite vp his Title with vsurping blood.\nHe stampes with his foot, and the Souldiers shew themselues.\nHenry. My Lord of Warwick, heare but one word,\nLet me for this my life time reigne as King\nPlant. Confirme the Crowne to me and to mine Heires,\nAnd thou shalt reigne in quiet while thou liu'st\nHenry. I am content: Richard Plantagenet\nEnioy the Kingdome after my decease\nClifford. What wrong is this vnto the Prince, your\nSonne?\nWarw. What good is this to England, and himselfe?\nWestm. Base, fearefull, and despayring Henry\nClifford. How hast thou iniur'd both thy selfe and vs?\nWestm. I cannot stay to heare these Articles\nNorthumb. Nor I\nClifford. Come Cousin, let vs tell the Queene these\nNewes\nWestm. Farwell faint-hearted and degenerate King,\nIn whose cold blood no sparke of Honor bides\nNorthumb. Be thou a prey vnto the House of Yorke,\nAnd dye in Bands, for this vnmanly deed\nCliff. In dreadfull Warre may'st thou be ouercome,\nOr liue in peace abandon'd and despis'd\nWarw. Turne this way Henry, and regard them not\nExeter. They seeke reuenge, and therefore will not\nyeeld?\nHenry. Ah Exeter\nWarw. Why should you sigh, my Lord?\nHenry. Not for my selfe Lord Warwick, but my Sonne,\nWhom I vnnaturally shall dis-inherite.\nBut be it as it may: I here entayle\nThe Crowne to thee and to thine Heires for euer,\nConditionally, that heere thou take an Oath,\nTo cease this Ciuill Warre: and whil'st I liue,\nTo honor me as thy King, and Soueraigne:\nAnd neyther by Treason nor Hostilitie,\nTo seeke to put me downe, and reigne thy selfe\nPlant. This Oath I willingly take, and will performe\nWarw. Long liue King Henry: Plantagenet embrace\nhim\nHenry. And long liue thou, and these thy forward\nSonnes\nPlant. Now Yorke and Lancaster are reconcil'd\nExet. Accurst be he that seekes to make them foes.\nSenet. Here they come downe.\nPlant. Farewell my gracious Lord, Ile to my Castle\nWarw. And Ile keepe London with my Souldiers\nNorf. And I to Norfolke with my followers\nMount. And I vnto the Sea, from whence I came\nHenry. And I with griefe and sorrow to the Court.\nEnter the Queene.\nExeter. Heere comes the Queene,\nWhose Lookes bewray her anger:\nIle steale away\nHenry. Exeter so will I\nQueene. Nay, goe not from me, I will follow thee\nHenry. Be patient gentle Queene, and I will stay\nQueene. Who can be patient in such extreames?\nAh wretched man, would I had dy'de a Maid?\nAnd neuer seene thee, neuer borne thee Sonne,\nSeeing thou hast prou'd so vnnaturall a Father.\nHath he deseru'd to loose his Birth-right thus?\nHadst thou but lou'd him halfe so well as I,\nOr felt that paine which I did for him once,\nOr nourisht him, as I did with my blood;\nThou would'st haue left thy dearest heart-blood there,\nRather then haue made that sauage Duke thine Heire,\nAnd dis-inherited thine onely Sonne\nPrince. Father, you cannot dis-inherite me:\nIf you be King, why should not I succeede?\nHenry. Pardon me Margaret, pardon me sweet Sonne,\nThe Earle of Warwick and the Duke enforc't me\nQuee. Enforc't thee? Art thou King, and wilt be forc't?\nI shame to heare thee speake: ah timorous Wretch,\nThou hast vndone thy selfe, thy Sonne, and me,\nAnd giu'n vnto the House of Yorke such head,\nAs thou shalt reigne but by their sufferance.\nTo entayle him and his Heires vnto the Crowne,\nWhat is it, but to make thy Sepulcher,\nAnd creepe into it farre before thy time?\nWarwick is Chancelor, and the Lord of Callice,\nSterne Falconbridge commands the Narrow Seas,\nThe Duke is made Protector of the Realme,\nAnd yet shalt thou be safe? Such safetie findes\nThe trembling Lambe, inuironned with Wolues.\nHad I beene there, which am a silly Woman,\nThe Souldiers should haue toss'd me on their Pikes,\nBefore I would haue granted to that Act.\nBut thou preferr'st thy Life, before thine Honor.\nAnd seeing thou do'st, I here diuorce my selfe,\nBoth from thy Table Henry, and thy Bed,\nVntill that Act of Parliament be repeal'd,\nWhereby my Sonne is dis-inherited.\nThe Northerne Lords, that haue forsworne thy Colours,\nWill follow mine, if once they see them spread:\nAnd spread they shall be, to thy foule disgrace,\nAnd vtter ruine of the House of Yorke.\nThus doe I leaue thee: Come Sonne, let's away,\nOur Army is ready; come, wee'le after them\nHenry. Stay gentle Margaret, and heare me speake\nQueene. Thou hast spoke too much already: get thee\ngone\nHenry. Gentle Sonne Edward, thou wilt stay me?\nQueene. I, to be murther'd by his Enemies\nPrince. When I returne with victorie to the field,\nIle see your Grace: till then, Ile follow her\nQueene. Come Sonne away, we may not linger thus\nHenry. Poore Queene,\nHow loue to me, and to her Sonne,\nHath made her breake out into termes of Rage.\nReueng'd may she be on that hatefull Duke,\nWhose haughtie spirit, winged with desire,\nWill cost my Crowne, and like an emptie Eagle,\nTyre on the flesh of me, and of my Sonne.\nThe losse of those three Lords torments my heart:\nIle write vnto them, and entreat them faire;\nCome Cousin, you shall be the Messenger\nExet. And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all.\nEnter.\nFlourish. Enter Richard, Edward, and Mountague.\nRichard. Brother, though I bee youngest, giue mee\nleaue\nEdward. No, I can better play the Orator\nMount. But I haue reasons strong and forceable.\nEnter the Duke of Yorke.\nYorke. Why how now Sonnes, and Brother, at a strife?\nWhat is your Quarrell? how began it first?\nEdward. No Quarrell, but a slight Contention\nYorke. About what?\nRich. About that which concernes your Grace and vs,\nThe Crowne of England, Father, which is yours\nYorke. Mine Boy? not till King Henry be dead\nRichard. Your Right depends not on his life, or death\nEdward. Now you are Heire, therefore enioy it now:\nBy giuing the House of Lancaster leaue to breathe,\nIt will out-runne you, Father, in the end\nYorke. I tooke an Oath, that hee should quietly\nreigne\nEdward. But for a Kingdome any Oath may be broken:\nI would breake a thousand Oathes, to reigne one yeere\nRichard. No: God forbid your Grace should be forsworne\nYorke. I shall be, if I clayme by open Warre\nRichard. Ile proue the contrary, if you'le heare mee\nspeake\nYorke. Thou canst not, Sonne: it is impossible\nRichard. An Oath is of no moment, being not tooke\nBefore a true and lawfull Magistrate,\nThat hath authoritie ouer him that sweares.\nHenry had none, but did vsurpe the place.\nThen seeing 'twas he that made you to depose,\nYour Oath, my Lord, is vaine and friuolous.\nTherefore to Armes: and Father doe but thinke,\nHow sweet a thing it is to weare a Crowne,\nWithin whose Circuit is Elizium,\nAnd all that Poets faine of Blisse and Ioy.\nWhy doe we linger thus? I cannot rest,\nVntill the White Rose that I weare, be dy'de\nEuen in the luke-warme blood of Henries heart\nYorke. Richard ynough: I will be King, or dye.\nBrother, thou shalt to London presently,\nAnd whet on Warwick to this Enterprise.\nThou Richard shalt to the Duke of Norfolke,\nAnd tell him priuily of our intent.\nYou Edward shall vnto my Lord Cobham,\nWith whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise.\nIn them I trust: for they are Souldiors,\nWittie, courteous, liberall, full of spirit.\nWhile you are thus imploy'd, what resteth more?\nBut that I seeke occasion how to rise,\nAnd yet the King not priuie to my Drift,\nNor any of the House of Lancaster.\nEnter Gabriel.\nBut stay, what Newes? Why comm'st thou in such\nposte?\nGabriel. The Queene,\nWith all the Northerne Earles and Lords,\nIntend here to besiege you in your Castle.\nShe is hard by, with twentie thousand men:\nAnd therefore fortifie your Hold, my Lord\nYorke. I, with my Sword.\nWhat? think'st thou, that we feare them?\nEdward and Richard, you shall stay with me,\nMy Brother Mountague shall poste to London.\nLet Noble Warwicke, Cobham, and the rest,\nWhom we haue left Protectors of the King,\nWith powrefull Pollicie strengthen themselues,\nAnd trust not simple Henry, nor his Oathes\nMount. Brother, I goe: Ile winne them, feare it not.\nAnd thus most humbly I doe take my leaue.\nExit Mountague.\nEnter Mortimer, and his Brother.\nYork. Sir Iohn, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine Vnckles,\nYou are come to Sandall in a happie houre.\nThe Armie of the Queene meane to besiege vs\nIohn. Shee shall not neede, wee'le meete her in the\nfield\nYorke. What, with fiue thousand men?\nRichard. I, with fiue hundred, Father, for a neede.\nA Woman's generall: what should we feare?\nA March afarre off.\nEdward. I heare their Drummes:\nLet's set our men in order,\nAnd issue forth, and bid them Battaile straight\nYorke. Fiue men to twentie: though the oddes be great,\nI doubt not, Vnckle, of our Victorie.\nMany a Battaile haue I wonne in France,\nWhen as the Enemie hath beene tenne to one:\nWhy should I not now haue the like successe?\nAlarum. Exit.\nEnter Rutland, and his Tutor.\nRutland. Ah, whither shall I flye, to scape their hands?\nAh Tutor, looke where bloody Clifford comes.\nEnter Clifford.\nClifford. Chaplaine away, thy Priesthood saues thy life.\nAs for the Brat of this accursed Duke,\nWhose Father slew my Father, he shall dye\nTutor. And I, my Lord, will beare him company\nClifford. Souldiers, away with him\nTutor. Ah Clifford, murther not this innocent Child,\nLeast thou be hated both of God and Man.\nEnter.\nClifford. How now? is he dead alreadie?\nOr is it feare, that makes him close his eyes?\nIle open them\nRutland. So looks the pent-vp Lyon o're the Wretch,\nThat trembles vnder his deuouring Pawes:\nAnd so he walkes, insulting o're his Prey,\nAnd so he comes, to rend his Limbes asunder.\nAh gentle Clifford, kill me with thy Sword,\nAnd not with such a cruell threatning Looke.\nSweet Clifford heare me speake, before I dye:\nI am too meane a subiect for thy Wrath,\nBe thou reueng'd on men, and let me liue\nClifford. In vaine thou speak'st, poore Boy:\nMy Fathers blood hath stopt the passage\nWhere thy words should enter\nRutland. Then let my Fathers blood open it againe,\nHe is a man, and Clifford cope with him\nClifford. Had I thy Brethren here, their liues and thine\nWere not reuenge sufficient for me:\nNo, if I digg'd vp thy fore-fathers Graues,\nAnd hung their rotten Coffins vp in Chaynes,\nIt could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.\nThe sight of any of the House of Yorke,\nIs as a furie to torment my Soule:\nAnd till I root out their accursed Line,\nAnd leaue not one aliue, I liue in Hell.\nTherefore-\nRutland. Oh let me pray, before I take my death:\nTo thee I pray; sweet Clifford pitty me\nClifford. Such pitty as my Rapiers point affords\nRutland. I neuer did thee harme: why wilt thou slay\nme?\nClifford. Thy Father hath\nRutland. But 'twas ere I was borne.\nThou hast one Sonne, for his sake pitty me,\nLeast in reuenge thereof, sith God is iust,\nHe be as miserably slaine as I.\nAh, let me liue in Prison all my dayes,\nAnd when I giue occasion of offence,\nThen let me dye, for now thou hast no cause\nClifford. No cause? thy Father slew my Father: therefore\ndye\nRutland. Dij faciant laudis summa sit ista tu\u00e6\nClifford. Plantagenet, I come Plantagenet:\nAnd this thy Sonnes blood cleauing to my Blade,\nShall rust vpon my Weapon, till thy blood\nCongeal'd with this, doe make me wipe off both.\nEnter.\nAlarum. Enter Richard, Duke of Yorke.\nYorke. The Army of the Queene hath got the field:\nMy Vnckles both are slaine, in rescuing me;\nAnd all my followers, to the eager foe\nTurne back, and flye, like Ships before the Winde,\nOr Lambes pursu'd by hunger-starued Wolues.\nMy Sonnes, God knowes what hath bechanced them:\nBut this I know, they haue demean'd themselues\nLike men borne to Renowne, by Life or Death.\nThree times did Richard make a Lane to me,\nAnd thrice cry'de, Courage Father, fight it out:\nAnd full as oft came Edward to my side,\nWith Purple Faulchion, painted to the Hilt,\nIn blood of those that had encountred him:\nAnd when the hardyest Warriors did retyre,\nRichard cry'de, Charge, and giue no foot of ground,\nAnd cry'de, A Crowne, or else a glorious Tombe,\nA Scepter, or an Earthly Sepulchre.\nWith this we charg'd againe: but out alas,\nWe bodg'd againe, as I haue seene a Swan\nWith bootlesse labour swimme against the Tyde,\nAnd spend her strength with ouer-matching Waues.\nA short Alarum within.\nAh hearke, the fatall followers doe pursue,\nAnd I am faint, and cannot flye their furie:\nAnd were I strong, I would not shunne their furie,\nThe Sands are numbred, that makes vp my Life,\nHere must I stay, and here my Life must end.\nEnter the Queene, Clifford, Northumberland, the young Prince,\nand\nSouldiers.\nCome bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,\nI dare your quenchlesse furie to more rage:\nI am your Butt, and I abide your Shot\nNorthumb. Yeeld to our mercy, proud Plantagenet\nClifford. I, to such mercy, as his ruthlesse Arme\nWith downe-right payment, shew'd vnto my Father.\nNow Ph\u00e6ton hath tumbled from his Carre,\nAnd made an Euening at the Noone-tide Prick\nYorke. My ashes, as the Phoenix, may bring forth\nA Bird, that will reuenge vpon you all:\nAnd in that hope, I throw mine eyes to Heauen,\nScorning what ere you can afflict me with.\nWhy come you not? what, multitudes, and feare?\nCliff. So Cowards fight, when they can flye no further,\nSo Doues doe peck the Faulcons piercing Tallons,\nSo desperate Theeues, all hopelesse of their Liues,\nBreathe out Inuectiues 'gainst the Officers\nYorke. Oh Clifford, but bethinke thee once againe,\nAnd in thy thought ore-run my former time:\nAnd if thou canst, for blushing, view this face,\nAnd bite thy tongue, that slanders him with Cowardice,\nWhose frowne hath made thee faint and flye ere this\nClifford. I will not bandie with thee word for word,\nBut buckler with thee blowes twice two for one\nQueene. Hold valiant Clifford, for a thousand causes\nI would prolong a while the Traytors Life:\nWrath makes him deafe; speake thou Northumberland\nNorthumb. Hold Clifford, doe not honor him so much,\nTo prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.\nWhat valour were it, when a Curre doth grinne,\nFor one to thrust his Hand betweene his Teeth,\nWhen he might spurne him with his Foot away?\nIt is Warres prize, to take all Vantages,\nAnd tenne to one, is no impeach of Valour\nClifford. I, I, so striues the Woodcocke with the\nGynne\nNorthumb. So doth the Connie struggle in the\nNet\nYork. So triumph Theeues vpon their conquer'd Booty,\nSo True men yeeld with Robbers, so o're-matcht\nNorthumb. What would your Grace haue done vnto\nhim now?\nQueene. Braue Warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,\nCome make him stand vpon this Mole-hill here,\nThat raught at Mountaines with out-stretched Armes,\nYet parted but the shadow with his Hand.\nWhat, was it you that would be Englands King?\nWas't you that reuell'd in our Parliament,\nAnd made a Preachment of your high Descent?\nWhere are your Messe of Sonnes, to back you now?\nThe wanton Edward, and the lustie George?\nAnd where's that valiant Crook-back Prodigie,\nDickie, your Boy, that with his grumbling voyce\nWas wont to cheare his Dad in Mutinies?\nOr with the rest, where is your Darling, Rutland?\nLooke Yorke, I stayn'd this Napkin with the blood\nThat valiant Clifford, with his Rapiers point,\nMade issue from the Bosome of the Boy:\nAnd if thine eyes can water for his death,\nI giue thee this to drie thy Cheekes withall.\nAlas poore Yorke, but that I hate thee deadly,\nI should lament thy miserable state.\nI prythee grieue, to make me merry, Yorke.\nWhat, hath thy fierie heart so parcht thine entrayles,\nThat not a Teare can fall, for Rutlands death?\nWhy art thou patient, man? thou should'st be mad:\nAnd I, to make thee mad, doe mock thee thus.\nStampe, raue, and fret, that I may sing and dance.\nThou would'st be fee'd, I see, to make me sport:\nYorke cannot speake, vnlesse he weare a Crowne.\nA Crowne for Yorke; and Lords, bow lowe to him:\nHold you his hands, whilest I doe set it on.\nI marry Sir, now lookes he like a King:\nI, this is he that tooke King Henries Chaire,\nAnd this is he was his adopted Heire.\nBut how is it, that great Plantagenet\nIs crown'd so soone, and broke his solemne Oath?\nAs I bethinke me, you should not be King,\nTill our King Henry had shooke hands with Death.\nAnd will you pale your head in Henries Glory,\nAnd rob his Temples of the Diademe,\nNow in his Life, against your holy Oath?\nOh 'tis a fault too too vnpardonable.\nOff with the Crowne; and with the Crowne, his Head,\nAnd whilest we breathe, take time to doe him dead\nClifford. That is my Office, for my Fathers sake\nQueene. Nay stay, let's heare the Orizons hee\nmakes\nYorke. Shee-Wolfe of France,\nBut worse then Wolues of France,\nWhose Tongue more poysons then the Adders Tooth:\nHow ill-beseeming is it in thy Sex,\nTo triumph like an Amazonian Trull,\nVpon their Woes, whom Fortune captiuates?\nBut that thy Face is Vizard-like, vnchanging,\nMade impudent with vse of euill deedes.\nI would assay, prowd Queene, to make thee blush.\nTo tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriu'd,\nWere shame enough, to shame thee,\nWert thou not shamelesse.\nThy Father beares the type of King of Naples,\nOf both the Sicils, and Ierusalem,\nYet not so wealthie as an English Yeoman.\nHath that poore Monarch taught thee to insult?\nIt needes not, nor it bootes thee not, prowd Queene,\nVnlesse the Adage must be verify'd,\nThat Beggers mounted, runne their Horse to death.\n'Tis Beautie that doth oft make Women prowd,\nBut God he knowes, thy share thereof is small.\n'Tis Vertue, that doth make them most admir'd,\nThe contrary, doth make thee wondred at.\n'Tis Gouernment that makes them seeme Diuine,\nThe want thereof, makes thee abhominable.\nThou art as opposite to euery good,\nAs the Antipodes are vnto vs,\nOr as the South to the Septentrion.\nOh Tygres Heart, wrapt in a Womans Hide,\nHow could'st thou drayne the Life-blood of the Child,\nTo bid the Father wipe his eyes withall,\nAnd yet be seene to beare a Womans face?\nWomen are soft, milde, pittifull, and flexible;\nThou, sterne, obdurate, flintie, rough, remorselesse.\nBidst thou me rage? why now thou hast thy wish.\nWould'st haue me weepe? why now thou hast thy will.\nFor raging Wind blowes vp incessant showers,\nAnd when the Rage allayes, the Raine begins.\nThese Teares are my sweet Rutlands Obsequies,\nAnd euery drop cryes vengeance for his death,\n'Gainst thee fell Clifford, and thee false French-woman\nNorthumb. Beshrew me, but his passions moues me so,\nThat hardly can I check my eyes from Teares\nYorke. That Face of his,\nThe hungry Caniballs would not haue toucht,\nWould not haue stayn'd with blood:\nBut you are more inhumane, more inexorable,\nOh, tenne times more then Tygers of Hyrcania.\nSee, ruthlesse Queene, a haplesse Fathers Teares:\nThis Cloth thou dipd'st in blood of my sweet Boy,\nAnd I with Teares doe wash the blood away.\nKeepe thou the Napkin, and goe boast of this,\nAnd if thou tell'st the heauie storie right,\nVpon my Soule, the hearers will shed Teares:\nYea, euen my Foes will shed fast-falling Teares,\nAnd say, Alas, it was a pittious deed.\nThere, take the Crowne, and with the Crowne, my Curse,\nAnd in thy need, such comfort come to thee,\nAs now I reape at thy too cruell hand.\nHard-hearted Clifford, take me from the World,\nMy Soule to Heauen, my Blood vpon your Heads\nNorthumb. Had he been slaughter-man to all my Kinne,\nI should not for my Life but weepe with him,\nTo see how inly Sorrow gripes his Soule\nQueen. What, weeping ripe, my Lord Northumberland?\nThinke but vpon the wrong he did vs all,\nAnd that will quickly drie thy melting Teares\nClifford. Heere's for my Oath, heere's for my Fathers\nDeath\nQueene. And heere's to right our gentle-hearted\nKing\nYorke. Open thy Gate of Mercy, gracious God,\nMy Soule flyes through these wounds, to seeke out thee\nQueene. Off with his Head, and set it on Yorke Gates,\nSo Yorke may ouer-looke the Towne of Yorke.\nFlourish. Exit.\nA March. Enter Edward, Richard, and their power.\nEdward. I wonder how our Princely Father scap't:\nOr whether he be scap't away, or no,\nFrom Cliffords and Northumberlands pursuit?\nHad he been ta'ne, we should haue heard the newes;\nHad he beene slaine, we should haue heard the newes:\nOr had he scap't, me thinkes we should haue heard\nThe happy tidings of his good escape.\nHow fares my Brother? why is he so sad?\nRichard. I cannot ioy, vntill I be resolu'd\nWhere our right valiant Father is become.\nI saw him in the Battaile range about,\nAnd watcht him how he singled Clifford forth.\nMe thought he bore him in the thickest troupe,\nAs doth a Lyon in a Heard of Neat,\nOr as a Beare encompass'd round with Dogges:\nWho hauing pincht a few, and made them cry,\nThe rest stand all aloofe, and barke at him.\nSo far'd our Father with his Enemies,\nSo fled his Enemies my Warlike Father:\nMe thinkes 'tis prize enough to be his Sonne.\nSee how the Morning opes her golden Gates,\nAnd takes her farwell of the glorious Sunne.\nHow well resembles it the prime of Youth,\nTrimm'd like a Yonker, prauncing to his Loue?\nEd. Dazle mine eyes, or doe I see three Sunnes?\nRich. Three glorious Sunnes, each one a perfect Sunne,\nNot seperated with the racking Clouds,\nBut seuer'd in a pale cleare-shining Skye.\nSee, see, they ioyne, embrace, and seeme to kisse,\nAs if they vow'd some League inuiolable.\nNow are they but one Lampe, one Light, one Sunne:\nIn this, the Heauen figures some euent\nEdward. 'Tis wondrous strange,\nThe like yet neuer heard of.\nI thinke it cites vs (Brother) to the field,\nThat wee, the Sonnes of braue Plantagenet,\nEach one alreadie blazing by our meedes,\nShould notwithstanding ioyne our Lights together,\nAnd ouer-shine the Earth, as this the World.\nWhat ere it bodes, hence-forward will I beare\nVpon my Targuet three faire shining Sunnes\nRichard. Nay, beare three Daughters:\nBy your leaue, I speake it,\nYou loue the Breeder better then the Male.\nEnter one blowing.\nBut what art thou, whose heauie Lookes fore-tell\nSome dreadfull story hanging on thy Tongue?\nMess. Ah, one that was a wofull looker on,\nWhen as the Noble Duke of Yorke was slaine,\nYour Princely Father, and my louing Lord\nEdward. Oh speake no more, for I haue heard too\nmuch\nRichard. Say how he dy'de, for I will heare it all\nMess. Enuironed he was with many foes,\nAnd stood against them, as the hope of Troy\nAgainst the Greekes, that would haue entred Troy.\nBut Hercules himselfe must yeeld to oddes:\nAnd many stroakes, though with a little Axe,\nHewes downe and fells the hardest-tymber'd Oake.\nBy many hands your Father was subdu'd,\nBut onely slaught'red by the irefull Arme\nOf vn-relenting Clifford, and the Queene:\nWho crown'd the gracious Duke in high despight,\nLaugh'd in his face: and when with griefe he wept,\nThe ruthlesse Queene gaue him, to dry his Cheekes,\nA Napkin, steeped in the harmelesse blood\nOf sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slaine:\nAnd after many scornes, many foule taunts,\nThey tooke his Head, and on the Gates of Yorke\nThey set the same, and there it doth remaine,\nThe saddest spectacle that ere I view'd\nEdward. Sweet Duke of Yorke, our Prop to leane vpon,\nNow thou art gone, wee haue no Staffe, no Stay.\nOh Clifford, boyst'rous Clifford, thou hast slaine\nThe flowre of Europe, for his Cheualrie,\nAnd trecherously hast thou vanquisht him,\nFor hand to hand he would haue vanquisht thee.\nNow my Soules Pallace is become a Prison:\nAh, would she breake from hence, that this my body\nMight in the ground be closed vp in rest:\nFor neuer henceforth shall I ioy againe:\nNeuer, oh neuer shall I see more ioy\nRich. I cannot weepe: for all my bodies moysture\nScarse serues to quench my Furnace-burning hart:\nNor can my tongue vnloade my hearts great burthen,\nFor selfe-same winde that I should speake withall,\nIs kindling coales that fires all my brest,\nAnd burnes me vp with flames, that tears would quench.\nTo weepe, is to make lesse the depth of greefe:\nTeares then for Babes; Blowes, and Reuenge for mee.\nRichard, I beare thy name, Ile venge thy death,\nOr dye renowned by attempting it\nEd. His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee:\nHis Dukedome, and his Chaire with me is left\nRich. Nay, if thou be that Princely Eagles Bird,\nShew thy descent by gazing 'gainst the Sunne:\nFor Chaire and Dukedome, Throne and Kingdome say,\nEither that is thine, or else thou wer't not his.\nMarch. Enter Warwicke, Marquesse Mountacute, and their Army.\nWarwick. How now faire Lords? What faire? What\nnewes abroad?\nRich. Great Lord of Warwicke, if we should recompt\nOur balefull newes, and at each words deliuerance\nStab Poniards in our flesh, till all were told,\nThe words would adde more anguish then the wounds.\nO valiant Lord, the Duke of Yorke is slaine\nEdw. O Warwicke, Warwicke, that Plantagenet\nWhich held thee deerely, as his Soules Redemption,\nIs by the sterne Lord Clifford done to death\nWar. Ten dayes ago, I drown'd these newes in teares.\nAnd now to adde more measure to your woes,\nI come to tell you things sith then befalne.\nAfter the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought,\nWhere your braue Father breath'd his latest gaspe,\nTydings, as swiftly as the Postes could runne,\nWere brought me of your Losse, and his Depart.\nI then in London, keeper of the King,\nMuster'd my Soldiers, gathered flockes of Friends,\nMarcht toward S[aint]. Albons, to intercept the Queene,\nBearing the King in my behalfe along:\nFor by my Scouts, I was aduertised\nThat she was comming with a full intent\nTo dash our late Decree in Parliament,\nTouching King Henries Oath, and your Succession:\nShort Tale to make, we at S[aint]. Albons met,\nOur Battailes ioyn'd, and both sides fiercely fought:\nBut whether 'twas the coldnesse of the King,\nWho look'd full gently on his warlike Queene,\nThat robb'd my Soldiers of their heated Spleene.\nOr whether 'twas report of her successe,\nOr more then common feare of Cliffords Rigour,\nWho thunders to his Captiues, Blood and Death,\nI cannot iudge: but to conclude with truth,\nTheir Weapons like to Lightning, came and went:\nOur Souldiers like the Night-Owles lazie flight,\nOr like a lazie Thresher with a Flaile,\nFell gently downe, as if they strucke their Friends.\nI cheer'd them vp with iustice of our Cause,\nWith promise of high pay, and great Rewards:\nBut all in vaine, they had no heart to fight,\nAnd we (in them) no hope to win the day,\nSo that we fled: the King vnto the Queene,\nLord George, your Brother, Norfolke, and my Selfe,\nIn haste, post haste, are come to ioyne with you:\nFor in the Marches heere we heard you were,\nMaking another Head, to fight againe\nEd. Where is the Duke of Norfolke, gentle Warwick?\nAnd when came George from Burgundy to England?\nWar. Some six miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers,\nAnd for your Brother he was lately sent\nFrom your kinde Aunt Dutchesse of Burgundie,\nWith ayde of Souldiers to this needfull Warre\nRich. 'Twas oddes belike, when valiant Warwick fled;\nOft haue I heard his praises in Pursuite,\nBut ne're till now, his Scandall of Retire\nWar. Nor now my Scandall Richard, dost thou heare:\nFor thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine,\nCan plucke the Diadem from faint Henries head,\nAnd wring the awefull Scepter from his Fist,\nWere he as famous, and as bold in Warre,\nAs he is fam'd for Mildnesse, Peace, and Prayer\nRich. I know it well Lord Warwick, blame me not,\n'Tis loue I beare thy glories make me speake:\nBut in this troublous time, what's to be done?\nShall we go throw away our Coates of Steele,\nAnd wrap our bodies in blacke mourning Gownes,\nNumb'ring our Aue-Maries with our Beads?\nOr shall we on the Helmets of our Foes\nTell our Deuotion with reuengefull Armes?\nIf for the last, say I, and to it Lords\nWar. Why therefore Warwick came to seek you out,\nAnd therefore comes my Brother Mountague:\nAttend me Lords, the proud insulting Queene,\nWith Clifford, and the haught Northumberland,\nAnd of their Feather, many moe proud Birds,\nHaue wrought the easie-melting King, like Wax.\nHe swore consent to your Succession,\nHis Oath enrolled in the Parliament.\nAnd now to London all the crew are gone,\nTo frustrate both his Oath, and what beside\nMay make against the house of Lancaster.\nTheir power (I thinke) is thirty thousand strong:\nNow, if the helpe of Norfolke, and my selfe,\nWith all the Friends that thou braue Earle of March,\nAmong'st the louing Welshmen can'st procure,\nWill but amount to fiue and twenty thousand,\nWhy Via, to London will we march,\nAnd once againe, bestride our foaming Steeds,\nAnd once againe cry Charge vpon our Foes,\nBut neuer once againe turne backe and flye\nRich. I, now me thinks I heare great Warwick speak;\nNe're may he liue to see a Sun-shine day,\nThat cries Retire, if Warwicke bid him stay\nEd. Lord Warwicke, on thy shoulder will I leane,\nAnd when thou failst (as God forbid the houre)\nMust Edward fall, which perill heauen forefend\nWar. No longer Earle of March, but Duke of Yorke:\nThe next degree, is Englands Royall Throne:\nFor King of England shalt thou be proclaim'd\nIn euery Burrough as we passe along,\nAnd he that throwes not vp his cap for ioy,\nShall for the Fault make forfeit of his head.\nKing Edward, valiant Richard Mountague:\nStay we no longer, dreaming of Renowne.\nBut sound the Trumpets, and about our Taske\nRich. Then Clifford, were thy heart as hard as Steele,\nAs thou hast shewne it flintie by thy deeds,\nI come to pierce it, or to giue thee mine\nEd. Then strike vp Drums, God and S[aint]. George for vs.\nEnter a Messenger.\nWar. How now? what newes?\nMes. The Duke of Norfolke sends you word by me,\nThe Queene is comming with a puissant Hoast,\nAnd craues your company, for speedy counsell\nWar. Why then it sorts, braue Warriors, let's away.\nExeunt. Omnes.\nFlourish. Enter the King, the Queene, Clifford, Northum[berland]\nand Yong\nPrince, with Drumme and Trumpettes.\nQu. Welcome my Lord, to this braue town of Yorke,\nYonders the head of that Arch-enemy,\nThat sought to be incompast with your Crowne.\nDoth not the obiect cheere your heart, my Lord\nK. I, as the rockes cheare them that feare their wrack,\nTo see this sight, it irkes my very soule:\nWith-hold reuenge (deere God) 'tis not my fault,\nNor wittingly haue I infring'd my Vow\nClif. My gracious Liege, this too much lenity\nAnd harmfull pitty must be layd aside:\nTo whom do Lyons cast their gentle Lookes?\nNot to the Beast, that would vsurpe their Den.\nWhose hand is that the Forrest Beare doth licke?\nNot his that spoyles her yong before her face.\nWho scapes the lurking Serpents mortall sting?\nNot he that sets his foot vpon her backe.\nThe smallest Worme will turne, being troden on,\nAnd Doues will pecke in safegard of their Brood.\nAmbitious Yorke, did leuell at thy Crowne,\nThou smiling, while he knit his angry browes.\nHe but a Duke, would haue his Sonne a King,\nAnd raise his issue like a louing Sire.\nThou being a King, blest with a goodly sonne,\nDid'st yeeld consent to disinherit him:\nWhich argued thee a most vnlouing Father.\nVnreasonable Creatures feed their young,\nAnd though mans face be fearefull to their eyes,\nYet in protection of their tender ones,\nWho hath not seene them euen with those wings,\nWhich sometime they haue vs'd with fearfull flight,\nMake warre with him that climb'd vnto their nest,\nOffering their owne liues in their yongs defence?\nFor shame, my Liege, make them your President:\nWere it not pitty that this goodly Boy\nShould loose his Birth-right by his Fathers fault,\nAnd long heereafter say vnto his childe,\nWhat my great Grandfather, and Grandsire got,\nMy carelesse Father fondly gaue away.\nAh, what a shame were this? Looke on the Boy,\nAnd let his manly face, which promiseth\nSuccessefull Fortune steele thy melting heart,\nTo hold thine owne, and leaue thine owne with him\nKing. Full well hath Clifford plaid the Orator,\nInferring arguments of mighty force:\nBut Clifford tell me, did'st thou neuer heare,\nThat things ill got, had euer bad successe.\nAnd happy alwayes was it for that Sonne,\nWhose Father for his hoording went to hell:\nIle leaue my Sonne my Vertuous deeds behinde,\nAnd would my Father had left me no more:\nFor all the rest is held at such a Rate,\nAs brings a thousand fold more care to keepe,\nThen in possession any iot of pleasure.\nAh Cosin Yorke, would thy best Friends did know,\nHow it doth greeue me that thy head is heere\nQu. My Lord cheere vp your spirits, our foes are nye,\nAnd this soft courage makes your Followers faint:\nYou promist Knighthood to our forward sonne,\nVnsheath your sword, and dub him presently.\nEdward, kneele downe\nKing. Edward Plantagenet, arise a Knight,\nAnd learne this Lesson; Draw thy Sword in right\nPrin. My gracious Father, by your Kingly leaue,\nIle draw it as Apparant to the Crowne,\nAnd in that quarrell, vse it to the death\nClif. Why that is spoken like a toward Prince.\nEnter a Messenger.\nMess. Royall Commanders, be in readinesse,\nFor with a Band of thirty thousand men,\nComes Warwicke backing of the Duke of Yorke,\nAnd in the Townes as they do march along,\nProclaimes him King, and many flye to him,\nDarraigne your battell, for they are at hand\nClif. I would your Highnesse would depart the field,\nThe Queene hath best successe when you are absent\nQu. I good my Lord, and leaue vs to our Fortune\nKing. Why, that's my fortune too, therefore Ile stay\nNorth. Be it with resolution then to fight\nPrin. My Royall Father, cheere these Noble Lords,\nAnd hearten those that fight in your defence:\nVnsheath your Sword, good Father: Cry S[aint]. George.\nMarch. Enter Edward, Warwicke, Richard, Clarence, Norfolke,\nMountague, and\nSoldiers.\nEdw. Now periur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace?\nAnd set thy Diadem vpon my head?\nOr bide the mortall Fortune of the field\nQu. Go rate thy Minions, proud insulting Boy,\nBecomes it thee to be thus bold in termes,\nBefore thy Soueraigne, and thy lawfull King?\nEd. I am his King, and he should bow his knee:\nI was adopted Heire by his consent\nCla. Since when, his Oath is broke: for as I heare,\nYou that are King, though he do weare the Crowne,\nHaue caus'd him by new Act of Parliament,\nTo blot out me, and put his owne Sonne in\nClif. And reason too,\nWho should succeede the Father, but the Sonne\nRich. Are you there Butcher? O, I cannot speake\nClif. I Crooke-back, here I stand to answer thee,\nOr any he, the proudest of thy sort\nRich. 'Twas you that kill'd yong Rutland, was it not?\nClif. I, and old Yorke, and yet not satisfied\nRich. For Gods sake Lords giue signall to the fight\nWar. What say'st thou Henry,\nWilt thou yeeld the Crowne?\nQu. Why how now long-tongu'd Warwicke, dare you speak?\nWhen you and I, met at S[aint]. Albons last,\nYour legges did better seruice then your hands\nWar. Then 'twas my turne to fly, and now 'tis thine:\nClif. You said so much before, and yet you fled\nWar. 'Twas not your valor Clifford droue me thence\nNor. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay\nRich. Northumberland, I hold thee reuerently,\nBreake off the parley, for scarse I can refraine\nThe execution of my big-swolne heart\nVpon that Clifford, that cruell Child-killer\nClif. I slew thy Father, cal'st thou him a Child?\nRich. I like a Dastard, and a treacherous Coward,\nAs thou didd'st kill our tender Brother Rutland,\nBut ere Sunset, Ile make thee curse the deed\nKing. Haue done with words (my Lords) and heare\nme speake\nQu. Defie them then, or els hold close thy lips\nKing. I prythee giue no limits to my Tongue,\nI am a King, and priuiledg'd to speake\nClif. My Liege, the wound that bred this meeting here,\nCannot be cur'd by Words, therefore be still\nRich. Then Executioner vnsheath thy sword:\nBy him that made vs all, I am resolu'd,\nThat Cliffords Manhood, lyes vpon his tongue\nEd. Say Henry, shall I haue my right, or no:\nA thousand men haue broke their Fasts to day,\nThat ne're shall dine, vnlesse thou yeeld the Crowne\nWar. If thou deny, their Blood vpon thy head,\nFor Yorke in iustice put's his Armour on\nPr.Ed. If that be right, which Warwick saies is right,\nThere is no wrong, but euery thing is right\nWar. Who euer got thee, there thy Mother stands,\nFor well I wot, thou hast thy Mothers tongue\nQu. But thou art neyther like thy Sire nor Damme,\nBut like a foule mishapen Stygmaticke,\nMark'd by the Destinies to be auoided,\nAs venome Toades, or Lizards dreadfull stings\nRich. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt,\nWhose Father beares the Title of a King,\n(As if a Channell should be call'd the Sea)\nSham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,\nTo let thy tongue detect thy base-borne heart\nEd. A wispe of straw were worth a thousand Crowns,\nTo make this shamelesse Callet know her selfe:\nHelen of Greece was fayrer farre then thou,\nAlthough thy Husband may be Menelaus;\nAnd ne're was Agamemnons Brother wrong'd\nBy that false Woman, as this King by thee.\nHis Father reuel'd in the heart of France,\nAnd tam'd the King, and made the Dolphin stoope:\nAnd had he match'd according to his State,\nHe might haue kept that glory to this day.\nBut when he tooke a begger to his bed,\nAnd grac'd thy poore Sire with his Bridall day,\nEuen then that Sun-shine brew'd a showre for him,\nThat washt his Fathers fortunes forth of France,\nAnd heap'd sedition on his Crowne at home:\nFor what hath broach'd this tumult but thy Pride?\nHad'st thou bene meeke, our Title still had slept,\nAnd we in pitty of the Gentle King,\nHad slipt our Claime, vntill another Age\nCla. But when we saw, our Sunshine made thy Spring,\nAnd that thy Summer bred vs no increase,\nWe set the Axe to thy vsurping Roote:\nAnd though the edge hath something hit our selues,\nYet know thou, since we haue begun to strike,\nWee'l neuer leaue, till we haue hewne thee downe,\nOr bath'd thy growing, with our heated bloods\nEdw. And in this resolution, I defie thee,\nNot willing any longer Conference,\nSince thou denied'st the gentle King to speake.\nSound Trumpets, let our bloody Colours waue,\nAnd either Victorie, or else a Graue\nQu. Stay Edward\nEd. No wrangling Woman, wee'l no longer stay,\nThese words will cost ten thousand liues this day.\nExeunt. omnes.\nAlarum. Excursions. Enter Warwicke.\nWar. Fore-spent with Toile, as Runners with a Race,\nI lay me downe a little while to breath:\nFor strokes receiu'd, and many blowes repaid,\nHaue robb'd my strong knit sinewes of their strength,\nAnd spight of spight, needs must I rest a-while.\nEnter Edward running.\nEd. Smile gentle heauen, or strike vngentle death,\nFor this world frownes, and Edwards Sunne is clowded\nWar. How now my Lord, what happe? what hope of\ngood?\nEnter Clarence\nCla. Our hap is losse, our hope but sad dispaire,\nOur rankes are broke, and ruine followes vs.\nWhat counsaile giue you? whether shall we flye?\nEd. Bootlesse is flight, they follow vs with Wings,\nAnd weake we are, and cannot shun pursuite.\nEnter Richard.\nRich. Ah Warwicke, why hast y withdrawn thy selfe?\nThy Brothers blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,\nBroach'd with the Steely point of Cliffords Launce:\nAnd in the very pangs of death, he cryde,\nLike to a dismall Clangor heard from farre,\nWarwicke, reuenge; Brother, reuenge my death.\nSo vnderneath the belly of their Steeds,\nThat stain'd their Fetlockes in his smoaking blood,\nThe Noble Gentleman gaue vp the ghost\nWar. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:\nIle kill my Horse, because I will not flye:\nWhy stand we like soft-hearted women heere,\nWayling our losses, whiles the Foe doth Rage,\nAnd looke vpon, as if the Tragedie\nWere plaid in iest, by counterfetting Actors.\nHeere on my knee, I vow to God aboue,\nIle neuer pawse againe, neuer stand still,\nTill either death hath clos'd these eyes of mine,\nOr Fortune giuen me measure of Reuenge\nEd. Oh Warwicke, I do bend my knee with thine,\nAnd in this vow do chaine my soule to thine:\nAnd ere my knee rise from the Earths cold face,\nI throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,\nThou setter vp, and plucker downe of Kings:\nBeseeching thee (if with thy will it stands)\nThat to my Foes this body must be prey,\nYet that thy brazen gates of heauen may ope,\nAnd giue sweet passage to my sinfull soule.\nNow Lords, take leaue vntill we meete againe,\nWhere ere it be, in heauen, or in earth\nRich. Brother,\nGiue me thy hand, and gentle Warwicke,\nLet me imbrace thee in my weary armes:\nI that did neuer weepe, now melt with wo,\nThat Winter should cut off our Spring-time so\nWar. Away, away:\nOnce more sweet Lords farwell\nCla. Yet let vs altogether to our Troopes,\nAnd giue them leaue to flye, that will not stay:\nAnd call them Pillars that will stand to vs:\nAnd if we thriue, promise them such rewards\nAs Victors weare at the Olympian Games.\nThis may plant courage in their quailing breasts,\nFor yet is hope of Life and Victory:\nForeslow no longer, make we hence amaine.\nExeunt.\nExcursions. Enter Richard and Clifford.\nRich. Now Clifford, I haue singled thee alone,\nSuppose this arme is for the Duke of Yorke,\nAnd this for Rutland, both bound to reuenge,\nWer't thou inuiron'd with a Brazen wall\nClif. Now Richard, I am with thee heere alone,\nThis is the hand that stabb'd thy Father Yorke,\nAnd this the hand, that slew thy Brother Rutland,\nAnd here's the heart, that triumphs in their death,\nAnd cheeres these hands, that slew thy Sire and Brother,\nTo execute the like vpon thy selfe,\nAnd so haue at thee.\nThey Fight, Warwicke comes, Clifford flies.\nRich. Nay Warwicke, single out some other Chace,\nFor I my selfe will hunt this Wolfe to death.\nExeunt.\nAlarum. Enter King Henry alone.\nHen. This battell fares like to the mornings Warre,\nWhen dying clouds contend, with growing light,\nWhat time the Shepheard blowing of his nailes,\nCan neither call it perfect day, nor night.\nNow swayes it this way, like a Mighty Sea,\nForc'd by the Tide, to combat with the Winde:\nNow swayes it that way, like the selfe-same Sea,\nForc'd to retyre by furie of the Winde.\nSometime, the Flood preuailes; and than the Winde:\nNow, one the better: then, another best;\nBoth tugging to be Victors, brest to brest:\nYet neither Conqueror, nor Conquered.\nSo is the equall poise of this fell Warre.\nHeere on this Mole-hill will I sit me downe,\nTo whom God will, there be the Victorie:\nFor Margaret my Queene, and Clifford too\nHaue chid me from the Battell: Swearing both,\nThey prosper best of all when I am thence.\nWould I were dead, if Gods good will were so;\nFor what is in this world, but Greefe and Woe.\nOh God! me thinkes it were a happy life,\nTo be no better then a homely Swaine,\nTo sit vpon a hill, as I do now,\nTo carue out Dialls queintly, point by point,\nThereby to see the Minutes how they runne:\nHow many makes the Houre full compleate,\nHow many Houres brings about the Day,\nHow many Dayes will finish vp the Yeare,\nHow many Yeares, a Mortall man may liue.\nWhen this is knowne, then to diuide the Times:\nSo many Houres, must I tend my Flocke;\nSo many Houres, must I take my Rest:\nSo many Houres, must I Contemplate:\nSo many Houres, must I Sport my selfe:\nSo many Dayes, my Ewes haue bene with yong:\nSo many weekes, ere the poore Fooles will Eane:\nSo many yeares, ere I shall sheere the Fleece:\nSo Minutes, Houres, Dayes, Monthes, and Yeares,\nPast ouer to the end they were created,\nWould bring white haires, vnto a Quiet graue.\nAh! what a life were this? How sweet? how louely?\nGiues not the Hawthorne bush a sweeter shade\nTo Shepheards, looking on their silly Sheepe,\nThen doth a rich Imbroider'd Canopie\nTo Kings, that feare their Subiects treacherie?\nOh yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth.\nAnd to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds,\nHis cold thinne drinke out of his Leather Bottle,\nHis wonted sleepe, vnder a fresh trees shade,\nAll which secure, and sweetly he enioyes,\nIs farre beyond a Princes Delicates:\nHis Viands sparkling in a Golden Cup,\nHis bodie couched in a curious bed,\nWhen Care, Mistrust, and Treason waits on him.\nAlarum. Enter a Sonne that hath kill'd his Father, at one doore: and\na\nFather that hath kill'd his Sonne at another doore.\nSon. Ill blowes the winde that profits no body,\nThis man whom hand to hand I slew in fight,\nMay be possessed with some store of Crownes,\nAnd I that (haply) take them from him now,\nMay yet (ere night) yeeld both my Life and them\nTo some man else, as this dead man doth me.\nWho's this? Oh God! It is my Fathers face,\nWhom in this Conflict, I (vnwares) haue kill'd:\nOh heauy times! begetting such Euents.\nFrom London, by the King was I prest forth,\nMy Father being the Earle of Warwickes man,\nCame on the part of Yorke, prest by his Master:\nAnd I, who at his hands receiu'd my life,\nHaue by my hands, of Life bereaued him.\nPardon me God, I knew not what I did:\nAnd pardon Father, for I knew not thee.\nMy Teares shall wipe away these bloody markes:\nAnd no more words, till they haue flow'd their fill\nKing. O pitteous spectacle! O bloody Times!\nWhiles Lyons Warre, and battaile for their Dennes,\nPoore harmlesse Lambes abide their enmity.\nWeepe wretched man: Ile ayde thee Teare for Teare,\nAnd let our hearts and eyes, like Ciuill Warre,\nBe blinde with teares, and break ore-charg'd with griefe\nEnter Father, bearing of his Sonne.\nFa. Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me,\nGiue me thy Gold, if thou hast any Gold:\nFor I haue bought it with an hundred blowes.\nBut let me see: Is this our Foe-mans face?\nAh, no, no, no, it is mine onely Sonne.\nAh Boy, if any life be left in thee,\nThrow vp thine eye: see, see, what showres arise,\nBlowne with the windie Tempest of my heart,\nVpon thy wounds, that killes mine Eye, and Heart.\nO pitty God, this miserable Age!\nWhat Stratagems? how fell? how Butcherly?\nErreoneous, mutinous, and vnnaturall,\nThis deadly quarrell daily doth beget?\nO Boy! thy Father gaue thee life too soone,\nAnd hath bereft thee of thy life too late\nKing. Wo aboue wo: greefe, more the[n] common greefe\nO that my death would stay these ruthfull deeds:\nO pitty, pitty, gentle heauen pitty:\nThe Red Rose and the White are on his face,\nThe fatall Colours of our striuing Houses:\nThe one, his purple Blood right well resembles,\nThe other his pale Cheekes (me thinkes) presenteth:\nWither one Rose, and let the other flourish:\nIf you contend, a thousand liues must wither\nSon. How will my Mother, for a Fathers death\nTake on with me, and ne're be satisfi'd?\nFa. How will my Wife, for slaughter of my Sonne,\nShed seas of Teares, and ne're be satisfi'd?\nKing. How will the Country, for these woful chances,\nMis-thinke the King, and not be satisfied?\nSon. Was euer sonne, so rew'd a Fathers death?\nFath. Was euer Father so bemoan'd his Sonne?\nHen. Was euer King so greeu'd for Subiects woe?\nMuch is your sorrow; Mine, ten times so much\nSon. Ile beare thee hence, where I may weepe my fill\nFath. These armes of mine shall be thy winding sheet:\nMy heart (sweet Boy) shall be thy Sepulcher,\nFor from my heart, thine Image ne're shall go.\nMy sighing brest, shall be thy Funerall bell;\nAnd so obsequious will thy Father be,\nMen for the losse of thee, hauing no more,\nAs Priam was for all his Valiant Sonnes,\nIle beare thee hence, and let them fight that will,\nFor I haue murthered where I should not kill.\nExit\nHen. Sad-hearted-men, much ouergone with Care;\nHeere sits a King, more wofull then you are.\nAlarums. Excursions. Enter the Queen, the Prince, and Exeter.\nPrin. Fly Father, flye: for all your Friends are fled.\nAnd Warwicke rages like a chafed Bull:\nAway, for death doth hold vs in pursuite\nQu. Mount you my Lord, towards Barwicke post amaine:\nEdward and Richard like a brace of Grey-hounds,\nHauing the fearfull flying Hare in sight,\nWith fiery eyes, sparkling for very wrath,\nAnd bloody steele graspt in their yrefull hands\nAre at our backes, and therefore hence amaine\nExet. Away: for vengeance comes along with them.\nNay, stay not to expostulate, make speed,\nOr else come after, Ile away before\nHen. Nay take me with thee, good sweet Exeter:\nNot that I feare to stay, but loue to go\nWhether the Queene intends. Forward, away.\nExeunt.\nA lowd alarum. Enter Clifford Wounded.\nClif. Heere burnes my Candle out; I, heere it dies,\nWhich whiles it lasted, gaue King Henry light.\nO Lancaster! I feare thy ouerthrow,\nMore then my Bodies parting with my Soule:\nMy Loue and Feare, glew'd many Friends to thee,\nAnd now I fall. Thy tough Commixtures melts,\nImpairing Henry, strength'ning misproud Yorke;\nAnd whether flye the Gnats, but to the Sunne?\nAnd who shines now, but Henries Enemies?\nO Phoebus! had'st thou neuer giuen consent,\nThat Ph\u00e6ton should checke thy fiery Steeds,\nThy burning Carre neuer had scorch'd the earth.\nAnd Henry, had'st thou sway'd as Kings should do,\nOr as thy Father, and his Father did,\nGiuing no ground vnto the house of Yorke,\nThey neuer then had sprung like Sommer Flyes:\nI, and ten thousand in this lucklesse Realme,\nHad left no mourning Widdowes for our death,\nAnd thou this day, had'st kept thy Chaire in peace.\nFor what doth cherrish Weeds, but gentle ayre?\nAnd what makes Robbers bold, but too much lenity?\nBootlesse are Plaints, and Curelesse are my Wounds:\nNo way to flye, no strength to hold out flight:\nThe Foe is mercilesse, and will not pitty:\nFor at their hands I haue deseru'd no pitty.\nThe ayre hath got into my deadly Wounds,\nAnd much effuse of blood, doth make me faint:\nCome Yorke, and Richard, Warwicke, and the rest,\nI stab'd your Fathers bosomes; Split my brest.\nAlarum & Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwicke, Richard, and\nSoldiers, Montague,\n& Clarence.\nEd. Now breath we Lords, good fortune bids vs pause,\nAnd smooth the frownes of War, with peacefull lookes:\nSome Troopes pursue the bloody-minded Queene,\nThat led calme Henry, though he were a King,\nAs doth a Saile, fill'd with a fretting Gust\nCommand an Argosie to stemme the Waues.\nBut thinke you (Lords) that Clifford fled with them?\nWar. No, 'tis impossible he should escape:\n(For though before his face I speake the words)\nYour Brother Richard markt him for the Graue.\nAnd wheresoere he is, hee's surely dead.\nClifford grones\nRich. Whose soule is that which takes hir heauy leaue?\nA deadly grone, like life and deaths departing.\nSee who it is\nEd. And now the Battailes ended,\nIf Friend or Foe, let him be gently vsed\nRich. Reuoke that doome of mercy, for 'tis Clifford,\nWho not contented that he lopp'd the Branch\nIn hewing Rutland, when his leaues put forth,\nBut set his murth'ring knife vnto the Roote,\nFrom whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,\nI meane our Princely Father, Duke of Yorke\nWar. From off the gates of Yorke, fetch down y head,\nYour Fathers head, which Clifford placed there:\nIn stead whereof, let this supply the roome,\nMeasure for measure, must be answered\nEd. Bring forth that fatall Schreechowle to our house,\nThat nothing sung but death, to vs and ours:\nNow death shall stop his dismall threatning sound,\nAnd his ill-boading tongue, no more shall speake\nWar. I thinke his vnderstanding is bereft:\nSpeake Clifford, dost thou know who speakes to thee?\nDarke cloudy death ore-shades his beames of life,\nAnd he nor sees, nor heares vs, what we say\nRich. O would he did, and so (perhaps) he doth,\n'Tis but his policy to counterfet,\nBecause he would auoid such bitter taunts\nWhich in the time of death he gaue our Father\nCla. If so thou think'st,\nVex him with eager Words\nRich. Clifford, aske mercy, and obtaine no grace\nEd. Clifford, repent in bootlesse penitence\nWar. Clifford, deuise excuses for thy faults\nCla. While we deuise fell Tortures for thy faults\nRich. Thou didd'st loue Yorke, and I am son to Yorke\nEdw. Thou pittied'st Rutland, I will pitty thee\nCla. Where's Captaine Margaret, to fence you now?\nWar. They mocke thee Clifford,\nSweare as thou was't wont\nRic. What, not an Oath? Nay then the world go's hard\nWhen Clifford cannot spare his Friends an oath:\nI know by that he's dead, and by my Soule,\nIf this right hand would buy two houres life,\nThat I (in all despight) might rayle at him,\nThis hand should chop it off: & with the issuing Blood\nStifle the Villaine, whose vnstanched thirst\nYorke, and yong Rutland could not satisfie\nWar. I, but he's dead. Of with the Traitors head,\nAnd reare it in the place your Fathers stands.\nAnd now to London with Triumphant march,\nThere to be crowned Englands Royall King:\nFrom whence, shall Warwicke cut the Sea to France,\nAnd aske the Ladie Bona for thy Queene:\nSo shalt thou sinow both these Lands together,\nAnd hauing France thy Friend, thou shalt not dread\nThe scattred Foe, that hopes to rise againe:\nFor though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,\nYet looke to haue them buz to offend thine eares:\nFirst, will I see the Coronation,\nAnd then to Britanny Ile crosse the Sea,\nTo effect this marriage, so it please my Lord\nEd. Euen as thou wilt sweet Warwicke, let it bee:\nFor in thy shoulder do I builde my Seate;\nAnd neuer will I vndertake the thing\nWherein thy counsaile and consent is wanting:\nRichard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester,\nAnd George of Clarence; Warwicke as our Selfe,\nShall do, and vndo as him pleaseth best\nRich. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloster,\nFor Glosters Dukedome is too ominous\nWar. Tut, that's a foolish obseruation:\nRichard, be Duke of Gloster: Now to London,\nTo see these Honors in possession.\nExeunt.\nEnter Sinklo, and Humfrey, with Crosse-bowes in their hands.\nSink. Vnder this thicke growne brake, wee'l shrowd our selues:\nFor through this Laund anon the Deere will come,\nAnd in this couert will we make our Stand,\nCulling the principall of all the Deere\nHum. Ile stay aboue the hill, so both may shoot\nSink. That cannot be, the noise of thy Crosse-bow\nWill scarre the Heard, and so my shoot is lost:\nHeere stand we both, and ayme we at the best:\nAnd for the time shall not seeme tedious,\nIle tell thee what befell me on a day,\nIn this selfe-place, where now we meane to stand\nSink. Heere comes a man, let's stay till he be past:\nEnter the King with a Prayer booke.\nHen. From Scotland am I stolne euen of pure loue,\nTo greet mine owne Land with my wishfull sight:\nNo Harry, Harry, 'tis no Land of thine,\nThy place is fill'd, thy Scepter wrung from thee,\nThy Balme washt off, wherewith thou was Annointed:\nNo bending knee will call thee C\u00e6sar now,\nNo humble suters prease to speake for right:\nNo, not a man comes for redresse of thee:\nFor how can I helpe them, and not my selfe?\nSink. I, heere's a Deere, whose skin's a Keepers Fee:\nThis is the quondam King; Let's seize vpon him\nHen. Let me embrace the sower Aduersaries,\nFor Wise men say, it is the wisest course\nHum. Why linger we? Let vs lay hands vpon him\nSink. Forbeare a-while, wee'l heare a little more\nHen. My Queene and Son are gone to France for aid:\nAnd (as I heare) the great Commanding Warwicke\nI: thither gone, to craue the French Kings Sister\nTo wife for Edward. If this newes be true,\nPoore Queene, and Sonne, your labour is but lost:\nFor Warwicke is a subtle Orator:\nAnd Lewis a Prince soone wonne with mouing words:\nBy this account then, Margaret may winne him,\nFor she's a woman to be pittied much:\nHer sighes will make a batt'ry in his brest,\nHer teares will pierce into a Marble heart:\nThe Tyger will be milde, whiles she doth mourne;\nAnd Nero will be tainted with remorse,\nTo heare and see her plaints, her Brinish Teares.\nI, but shee's come to begge, Warwicke to giue:\nShee on his left side, crauing ayde for Henrie;\nHe on his right, asking a wife for Edward.\nShee Weepes, and sayes, her Henry is depos'd:\nHe Smiles, and sayes, his Edward is instaul'd;\nThat she (poore Wretch) for greefe can speake no more:\nWhiles Warwicke tels his Title, smooths the Wrong,\nInferreth arguments of mighty strength,\nAnd in conclusion winnes the King from her,\nWith promise of his Sister, and what else,\nTo strengthen and support King Edwards place.\nO Margaret, thus 'twill be, and thou (poore soule)\nArt then forsaken, as thou went'st forlorne\nHum. Say, what art thou talk'st of Kings & Queens?\nKing. More then I seeme, and lesse then I was born to:\nA man at least, for lesse I should not be:\nAnd men may talke of Kings, and why not I?\nHum. I, but thou talk'st, as if thou wer't a King\nKing. Why so I am (in Minde) and that's enough\nHum. But if thou be a King, where is thy Crowne?\nKing. My Crowne is in my heart, not on my head:\nNot deck'd with Diamonds, and Indian stones:\nNor to be seene: my Crowne, is call'd Content,\nA Crowne it is, that sildome Kings enioy\nHum. Well, if you be a King crown'd with Content,\nYour Crowne Content, and you, must be contented\nTo go along with vs. For (as we thinke)\nYou are the king King Edward hath depos'd:\nAnd we his subiects, sworne in all Allegeance,\nWill apprehend you, as his Enemie\nKing. But did you neuer sweare, and breake an Oath\nHum. No, neuer such an Oath, nor will not now\nKing. Where did you dwell when I was K[ing]. of England?\nHum. Heere in this Country, where we now remaine\nKing. I was annointed King at nine monthes old,\nMy Father, and my Grandfather were Kings:\nAnd you were sworne true Subiects vnto me:\nAnd tell me then, haue you not broke your Oathes?\nSin. No, for we were Subiects, but while you wer king\nKing. Why? Am I dead? Do I not breath a Man?\nAh simple men, you know not what you sweare:\nLooke, as I blow this Feather from my Face,\nAnd as the Ayre blowes it to me againe,\nObeying with my winde when I do blow,\nAnd yeelding to another, when it blowes,\nCommanded alwayes by the greater gust:\nSuch is the lightnesse of you, common men.\nBut do not breake your Oathes, for of that sinne,\nMy milde intreatie shall not make you guiltie.\nGo where you will, the king shall be commanded,\nAnd be you kings, command, and Ile obey\nSinklo. We are true Subiects to the king,\nKing Edward\nKing. So would you be againe to Henrie,\nIf he were seated as king Edward is\nSinklo. We charge you in Gods name & the Kings,\nTo go with vs vnto the Officers\nKing. In Gods name lead, your Kings name be obeyd,\nAnd what God will, that let your King performe.\nAnd what he will, I humbly yeeld vnto.\nExeunt.\nEnter K[ing]. Edward, Gloster, Clarence, Lady Gray.\nKing. Brother of Gloster, at S[aint]. Albons field\nThis Ladyes Husband, Sir Richard Grey, was slaine,\nHis Land then seiz'd on by the Conqueror,\nHer suit is now, to repossesse those Lands,\nWhich wee in Iustice cannot well deny,\nBecause in Quarrell of the House of Yorke,\nThe worthy Gentleman did lose his Life\nRich. Your Highnesse shall doe well to graunt her suit:\nIt were dishonor to deny it her\nKing. It were no lesse, but yet Ile make a pawse\nRich. Yea, is it so:\nI see the Lady hath a thing to graunt,\nBefore the King will graunt her humble suit\nClarence. Hee knowes the Game, how true hee keepes\nthe winde?\nRich. Silence\nKing. Widow, we will consider of your suit,\nAnd come some other time to know our minde\nWid. Right gracious Lord, I cannot brooke delay:\nMay it please your Highnesse to resolue me now,\nAnd what your pleasure is, shall satisfie me\nRich. I Widow? then Ile warrant you all your Lands,\nAnd if what pleases him, shall pleasure you:\nFight closer, or good faith you'le catch a Blow\nClarence. I feare her not, vnlesse she chance to fall\nRich. God forbid that, for hee'le take vantages\nKing. How many Children hast thou, Widow? tell\nme\nClarence. I thinke he meanes to begge a Child of her\nRich. Nay then whip me: hee'le rather giue her two\nWid. Three, my most gracious Lord\nRich. You shall haue foure, if you'le be rul'd by him\nKing. 'Twere pittie they should lose their Fathers\nLands\nWid. Be pittifull, dread Lord, and graunt it then\nKing. Lords giue vs leaue, Ile trye this Widowes\nwit\nRich. I, good leaue haue you, for you will haue leaue,\nTill Youth take leaue, and leaue you to the Crutch\nKing. Now tell me, Madame, doe you loue your\nChildren?\nWid. I, full as dearely as I loue my selfe\nKing. And would you not doe much to doe them\ngood?\nWid. To doe them good, I would sustayne some\nharme\nKing. Then get your Husbands Lands, to doe them\ngood\nWid. Therefore I came vnto your Maiestie\nKing. Ile tell you how these Lands are to be got\nWid. So shall you bind me to your Highnesse seruice\nKing. What seruice wilt thou doe me, if I giue them?\nWid. What you command, that rests in me to doe\nKing. But you will take exceptions to my Boone\nWid. No, gracious Lord, except I cannot doe it\nKing. I, but thou canst doe what I meane to aske\nWid. Why then I will doe what your Grace commands\nRich. Hee plyes her hard, and much Raine weares the\nMarble\nClar. As red as fire? nay then, her Wax must melt\nWid. Why stoppes my Lord? shall I not heare my\nTaske?\nKing. An easie Taske, 'tis but to loue a King\nWid. That's soone perform'd, because I am a Subiect\nKing. Why then, thy Husbands Lands I freely giue\nthee\nWid. I take my leaue with many thousand thankes\nRich. The Match is made, shee seales it with a Cursie\nKing. But stay thee, 'tis the fruits of loue I meane\nWid. The fruits of Loue, I meane, my louing Liege\nKing. I, but I feare me in another sence.\nWhat Loue, think'st thou, I sue so much to get?\nWid. My loue till death, my humble thanks, my prayers,\nThat loue which Vertue begges, and Vertue graunts\nKing. No, by my troth, I did not meane such loue\nWid. Why then you meane not, as I thought you did\nKing. But now you partly may perceiue my minde\nWid. My minde will neuer graunt what I perceiue\nYour Highnesse aymes at, if I ayme aright\nKing. To tell thee plaine, I ayme to lye with thee\nWid. To tell you plaine, I had rather lye in Prison\nKing. Why then thou shalt not haue thy Husbands\nLands\nWid. Why then mine Honestie shall be my Dower,\nFor by that losse, I will not purchase them\nKing. Therein thou wrong'st thy Children mightily\nWid. Herein your Highnesse wrongs both them & me:\nBut mightie Lord, this merry inclination\nAccords not with the sadnesse of my suit:\nPlease you dismisse me, eyther with I, or no\nKing. I, if thou wilt say I to my request:\nNo, if thou do'st say No to my demand\nWid. Then No, my Lord: my suit is at an end\nRich. The Widow likes him not, shee knits her\nBrowes\nClarence. Hee is the bluntest Wooer in Christendome\nKing. Her Looks doth argue her replete with Modesty,\nHer Words doth shew her Wit incomparable,\nAll her perfections challenge Soueraigntie,\nOne way, or other, shee is for a King,\nAnd shee shall be my Loue, or else my Queene.\nSay, that King Edward take thee for his Queene?\nWid. 'Tis better said then done, my gracious Lord:\nI am a subiect fit to ieast withall,\nBut farre vnfit to be a Soueraigne\nKing. Sweet Widow, by my State I sweare to thee,\nI speake no more then what my Soule intends,\nAnd that is, to enioy thee for my Loue\nWid. And that is more then I will yeeld vnto:\nI know, I am too meane to be your Queene,\nAnd yet too good to be your Concubine\nKing. You cauill, Widow, I did meane my Queene\nWid. 'Twill grieue your Grace, my Sonnes should call\nyou Father\nKing. No more, then when my Daughters\nCall thee Mother.\nThou art a Widow, and thou hast some Children,\nAnd by Gods Mother, I being but a Batchelor,\nHaue other-some. Why, 'tis a happy thing,\nTo be the Father vnto many Sonnes:\nAnswer no more, for thou shalt be my Queene\nRich. The Ghostly Father now hath done his Shrift\nClarence. When hee was made a Shriuer, 'twas for shift\nKing. Brothers, you muse what Chat wee two haue\nhad\nRich. The Widow likes it not, for shee lookes very\nsad\nKing. You'ld thinke it strange, if I should marrie\nher\nClarence. To who, my Lord?\nKing. Why Clarence, to my selfe\nRich. That would be tenne dayes wonder at the least\nClarence. That's a day longer then a Wonder lasts\nRich. By so much is the Wonder in extremes\nKing. Well, ieast on Brothers: I can tell you both,\nHer suit is graunted for her Husbands Lands.\nEnter a Noble man\nNob. My gracious Lord, Henry your Foe is taken,\nAnd brought your Prisoner to your Pallace Gate\nKing. See that he be conuey'd vnto the Tower:\nAnd goe wee Brothers to the man that tooke him,\nTo question of his apprehension.\nWidow goe you along: Lords vse her honourable.\nExeunt.\nManet Richard.\nRich. I, Edward will vse Women honourably:\nWould he were wasted, Marrow, Bones, and all,\nThat from his Loynes no hopefull Branch may spring,\nTo crosse me from the Golden time I looke for:\nAnd yet, betweene my Soules desire, and me,\nThe lustfull Edwards Title buryed,\nIs Clarence, Henry, and his Sonne young Edward,\nAnd all the vnlook'd-for Issue of their Bodies,\nTo take their Roomes, ere I can place my selfe:\nA cold premeditation for my purpose.\nWhy then I doe but dreame on Soueraigntie,\nLike one that stands vpon a Promontorie,\nAnd spyes a farre-off shore, where hee would tread,\nWishing his foot were equall with his eye,\nAnd chides the Sea, that sunders him from thence,\nSaying, hee'le lade it dry, to haue his way:\nSo doe I wish the Crowne, being so farre off,\nAnd so I chide the meanes that keepes me from it,\nAnd so (I say) Ile cut the Causes off,\nFlattering me with impossibilities:\nMy Eyes too quicke, my Heart o're-weenes too much,\nVnlesse my Hand and Strength could equall them.\nWell, say there is no Kingdome then for Richard:\nWhat other Pleasure can the World affoord?\nIle make my Heauen in a Ladies Lappe,\nAnd decke my Body in gay Ornaments,\nAnd 'witch sweet Ladies with my Words and Lookes.\nOh miserable Thought! and more vnlikely,\nThen to accomplish twentie Golden Crownes.\nWhy Loue forswore me in my Mothers Wombe:\nAnd for I should not deale in her soft Lawes,\nShee did corrupt frayle Nature with some Bribe,\nTo shrinke mine Arme vp like a wither'd Shrub,\nTo make an enuious Mountaine on my Back,\nWhere sits Deformitie to mocke my Body;\nTo shape my Legges of an vnequall size,\nTo dis-proportion me in euery part:\nLike to a Chaos, or an vn-lick'd Beare-whelpe,\nThat carryes no impression like the Damme.\nAnd am I then a man to be belou'd?\nOh monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought.\nThen since this Earth affoords no Ioy to me,\nBut to command, to check, to o're-beare such,\nAs are of better Person then my selfe:\nIle make my Heauen, to dreame vpon the Crowne,\nAnd whiles I liue, t' account this World but Hell,\nVntill my mis-shap'd Trunke, that beares this Head,\nBe round impaled with a glorious Crowne.\nAnd yet I know not how to get the Crowne,\nFor many Liues stand betweene me and home:\nAnd I, like one lost in a Thornie Wood,\nThat rents the Thornes, and is rent with the Thornes,\nSeeking a way, and straying from the way,\nNot knowing how to finde the open Ayre,\nBut toyling desperately to finde it out,\nTorment my selfe, to catch the English Crowne:\nAnd from that torment I will free my selfe,\nOr hew my way out with a bloody Axe.\nWhy I can smile, and murther whiles I smile,\nAnd cry, Content, to that which grieues my Heart,\nAnd wet my Cheekes with artificiall Teares,\nAnd frame my Face to all occasions.\nIle drowne more Saylers then the Mermaid shall,\nIle slay more gazers then the Basiliske,\nIle play the Orator as well as Nestor,\nDeceiue more slyly then Vlisses could,\nAnd like a Synon, take another Troy.\nI can adde Colours to the Camelion,\nChange shapes with Proteus, for aduantages,\nAnd set the murtherous Macheuill to Schoole.\nCan I doe this, and cannot get a Crowne?\nTut, were it farther off, Ile plucke it downe.\nEnter.\nFlourish. Enter Lewis the French King, his Sister Bona, his\nAdmirall,\ncall'd Bourbon: Prince Edward, Queene Margaret, and the Earle of\nOxford.\nLewis sits, and riseth vp againe.\nLewis. Faire Queene of England, worthy Margaret,\nSit downe with vs: it ill befits thy State,\nAnd Birth, that thou should'st stand, while Lewis doth sit\nMarg. No, mightie King of France: now Margaret\nMust strike her sayle, and learne a while to serue,\nWhere Kings command. I was (I must confesse)\nGreat Albions Queene, in former Golden dayes:\nBut now mischance hath trod my Title downe,\nAnd with dis-honor layd me on the ground,\nWhere I must take like Seat vnto my fortune,\nAnd to my humble Seat conforme my selfe\nLewis. Why say, faire Queene, whence springs this\ndeepe despaire?\nMarg. From such a cause, as fills mine eyes with teares,\nAnd stops my tongue, while heart is drown'd in cares\nLewis. What ere it be, be thou still like thy selfe,\nAnd sit thee by our side.\nSeats her by him.\nYeeld not thy necke to Fortunes yoake,\nBut let thy dauntlesse minde still ride in triumph,\nOuer all mischance.\nBe plaine, Queene Margaret, and tell thy griefe,\nIt shall be eas'd, if France can yeeld reliefe\nMarg. Those gracious words\nReuiue my drooping thoughts,\nAnd giue my tongue-ty'd sorrowes leaue to speake.\nNow therefore be it knowne to Noble Lewis,\nThat Henry, sole possessor of my Loue,\nIs, of a King, become a banisht man,\nAnd forc'd to liue in Scotland a Forlorne;\nWhile prowd ambitious Edward, Duke of Yorke,\nVsurpes the Regall Title, and the Seat\nOf Englands true anoynted lawfull King.\nThis is the cause that I, poore Margaret,\nWith this my Sonne, Prince Edward, Henries Heire,\nAm come to craue thy iust and lawfull ayde:\nAnd if thou faile vs, all our hope is done.\nScotland hath will to helpe, but cannot helpe:\nOur People, and our Peeres, are both mis-led,\nOur Treasure seiz'd, our Souldiors put to flight,\nAnd (as thou seest) our selues in heauie plight\nLewis. Renowned Queene,\nWith patience calme the Storme,\nWhile we bethinke a meanes to breake it off\nMarg. The more wee stay, the stronger growes our\nFoe\nLewis. The more I stay, the more Ile succour thee\nMarg. O, but impatience waiteth on true sorrow.\nAnd see where comes the breeder of my sorrow.\nEnter Warwicke.\nLewis. What's hee approacheth boldly to our presence?\nMarg. Our Earle of Warwicke, Edwards greatest\nFriend\nLewis. Welcome braue Warwicke, what brings thee\nto France?\nHee descends. Shee ariseth.\nMarg. I now begins a second Storme to rise,\nFor this is hee that moues both Winde and Tyde\nWarw. From worthy Edward, King of Albion,\nMy Lord and Soueraigne, and thy vowed Friend,\nI come (in Kindnesse, and vnfayned Loue)\nFirst, to doe greetings to thy Royall Person,\nAnd then to craue a League of Amitie:\nAnd lastly, to confirme that Amitie\nWith Nuptiall Knot, if thou vouchsafe to graunt\nThat vertuous Lady Bona, thy faire Sister,\nTo Englands King, in lawfull Marriage\nMarg. If that goe forward, Henries hope is done\nWarw. And gracious Madame,\nSpeaking to Bona.\nIn our Kings behalfe,\nI am commanded, with your leaue and fauor,\nHumbly to kisse your Hand, and with my Tongue\nTo tell the passion of my Soueraignes Heart;\nWhere Fame, late entring at his heedfull Eares,\nHath plac'd thy Beauties Image, and thy Vertue\nMarg. King Lewis, and Lady Bona, heare me speake,\nBefore you answer Warwicke. His demand\nSprings not from Edwards well-meant honest Loue,\nBut from Deceit, bred by Necessitie:\nFor how can Tyrants safely gouerne home,\nVnlesse abroad they purchase great allyance?\nTo proue him Tyrant, this reason may suffice,\nThat Henry liueth still: but were hee dead,\nYet here Prince Edward stands, King Henries Sonne.\nLooke therefore Lewis, that by this League and Mariage\nThou draw not on thy Danger, and Dis-honor:\nFor though Vsurpers sway the rule a while,\nYet Heau'ns are iust, and Time suppresseth Wrongs\nWarw. Iniurious Margaret\nEdw. And why not Queene?\nWarw. Because thy Father Henry did vsurpe,\nAnd thou no more art Prince, then shee is Queene\nOxf. Then Warwicke disanulls great Iohn of Gaunt,\nWhich did subdue the greatest part of Spaine;\nAnd after Iohn of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth,\nWhose Wisdome was a Mirror to the wisest:\nAnd after that wise Prince, Henry the Fift,\nWho by his Prowesse conquered all France:\nFrom these, our Henry lineally descends\nWarw. Oxford, how haps it in this smooth discourse,\nYou told not, how Henry the Sixt hath lost\nAll that, which Henry the Fift had gotten:\nMe thinkes these Peeres of France should smile at that.\nBut for the rest: you tell a Pedigree\nOf threescore and two yeeres, a silly time\nTo make prescription for a Kingdomes worth\nOxf. Why Warwicke, canst thou speak against thy Liege,\nWhom thou obeyd'st thirtie and six yeeres,\nAnd not bewray thy Treason with a Blush?\nWarw. Can Oxford, that did euer fence the right,\nNow buckler Falsehood with a Pedigree?\nFor shame leaue Henry, and call Edward King\nOxf. Call him my King, by whose iniurious doome\nMy elder Brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere\nWas done to death? and more then so, my Father,\nEuen in the downe-fall of his mellow'd yeeres,\nWhen Nature brought him to the doore of Death?\nNo Warwicke, no: while Life vpholds this Arme,\nThis Arme vpholds the House of Lancaster\nWarw. And I the House of Yorke\nLewis. Queene Margaret, Prince Edward, and Oxford,\nVouchsafe at our request, to stand aside,\nWhile I vse further conference with Warwicke.\nThey stand aloofe.\nMarg. Heauens graunt, that Warwickes wordes bewitch\nhim not\nLew. Now Warwicke, tell me euen vpon thy conscience\nIs Edward your true King? for I were loth\nTo linke with him, that were not lawfull chosen\nWarw. Thereon I pawne my Credit, and mine Honor\nLewis. But is hee gracious in the Peoples eye?\nWarw. The more, that Henry was vnfortunate\nLewis. Then further: all dissembling set aside,\nTell me for truth, the measure of his Loue\nVnto our Sister Bona\nWar. Such it seemes,\nAs may beseeme a Monarch like himselfe.\nMy selfe haue often heard him say, and sweare,\nThat this his Loue was an externall Plant,\nWhereof the Root was fixt in Vertues ground,\nThe Leaues and Fruit maintain'd with Beauties Sunne,\nExempt from Enuy, but not from Disdaine,\nVnlesse the Lady Bona quit his paine\nLewis. Now Sister, let vs heare your firme resolue\nBona. Your graunt, or your denyall, shall be mine.\nYet I confesse, that often ere this day,\nSpeaks to War[wicke].\nWhen I haue heard your Kings desert recounted,\nMine eare hath tempted iudgement to desire\nLewis. Then Warwicke, thus:\nOur Sister shall be Edwards.\nAnd now forthwith shall Articles be drawne,\nTouching the Ioynture that your King must make,\nWhich with her Dowrie shall be counter-poys'd:\nDraw neere, Queene Margaret, and be a witnesse,\nThat Bona shall be Wife to the English King\nPr.Edw. To Edward, but not to the English King\nMarg. Deceitfull Warwicke, it was thy deuice,\nBy this alliance to make void my suit:\nBefore thy comming, Lewis was Henries friend\nLewis. And still is friend to him, and Margaret.\nBut if your Title to the Crowne by weake,\nAs may appeare by Edwards good successe:\nThen 'tis but reason, that I be releas'd\nFrom giuing ayde, which late I promised.\nYet shall you haue all kindnesse at my hand,\nThat your Estate requires, and mine can yeeld\nWarw. Henry now liues in Scotland, at his ease;\nWhere hauing nothing, nothing can he lose.\nAnd as for you your selfe (our quondam Queene)\nYou haue a Father able to maintaine you,\nAnd better 'twere, you troubled him, then France\nMar. Peace impudent, and shamelesse Warwicke,\nProud setter vp, and puller downe of Kings,\nI will not hence, till with my Talke and Teares\n(Both full of Truth) I make King Lewis behold\nThy slye conueyance, and thy Lords false loue,\nPost blowing a horne Within.\nFor both of you are Birds of selfe-same Feather\nLewes. Warwicke, this is some poste to vs, or thee.\nEnter the Poste.\nPost. My Lord Ambassador,\nThese Letters are for you.\nSpeakes to Warwick,\nSent from your Brother Marquesse Montague.\nThese from our King, vnto your Maiesty.\nTo Lewis.\nAnd Madam, these for you:\nTo Margaret\nFrom whom, I know not.\nThey all reade their Letters.\nOxf. I like it well, that our faire Queene and Mistris\nSmiles at her newes, while Warwicke frownes at his\nPrince Ed. Nay marke how Lewis stampes as he were\nnetled. I hope, all's for the best\nLew. Warwicke, what are thy Newes?\nAnd yours, faire Queene\nMar. Mine such, as fill my heart with vnhop'd ioyes\nWar. Mine full of sorrow, and hearts discontent\nLew. What? has your King married the Lady Grey?\nAnd now to sooth your Forgery, and his,\nSends me a Paper to perswade me Patience?\nIs this th' Alliance that he seekes with France?\nDare he presume to scorne vs in this manner?\nMar. I told your Maiesty as much before:\nThis proueth Edwards Loue, and Warwickes honesty\nWar. King Lewis, I heere protest in sight of heauen,\nAnd by the hope I haue of heauenly blisse,\nThat I am cleere from this misdeed of Edwards;\nNo more my King, for he dishonors me,\nBut most himselfe, if he could see his shame.\nDid I forget, that by the House of Yorke\nMy Father came vntimely to his death?\nDid I let passe th' abuse done to my Neece?\nDid I impale him with the Regall Crowne?\nDid I put Henry from his Natiue Right?\nAnd am I guerdon'd at the last, with Shame?\nShame on himselfe, for my Desert is Honor.\nAnd to repaire my Honor lost for him,\nI heere renounce him, and returne to Henry.\nMy Noble Queene, let former grudges passe,\nAnd henceforth, I am thy true Seruitour:\nI will reuenge his wrong to Lady Bona,\nAnd replant Henry in his former state\nMar. Warwicke,\nThese words haue turn'd my Hate, to Loue,\nAnd I forgiue, and quite forget old faults,\nAnd ioy that thou becom'st King Henries Friend\nWar. So much his Friend, I, his Vnfained Friend,\nThat if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish vs\nWith some few Bands of chosen Soldiours,\nIle vndertake to Land them on our Coast,\nAnd force the Tyrant from his seat by Warre.\n'Tis not his new-made Bride shall succour him.\nAnd as for Clarence, as my Letters tell me,\nHee's very likely now to fall from him,\nFor matching more for wanton Lust, then Honor,\nOr then for strength and safety of our Country\nBona. Deere Brother, how shall Bona be reueng'd,\nBut by thy helpe to this distressed Queene?\nMar. Renowned Prince, how shall Poore Henry liue,\nVnlesse thou rescue him from foule dispaire?\nBona. My quarrel, and this English Queens, are one\nWar. And mine faire Lady Bona, ioynes with yours\nLew. And mine, with hers, and thine, and Margarets.\nTherefore, at last, I firmely am resolu'd\nYou shall haue ayde\nMar. Let me giue humble thankes for all, at once\nLew. Then Englands Messenger, returne in Poste,\nAnd tell false Edward, thy supposed King,\nThat Lewis of France, is sending ouer Maskers\nTo reuell it with him, and his new Bride.\nThou seest what's past, go feare thy King withall\nBona. Tell him, in hope hee'l proue a widower shortly,\nI weare the Willow Garland for his sake\nMar. Tell him, my mourning weeds are layde aside,\nAnd I am ready to put Armor on\nWar. Tell him from me, that he hath done me wrong,\nAnd therefore Ile vn-Crowne him, er't be long.\nThere's thy reward, be gone.\nExit Post.\nLew. But Warwicke,\nThou and Oxford, with fiue thousand men\nShall crosse the Seas, and bid false Edward battaile:\nAnd as occasion serues, this Noble Queen\nAnd Prince, shall follow with a fresh Supply.\nYet ere thou go, but answer me one doubt:\nWhat Pledge haue we of thy firme Loyalty?\nWar. This shall assure my constant Loyalty,\nThat if our Queene, and this young Prince agree,\nIle ioyne mine eldest daughter, and my Ioy,\nTo him forthwith, in holy Wedlocke bands\nMar. Yes, I agree, and thanke you for your Motion.\nSonne Edward, she is Faire and Vertuous,\nTherefore delay not, giue thy hand to Warwicke,\nAnd with thy hand, thy faith irreuocable,\nThat onely Warwickes daughter shall be thine\nPrin.Ed. Yes, I accept her, for she well deserues it,\nAnd heere to pledge my Vow, I giue my hand.\nHe giues his hand to Warw[icke].\nLew. Why stay we now? These soldiers shalbe leuied,\nAnd thou Lord Bourbon, our High Admirall\nShall waft them ouer with our Royall Fleete.\nI long till Edward fall by Warres mischance,\nFor mocking Marriage with a Dame of France.\nExeunt. Manet Warwicke.\nWar. I came from Edward as Ambassador,\nBut I returne his sworne and mortall Foe:\nMatter of Marriage was the charge he gaue me,\nBut dreadfull Warre shall answer his demand.\nHad he none else to make a stale but me?\nThen none but I, shall turne his Iest to Sorrow.\nI was the Cheefe that rais'd him to the Crowne,\nAnd Ile be Cheefe to bring him downe againe:\nNot that I pitty Henries misery,\nBut seeke Reuenge on Edwards mockery.\nEnter.\nEnter Richard, Clarence, Somerset, and Mountague.\nRich. Now tell me Brother Clarence, what thinke you\nOf this new Marriage with the Lady Gray?\nHath not our Brother made a worthy choice?\nCla. Alas, you know, tis farre from hence to France,\nHow could he stay till Warwicke made returne?\nSom. My Lords, forbeare this talke: heere comes the\nKing.\nFlourish. Enter King Edward, Lady Grey, Penbrooke, Stafford,\nHastings:\nfoure stand on one side, and foure on the other.\nRich. And his well-chosen Bride\nClarence. I minde to tell him plainly what I thinke\nKing. Now Brother of Clarence,\nHow like you our Choyce,\nThat you stand pensiue, as halfe malecontent?\nClarence. As well as Lewis of France,\nOr the Earle of Warwicke,\nWhich are so weake of courage, and in iudgement,\nThat they'le take no offence at our abuse\nKing. Suppose they take offence without a cause:\nThey are but Lewis and Warwicke, I am Edward,\nYour King and Warwickes, and must haue my will\nRich. And shall haue your will, because our King:\nYet hastie Marriage seldome proueth well\nKing. Yea, Brother Richard, are you offended too?\nRich. Not I: no:\nGod forbid, that I should wish them seuer'd,\nWhom God hath ioyn'd together:\nI, and 'twere pittie, to sunder them,\nThat yoake so well together\nKing. Setting your skornes, and your mislike aside,\nTell me some reason, why the Lady Grey\nShould not become my Wife, and Englands Queene?\nAnd you too, Somerset, and Mountague,\nSpeake freely what you thinke\nClarence. Then this is mine opinion:\nThat King Lewis becomes your Enemie,\nFor mocking him about the Marriage\nOf the Lady Bona\nRich. And Warwicke, doing what you gaue in charge,\nIs now dis-honored by this new Marriage\nKing. What, if both Lewis and Warwick be appeas'd,\nBy such inuention as I can deuise?\nMount. Yet, to haue ioyn'd with France in such alliance,\nWould more haue strength'ned this our Commonwealth\n'Gainst forraine stormes, then any home-bred Marriage\nHast. Why, knowes not Mountague, that of it selfe,\nEngland is safe, if true within it selfe?\nMount. But the safer, when 'tis back'd with France\nHast. 'Tis better vsing France, then trusting France:\nLet vs be back'd with God, and with the Seas,\nWhich he hath giu'n for fence impregnable,\nAnd with their helpes, onely defend our selues:\nIn them, and in our selues, our safetie lyes\nClar. For this one speech, Lord Hastings well deserues\nTo haue the Heire of the Lord Hungerford\nKing. I, what of that? it was my will, and graunt,\nAnd for this once, my Will shall stand for Law\nRich. And yet me thinks, your Grace hath not done well,\nTo giue the Heire and Daughter of Lord Scales\nVnto the Brother of your louing Bride;\nShee better would haue fitted me, or Clarence:\nBut in your Bride you burie Brotherhood\nClar. Or else you would not haue bestow'd the Heire\nOf the Lord Bonuill on your new Wiues Sonne,\nAnd leaue your Brothers to goe speede elsewhere\nKing. Alas, poore Clarence: is it for a Wife\nThat thou art malecontent? I will prouide thee\nClarence. In chusing for your selfe,\nYou shew'd your iudgement:\nWhich being shallow, you shall giue me leaue\nTo play the Broker in mine owne behalfe;\nAnd to that end, I shortly minde to leaue you\nKing. Leaue me, or tarry, Edward will be King,\nAnd not be ty'd vnto his Brothers will\nLady Grey. My Lords, before it pleas'd his Maiestie\nTo rayse my State to Title of a Queene,\nDoe me but right, and you must all confesse,\nThat I was not ignoble of Descent,\nAnd meaner then my selfe haue had like fortune.\nBut as this Title honors me and mine,\nSo your dislikes, to whom I would be pleasing,\nDoth cloud my ioyes with danger, and with sorrow\nKing. My Loue, forbeare to fawne vpon their frownes:\nWhat danger, or what sorrow can befall thee,\nSo long as Edward is thy constant friend,\nAnd their true Soueraigne, whom they must obey?\nNay, whom they shall obey, and loue thee too,\nVnlesse they seeke for hatred at my hands:\nWhich if they doe, yet will I keepe thee safe,\nAnd they shall feele the vengeance of my wrath\nRich. I heare, yet say not much, but thinke the more.\nEnter a Poste\nKing. Now Messenger, what Letters, or what Newes\nfrom France?\nPost. My Soueraigne Liege, no Letters, & few words,\nBut such, as I (without your speciall pardon)\nDare not relate\nKing. Goe too, wee pardon thee:\nTherefore, in briefe, tell me their words,\nAs neere as thou canst guesse them.\nWhat answer makes King Lewis vnto our Letters?\nPost. At my depart, these were his very words:\nGoe tell false Edward, the supposed King,\nThat Lewis of France is sending ouer Maskers,\nTo reuell it with him, and his new Bride\nKing. Is Lewis so braue? belike he thinkes me Henry.\nBut what said Lady Bona to my Marriage?\nPost. These were her words, vtt'red with mild disdaine:\nTell him, in hope hee'le proue a Widower shortly,\nIle weare the Willow Garland for his sake\nKing. I blame not her; she could say little lesse:\nShe had the wrong. But what said Henries Queene?\nFor I haue heard, that she was there in place\nPost. Tell him (quoth she)\nMy mourning Weedes are done,\nAnd I am readie to put Armour on\nKing. Belike she minds to play the Amazon.\nBut what said Warwicke to these iniuries?\nPost. He, more incens'd against your Maiestie,\nThen all the rest, discharg'd me with these words:\nTell him from me, that he hath done me wrong,\nAnd therefore Ile vncrowne him, er't be long\nKing. Ha? durst the Traytor breath out so prowd words?\nWell, I will arme me, being thus fore-warn'd:\nThey shall haue Warres, and pay for their presumption.\nBut say, is Warwicke friends with Margaret?\nPost. I, gracious Soueraigne,\nThey are so link'd in friendship,\nThat yong Prince Edward marryes Warwicks Daughter\nClarence. Belike, the elder;\nClarence will haue the younger.\nNow Brother King farewell, and sit you fast,\nFor I will hence to Warwickes other Daughter,\nThat though I want a Kingdome, yet in Marriage\nI may not proue inferior to your selfe.\nYou that loue me, and Warwicke, follow me.\nExit Clarence, and Somerset followes.\nRich. Not I:\nMy thoughts ayme at a further matter:\nI stay not for the loue of Edward, but the Crowne\nKing. Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwicke?\nYet am I arm'd against the worst can happen:\nAnd haste is needfull in this desp'rate case.\nPembrooke and Stafford, you in our behalfe\nGoe leuie men, and make prepare for Warre;\nThey are alreadie, or quickly will be landed:\nMy selfe in person will straight follow you.\nExeunt. Pembrooke and Stafford.\nBut ere I goe, Hastings and Mountague\nResolue my doubt: you twaine, of all the rest,\nAre neere to Warwicke, by bloud, and by allyance:\nTell me, if you loue Warwicke more then me;\nIf it be so, then both depart to him:\nI rather wish you foes, then hollow friends.\nBut if you minde to hold your true obedience,\nGiue me assurance with some friendly Vow,\nThat I may neuer haue you in suspect\nMount. So God helpe Mountague, as hee proues\ntrue\nHast. And Hastings, as hee fauours Edwards cause\nKing. Now, Brother Richard, will you stand by vs?\nRich. I, in despight of all that shall withstand you\nKing. Why so: then am I sure of Victorie.\nNow therefore let vs hence, and lose no howre,\nTill wee meet Warwicke, with his forreine powre.\nExeunt.\nEnter Warwicke and Oxford in England, with French Souldiors.\nWarw. Trust me, my Lord, all hitherto goes well,\nThe common people by numbers swarme to vs.\nEnter Clarence and Somerset.\nBut see where Somerset and Clarence comes:\nSpeake suddenly, my Lords, are wee all friends?\nClar. Feare not that, my Lord\nWarw. Then gentle Clarence, welcome vnto Warwicke,\nAnd welcome Somerset: I hold it cowardize,\nTo rest mistrustfull, where a Noble Heart\nHath pawn'd an open Hand, in signe of Loue;\nElse might I thinke, that Clarence, Edwards Brother,\nWere but a fained friend to our proceedings:\nBut welcome sweet Clarence, my Daughter shall be thine.\nAnd now, what rests? but in Nights Couerture,\nThy Brother being carelessely encamp'd,\nHis Souldiors lurking in the Towne about,\nAnd but attended by a simple Guard,\nWee may surprize and take him at our pleasure,\nOur Scouts haue found the aduenture very easie:\nThat as Vlysses, and stout Diomede,\nWith sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus Tents,\nAnd brought from thence the Thracian fatall Steeds;\nSo wee, well couer'd with the Nights black Mantle,\nAt vnawares may beat downe Edwards Guard,\nAnd seize himselfe: I say not, slaughter him,\nFor I intend but onely to surprize him.\nYou that will follow me to this attempt,\nApplaud the Name of Henry, with your Leader.\nThey all cry, Henry.\nWhy then, let's on our way in silent sort,\nFor Warwicke and his friends, God and Saint George.\nExeunt.\nEnter three Watchmen to guard the Kings Tent.\n1.Watch. Come on my Masters, each man take his stand,\nThe King by this, is set him downe to sleepe\n2.Watch. What, will he not to Bed?\n1.Watch. Why, no: for he hath made a solemne Vow,\nNeuer to lye and take his naturall Rest,\nTill Warwicke, or himselfe, be quite supprest\n2.Watch. To morrow then belike shall be the day,\nIf Warwicke be so neere as men report\n3.Watch. But say, I pray, what Noble man is that,\nThat with the King here resteth in his Tent?\n1.Watch. 'Tis the Lord Hastings, the Kings chiefest\nfriend\n3.Watch. O, is it so? but why commands the King,\nThat his chiefe followers lodge in Townes about him,\nWhile he himselfe keepes in the cold field?\n2.Watch. 'Tis the more honour, because more dangerous\n3.Watch. I, but giue me worship, and quietnesse,\nI like it better then a dangerous honor.\nIf Warwicke knew in what estate he stands,\n'Tis to be doubted if he would waken him\n1.Watch. Vnlesse our Halberds did shut vp his passage\n2.Watch. I: wherefore else guard we his Royall Tent,\nBut to defend his Person from Night-foes?\nEnter Warwicke, Clarence, Oxford, Somerset, and French\nSouldiors, silent\nall.\nWarw. This is his Tent, and see where stand his Guard:\nCourage my Masters: Honor now, or neuer:\nBut follow me, and Edward shall be ours\n1.Watch. Who goes there?\n2.Watch. Stay, or thou dyest.\nWarwicke and the rest cry all, Warwicke, Warwicke, and set vpon\nthe\nGuard, who flye, crying, Arme, Arme, Warwicke and the rest\nfollowing them.\nThe Drumme playing, and Trumpet sounding. Enter Warwicke,\nSomerset, and\nthe rest, bringing the King out in his Gowne, sitting in a Chaire:\nRichard\nand Hastings flyes ouer the Stage\nSom. What are they that flye there?\nWarw. Richard and Hastings: let them goe, heere is\nthe Duke\nK.Edw. The Duke?\nWhy Warwicke, when wee parted,\nThou call'dst me King\nWarw. I, but the case is alter'd.\nWhen you disgrac'd me in my Embassade,\nThen I degraded you from being King,\nAnd come now to create you Duke of Yorke.\nAlas, how should you gouerne any Kingdome,\nThat know not how to vse Embassadors,\nNor how to be contented with one Wife,\nNor how to vse your Brothers Brotherly,\nNor how to studie for the Peoples Welfare,\nNor how to shrowd your selfe from Enemies?\nK.Edw. Yea, Brother of Clarence,\nArt thou here too?\nNay then I see, that Edward needs must downe.\nYet Warwicke, in despight of all mischance,\nOf thee thy selfe, and all thy Complices,\nEdward will alwayes beare himselfe as King:\nThough Fortunes mallice ouerthrow my State,\nMy minde exceedes the compasse of her Wheele\nWarw. Then for his minde, be Edward Englands King,\nTakes off his Crowne.\nBut Henry now shall weare the English Crowne,\nAnd be true King indeede: thou but the shadow.\nMy Lord of Somerset, at my request,\nSee that forthwith Duke Edward be conuey'd\nVnto my Brother Arch-Bishop of Yorke:\nWhen I haue fought with Pembrooke, and his fellowes,\nIle follow you, and tell what answer\nLewis and the Lady Bona send to him.\nNow for a-while farewell good Duke of Yorke.\nThey leade him out forcibly.\nK.Ed. What Fates impose, that men must needs abide;\nIt boots not to resist both winde and tide.\nExeunt.\nOxf. What now remaines my Lords for vs to do,\nBut march to London with our Soldiers?\nWar. I, that's the first thing that we haue to do,\nTo free King Henry from imprisonment,\nAnd see him seated in the Regall Throne.\nEnter.\nEnter Riuers, and Lady Gray.\nRiu. Madam, what makes you in this sodain change?\nGray. Why Brother Riuers, are you yet to learne\nWhat late misfortune is befalne King Edward?\nRiu. What losse of some pitcht battell\nAgainst Warwicke?\nGray. No, but the losse of his owne Royall person\nRiu. Then is my Soueraigne slaine?\nGray. I almost slaine, for he is taken prisoner,\nEither betrayd by falshood of his Guard,\nOr by his Foe surpriz'd at vnawares:\nAnd as I further haue to vnderstand,\nIs new committed to the Bishop of Yorke,\nFell Warwickes Brother, and by that our Foe\nRiu. These Newes I must confesse are full of greefe,\nYet gracious Madam, beare it as you may,\nWarwicke may loose, that now hath wonne the day\nGray. Till then, faire hope must hinder liues decay:\nAnd I the rather waine me from dispaire\nFor loue of Edwards Off-spring in my wombe:\nThis is it that makes me bridle passion,\nAnd beare with Mildnesse my misfortunes crosse:\nI, I, for this I draw in many a teare,\nAnd stop the rising of blood-sucking sighes,\nLeast with my sighes or teares, I blast or drowne\nKing Edwards Fruite, true heyre to th' English Crowne\nRiu. But Madam,\nWhere is Warwicke then become?\nGray. I am inform'd that he comes towards London,\nTo set the Crowne once more on Henries head,\nGuesse thou the rest, King Edwards Friends must downe.\nBut to preuent the Tyrants violence,\n(For trust not him that hath once broken Faith)\nIle hence forthwith vnto the Sanctuary,\nTo saue (at least) the heire of Edwards right:\nThere shall I rest secure from force and fraud:\nCome therefore let vs flye, while we may flye,\nIf Warwicke take vs, we are sure to dye.\nExeunt.\nEnter Richard, Lord Hastings, and Sir William Stanley.\nRich. Now my Lord Hastings, and Sir William Stanley\nLeaue off to wonder why I drew you hither,\nInto this cheefest Thicket of the Parke.\nThus stand the case: you know our King, my Brother,\nIs prisoner to the Bishop here, at whose hands\nHe hath good vsage, and great liberty,\nAnd often but attended with weake guard,\nCome hunting this way to disport himselfe.\nI haue aduertis'd him by secret meanes,\nThat if about this houre he make this way,\nVnder the colour of his vsuall game,\nHe shall heere finde his Friends with Horse and Men,\nTo set him free from his Captiuitie.\nEnter King Edward, and a Huntsman with him.\nHuntsman. This way my Lord,\nFor this way lies the Game\nKing Edw. Nay this way man,\nSee where the Huntsmen stand.\nNow Brother of Gloster, Lord Hastings, and the rest,\nStand you thus close to steale the Bishops Deere?\nRich. Brother, the time and case, requireth hast,\nYour horse stands ready at the Parke-corner\nKing Ed. But whether shall we then?\nHast. To Lyn my Lord,\nAnd shipt from thence to Flanders\nRich. Wel guest beleeue me, for that was my meaning\nK.Ed. Stanley, I will requite thy forwardnesse\nRich. But wherefore stay we? 'tis no time to talke\nK.Ed. Huntsman, what say'st thou?\nWilt thou go along?\nHunts. Better do so, then tarry and be hang'd\nRich. Come then away, lets ha no more adoo\nK.Ed. Bishop farwell,\nSheeld thee from Warwickes frowne,\nAnd pray that I may re-possesse the Crowne.\nExeunt.\nFlourish. Enter King Henry the sixt, Clarence, Warwicke,\nSomerset, young\nHenry, Oxford, Mountague, and Lieutenant.\nK.Hen. M[aster]. Lieutenant, now that God and Friends\nHaue shaken Edward from the Regall seate,\nAnd turn'd my captiue state to libertie,\nMy feare to hope, my sorrowes vnto ioyes,\nAt our enlargement what are thy due Fees?\nLieu. Subiects may challenge nothing of their Sou'rains\nBut, if an humble prayer may preuaile,\nI then craue pardon of your Maiestie\nK.Hen. For what, Lieutenant? For well vsing me?\nNay, be thou sure, Ile well requite thy kindnesse.\nFor that it made my imprisonment, a pleasure:\nI, such a pleasure, as incaged Birds\nConceiue; when after many moody Thoughts,\nAt last, by Notes of Houshold harmonie,\nThey quite forget their losse of Libertie.\nBut Warwicke, after God, thou set'st me free,\nAnd chiefely therefore, I thanke God, and thee,\nHe was the Author, thou the Instrument.\nTherefore that I may conquer Fortunes spight,\nBy liuing low, where Fortune cannot hurt me,\nAnd that the people of this blessed Land\nMay not be punisht with my thwarting starres,\nWarwicke, although my Head still weare the Crowne,\nI here resigne my Gouernment to thee,\nFor thou art fortunate in all thy deeds\nWarw. Your Grace hath still beene fam'd for vertuous,\nAnd now may seeme as wise as vertuous,\nBy spying and auoiding Fortunes malice,\nFor few men rightly temper with the Starres:\nYet in this one thing let me blame your Grace,\nFor chusing me, when Clarence is in place\nClar. No Warwicke, thou art worthy of the sway,\nTo whom the Heau'ns in thy Natiuitie,\nAdiudg'd an Oliue Branch, and Lawrell Crowne,\nAs likely to be blest in Peace and Warre:\nAnd therefore I yeeld thee my free consent\nWarw. And I chuse Clarence onely for Protector\nKing. Warwick and Clarence, giue me both your Hands:\nNow ioyne your Hands, & with your Hands your Hearts,\nThat no dissention hinder Gouernment:\nI make you both Protectors of this Land,\nWhile I my selfe will lead a priuate Life,\nAnd in deuotion spend my latter dayes,\nTo sinnes rebuke, and my Creators prayse\nWarw. What answeres Clarence to his Soueraignes\nwill?\nClar. That he consents, if Warwicke yeeld consent,\nFor on thy fortune I repose my selfe\nWarw. Why then, though loth, yet must I be content:\nWee'le yoake together, like a double shadow\nTo Henries Body, and supply his place;\nI meane, in bearing weight of Gouernment,\nWhile he enioyes the Honor, and his ease.\nAnd Clarence, now then it is more then needfull,\nForthwith that Edward be pronounc'd a Traytor,\nAnd all his Lands and Goods confiscate\nClar. What else? and that Succession be determined\nWarw. I, therein Clarence shall not want his part\nKing. But with the first, of all your chiefe affaires,\nLet me entreat (for I command no more)\nThat Margaret your Queene, and my Sonne Edward,\nBe sent for, to returne from France with speed:\nFor till I see them here, by doubtfull feare,\nMy ioy of libertie is halfe eclips'd\nClar. It shall bee done, my Soueraigne, with all\nspeede\nKing. My Lord of Somerset, what Youth is that,\nOf whom you seeme to haue so tender care?\nSomers. My Liege, it is young Henry, Earle of Richmond\nKing. Come hither, Englands Hope:\nLayes his Hand on his Head.\nIf secret Powers suggest but truth\nTo my diuining thoughts,\nThis prettie Lad will proue our Countries blisse.\nHis Lookes are full of peacefull Maiestie,\nHis Head by nature fram'd to weare a Crowne,\nHis Hand to wield a Scepter, and himselfe\nLikely in time to blesse a Regall Throne:\nMake much of him, my Lords; for this is hee\nMust helpe you more, then you are hurt by mee.\nEnter a Poste.\nWarw. What newes, my friend?\nPoste. That Edward is escaped from your Brother,\nAnd fled (as hee heares since) to Burgundie\nWarw. Vnsauorie newes: but how made he escape?\nPoste. He was conuey'd by Richard, Duke of Gloster,\nAnd the Lord Hastings, who attended him\nIn secret ambush, on the Forrest side,\nAnd from the Bishops Huntsmen rescu'd him:\nFor Hunting was his dayly Exercise\nWarw. My Brother was too carelesse of his charge.\nBut let vs hence, my Soueraigne, to prouide\nA salue for any sore, that may betide.\nExeunt.\nManet Somerset, Richmond, and Oxford.\nSom. My Lord, I like not of this flight of Edwards:\nFor doubtlesse, Burgundie will yeeld him helpe,\nAnd we shall haue more Warres befor't be long.\nAs Henries late presaging Prophecie\nDid glad my heart, with hope of this young Richmond:\nSo doth my heart mis-giue me, in these Conflicts,\nWhat may befall him, to his harme and ours.\nTherefore, Lord Oxford, to preuent the worst,\nForthwith wee'le send him hence to Brittanie,\nTill stormes be past of Ciuill Enmitie\nOxf. I: for if Edward re-possesse the Crowne,\n'Tis like that Richmond, with the rest, shall downe\nSom. It shall be so: he shall to Brittanie.\nCome therefore, let's about it speedily.\nExeunt.\nFlourish. Enter Edward, Richard, Hastings, and Souldiers.\nEdw. Now Brother Richard, Lord Hastings, and the rest,\nYet thus farre Fortune maketh vs amends,\nAnd sayes, that once more I shall enterchange\nMy wained state, for Henries Regall Crowne.\nWell haue we pass'd, and now re-pass'd the Seas,\nAnd brought desired helpe from Burgundie.\nWhat then remaines, we being thus arriu'd\nFrom Rauenspurre Hauen, before the Gates of Yorke,\nBut that we enter, as into our Dukedome?\nRich. The Gates made fast?\nBrother, I like not this.\nFor many men that stumble at the Threshold,\nAre well fore-told, that danger lurkes within\nEdw. Tush man, aboadments must not now affright vs:\nBy faire or foule meanes we must enter in,\nFor hither will our friends repaire to vs\nHast. My Liege, Ile knocke once more, to summon\nthem.\nEnter on the Walls, the Maior of Yorke, and his Brethren.\nMaior. My Lords,\nWe were fore-warned of your comming,\nAnd shut the Gates, for safetie of our selues;\nFor now we owe allegeance vnto Henry\nEdw. But, Master Maior, if Henry be your King,\nYet Edward, at the least, is Duke of Yorke\nMaior. True, my good Lord, I know you for no\nlesse\nEdw. Why, and I challenge nothing but my Dukedome,\nAs being well content with that alone\nRich. But when the Fox hath once got in his Nose,\nHee'le soone finde meanes to make the Body follow\nHast. Why, Master Maior, why stand you in a doubt?\nOpen the Gates, we are King Henries friends\nMaior. I, say you so? the Gates shall then be opened.\nHe descends.\nRich. A wise stout Captaine, and soone perswaded\nHast. The good old man would faine that all were wel,\nSo 'twere not long of him: but being entred,\nI doubt not I, but we shall soone perswade\nBoth him, and all his Brothers, vnto reason.\nEnter the Maior, and two Aldermen.\nEdw. So, Master Maior: these Gates must not be shut,\nBut in the Night, or in the time of Warre.\nWhat, feare not man, but yeeld me vp the Keyes,\nTakes his Keyes.\nFor Edward will defend the Towne, and thee,\nAnd all those friends, that deine to follow mee.\nMarch. Enter Mountgomerie, with Drumme and Souldiers.\nRich. Brother, this is Sir Iohn Mountgomerie,\nOur trustie friend, vnlesse I be deceiu'd\nEdw. Welcome Sir Iohn: but why come you in\nArmes?\nMount. To helpe King Edward in his time of storme,\nAs euery loyall Subiect ought to doe\nEdw. Thankes good Mountgomerie:\nBut we now forget our Title to the Crowne,\nAnd onely clayme our Dukedome,\nTill God please to send the rest\nMount. Then fare you well, for I will hence againe,\nI came to serue a King, and not a Duke:\nDrummer strike vp, and let vs march away.\nThe Drumme begins to march.\nEdw. Nay stay, Sir Iohn, a while, and wee'le debate\nBy what safe meanes the Crowne may be recouer'd\nMount. What talke you of debating? in few words,\nIf you'le not here proclaime your selfe our King,\nIle leaue you to your fortune, and be gone,\nTo keepe them back, that come to succour you.\nWhy shall we fight, if you pretend no Title?\nRich. Why Brother, wherefore stand you on nice\npoints?\nEdw. When wee grow stronger,\nThen wee'le make our Clayme:\nTill then, 'tis wisdome to conceale our meaning\nHast. Away with scrupulous Wit, now Armes must\nrule\nRich. And fearelesse minds clyme soonest vnto Crowns.\nBrother, we will proclaime you out of hand,\nThe bruit thereof will bring you many friends\nEdw. Then be it as you will: for 'tis my right,\nAnd Henry but vsurpes the Diademe\nMount. I, now my Soueraigne speaketh like himselfe,\nAnd now will I be Edwards Champion\nHast. Sound Trumpet, Edward shal be here proclaim'd:\nCome, fellow Souldior, make thou proclamation.\nFlourish. Sound.\nSoul. Edward the Fourth, by the Grace of God, King of\nEngland and France, and Lord of Ireland, &c\nMount. And whosoe're gainsayes King Edwards right,\nBy this I challenge him to single fight.\nThrowes downe his Gauntlet.\nAll. Long liue Edward the Fourth\nEdw. Thankes braue Mountgomery,\nAnd thankes vnto you all:\nIf fortune serue me, Ile requite this kindnesse.\nNow for this Night, let's harbor here in Yorke:\nAnd when the Morning Sunne shall rayse his Carre\nAboue the Border of this Horizon,\nWee'le forward towards Warwicke, and his Mates;\nFor well I wot, that Henry is no Souldier.\nAh froward Clarence, how euill it beseemes thee,\nTo flatter Henry, and forsake thy Brother?\nYet as wee may, wee'le meet both thee and Warwicke.\nCome on braue Souldiors: doubt not of the Day,\nAnd that once gotten, doubt not of large Pay.\nExeunt.\nFlourish. Enter the King, Warwicke, Mountague, Clarence,\nOxford, and\nSomerset.\nWar. What counsaile, Lords? Edward from Belgia,\nWith hastie Germanes, and blunt Hollanders,\nHath pass'd in safetie through the Narrow Seas,\nAnd with his troupes doth march amaine to London,\nAnd many giddie people flock to him\nKing. Let's leuie men, and beat him backe againe\nClar. A little fire is quickly trodden out,\nWhich being suffer'd, Riuers cannot quench\nWar. In Warwickshire I haue true-hearted friends,\nNot mutinous in peace, yet bold in Warre,\nThose will I muster vp: and thou Sonne Clarence\nShalt stirre vp in Suffolke, Norfolke, and in Kent,\nThe Knights and Gentlemen, to come with thee.\nThou Brother Mountague, in Buckingham,\nNorthampton, and in Leicestershire, shalt find\nMen well enclin'd to heare what thou command'st.\nAnd thou, braue Oxford, wondrous well belou'd,\nIn Oxfordshire shalt muster vp thy friends.\nMy Soueraigne, with the louing Citizens,\nLike to his Iland, gyrt in with the Ocean,\nOr modest Dyan, circled with her Nymphs,\nShall rest in London, till we come to him:\nFaire Lords take leaue, and stand not to reply.\nFarewell my Soueraigne\nKing. Farewell my Hector, and my Troyes true hope\nClar. In signe of truth, I kisse your Highnesse Hand\nKing. Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate\nMount. Comfort, my Lord, and so I take my leaue\nOxf. And thus I seale my truth, and bid adieu\nKing. Sweet Oxford, and my louing Mountague,\nAnd all at once, once more a happy farewell\nWar. Farewell, sweet Lords, let's meet at Couentry.\nExeunt.\nKing. Here at the Pallace will I rest a while.\nCousin of Exeter, what thinkes your Lordship?\nMe thinkes, the Power that Edward hath in field,\nShould not be able to encounter mine\nExet. The doubt is, that he will seduce the rest\nKing. That's not my feare, my meed hath got me fame:\nI haue not stopt mine eares to their demands,\nNor posted off their suites with slow delayes,\nMy pittie hath beene balme to heale their wounds,\nMy mildnesse hath allay'd their swelling griefes,\nMy mercie dry'd their water-flowing teares.\nI haue not been desirous of their wealth,\nNor much opprest them with great Subsidies,\nNor forward of reuenge, though they much err'd.\nThen why should they loue Edward more then me?\nNo Exeter, these Graces challenge Grace:\nAnd when the Lyon fawnes vpon the Lambe,\nThe Lambe will neuer cease to follow him.\nShout within, A Lancaster, A Lancaster.\nExet. Hearke, hearke, my Lord, what Shouts are\nthese?\nEnter Edward and his Souldiers.\nEdw. Seize on the shamefac'd Henry, beare him hence,\nAnd once againe proclaime vs King of England.\nYou are the Fount, that makes small Brookes to flow,\nNow stops thy Spring, my Sea shall suck them dry,\nAnd swell so much the higher, by their ebbe.\nHence with him to the Tower, let him not speake.\nExit with King Henry.\nAnd Lords, towards Couentry bend we our course,\nWhere peremptorie Warwicke now remaines:\nThe Sunne shines hot, and if we vse delay,\nCold biting Winter marres our hop'd-for Hay\nRich. Away betimes, before his forces ioyne,\nAnd take the great-growne Traytor vnawares:\nBraue Warriors, march amaine towards Couentry.\nExeunt.\nEnter Warwicke, the Maior of Couentry, two Messengers, and\nothers vpon the\nWalls.\nWar. Where is the Post that came from valiant Oxford?\nHow farre hence is thy Lord, mine honest fellow?\nMess .1. By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward\nWar. How farre off is our Brother Mountague?\nWhere is the Post that came from Mountague?\nMess. 2. By this at Daintry, with a puissant troope.\nEnter Someruile.\nWar. Say Someruile, what sayes my louing Sonne?\nAnd by thy guesse, how nigh is Clarence now?\nSomeru. At Southam I did leaue him with his forces,\nAnd doe expect him here some two howres hence\nWar. Then Clarence is at hand, I heare his Drumme\nSomeru. It is not his, my Lord, here Southam lyes:\nThe Drum your Honor heares, marcheth from Warwicke\nWar. Who should that be? belike vnlook'd for friends\nSomeru. They are at hand, and you shall quickly know.\nMarch. Flourish. Enter Edward, Richard, and Souldiers.\nEdw. Goe, Trumpet, to the Walls, and sound a Parle\nRich. See how the surly Warwicke mans the Wall\nWar. Oh vnbid spight, is sportfull Edward come?\nWhere slept our Scouts, or how are they seduc'd,\nThat we could heare no newes of his repayre\nEdw. Now Warwicke, wilt thou ope the Citie Gates,\nSpeake gentle words, and humbly bend thy Knee,\nCall Edward King, and at his hands begge Mercy,\nAnd he shall pardon thee these Outrages?\nWar. Nay rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence,\nConfesse who set thee vp, and pluckt thee downe,\nCall Warwicke Patron, and be penitent,\nAnd thou shalt still remaine the Duke of Yorke\nRich. I thought at least he would haue said the King,\nOr did he make the Ieast against his will?\nWar. Is not a Dukedome, Sir, a goodly gift?\nRich. I, by my faith, for a poore Earle to giue,\nIle doe thee seruice for so good a gift\nWar. 'Twas I that gaue the Kingdome to thy Brother\nEdw. Why then 'tis mine, if but by Warwickes gift\nWar. Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight:\nAnd Weakeling, Warwicke takes his gift againe,\nAnd Henry is my King, Warwicke his Subiect\nEdw. But Warwickes King is Edwards Prisoner:\nAnd gallant Warwicke, doe but answer this,\nWhat is the Body, when the Head is off?\nRich. Alas, that Warwicke had no more fore-cast,\nBut whiles he thought to steale the single Ten,\nThe King was slyly finger'd from the Deck:\nYou left poore Henry at the Bishops Pallace,\nAnd tenne to one you'le meet him in the Tower\nEdw. 'Tis euen so, yet you are Warwicke still\nRich. Come Warwicke,\nTake the time, kneele downe, kneele downe:\nNay when? strike now, or else the Iron cooles\nWar. I had rather chop this Hand off at a blow,\nAnd with the other, fling it at thy face,\nThen beare so low a sayle, to strike to thee\nEdw. Sayle how thou canst,\nHaue Winde and Tyde thy friend,\nThis Hand, fast wound about thy coale-black hayre,\nShall, whiles thy Head is warme, and new cut off,\nWrite in the dust this Sentence with thy blood,\nWind-changing Warwicke now can change no more.\nEnter Oxford, with Drumme and Colours.\nWar. Oh chearefull Colours, see where Oxford comes\nOxf. Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster\nRich. The Gates are open, let vs enter too\nEdw. So other foes may set vpon our backs.\nStand we in good array: for they no doubt\nWill issue out againe, and bid vs battaile;\nIf not, the Citie being but of small defence,\nWee'le quickly rowze the Traitors in the same\nWar. Oh welcome Oxford, for we want thy helpe.\nEnter Mountague, with Drumme and Colours.\nMount. Mountague, Mountague, for Lancaster\nRich. Thou and thy Brother both shall buy this Treason\nEuen with the dearest blood your bodies beare\nEdw. The harder matcht, the greater Victorie,\nMy minde presageth happy gaine, and Conquest.\nEnter Somerset, with Drumme and Colours.\nSom. Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster\nRich. Two of thy Name, both Dukes of Somerset,\nHaue sold their Liues vnto the House of Yorke,\nAnd thou shalt be the third, if this Sword hold.\nEnter Clarence, with Drumme and Colours.\nWar. And loe, where George of Clarence sweepes along,\nOf force enough to bid his Brother Battaile:\nWith whom, in vpright zeale to right, preuailes\nMore then the nature of a Brothers Loue.\nCome Clarence, come: thou wilt, if Warwicke call\nClar. Father of Warwicke, know you what this meanes?\nLooke here, I throw my infamie at thee:\nI will not ruinate my Fathers House,\nWho gaue his blood to lyme the stones together,\nAnd set vp Lancaster. Why, trowest thou, Warwicke,\nThat Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, vnnaturall,\nTo bend the fatall Instruments of Warre\nAgainst his Brother, and his lawfull King.\nPerhaps thou wilt obiect my holy Oath:\nTo keepe that Oath, were more impietie,\nThen Iephah, when he sacrific'd his Daughter.\nI am so sorry for my Trespas made,\nThat to deserue well at my Brothers hands,\nI here proclayme my selfe thy mortall foe:\nWith resolution, wheresoe're I meet thee,\n(As I will meet thee, if thou stirre abroad)\nTo plague thee, for thy foule mis-leading me.\nAnd so, prowd-hearted Warwicke, I defie thee,\nAnd to my Brother turne my blushing Cheekes.\nPardon me Edward, I will make amends:\nAnd Richard, doe not frowne vpon my faults,\nFor I will henceforth be no more vnconstant\nEdw. Now welcome more, and ten times more belou'd,\nThen if thou neuer hadst deseru'd our hate\nRich. Welcome good Clarence, this is Brother-like\nWarw. Oh passing Traytor, periur'd and vniust\nEdw. What Warwicke,\nWilt thou leaue the Towne, and fight?\nOr shall we beat the Stones about thine Eares?\nWarw. Alas, I am not coop'd here for defence:\nI will away towards Barnet presently,\nAnd bid thee Battaile, Edward, if thou dar'st\nEdw. Yes Warwicke, Edward dares, and leads the way:\nLords to the field: Saint George, and Victorie.\nExeunt.\nMarch. Warwicke and his companie followes.\nAlarum, and Excursions. Enter Edward bringing forth Warwicke\nwounded.\nEdw. So, lye thou there: dye thou, and dye our feare,\nFor Warwicke was a Bugge that fear'd vs all.\nNow Mountague sit fast, I seeke for thee,\nThat Warwickes Bones may keepe thine companie.\nEnter.\nWarw. Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend, or foe,\nAnd tell me who is Victor, Yorke, or Warwicke?\nWhy aske I that? my mangled body shewes,\nMy blood, my want of strength, my sicke heart shewes,\nThat I must yeeld my body to the Earth,\nAnd by my fall, the conquest to my foe.\nThus yeelds the Cedar to the Axes edge,\nWhose Armes gaue shelter to the Princely Eagle,\nVnder whose shade the ramping Lyon slept,\nWhose top-branch ouer-peer'd Ioues spreading Tree,\nAnd kept low Shrubs from Winters pow'rfull Winde.\nThese Eyes, that now are dim'd with Deaths black Veyle,\nHaue beene as piercing as the Mid-day Sunne,\nTo search the secret Treasons of the World:\nThe Wrinckles in my Browes, now fill'd with blood,\nWere lik'ned oft to Kingly Sepulchers:\nFor who liu'd King, but I could digge his Graue?\nAnd who durst smile, when Warwicke bent his Brow?\nLoe, now my Glory smear'd in dust and blood.\nMy Parkes, my Walkes, my Mannors that I had,\nEuen now forsake me; and of all my Lands,\nIs nothing left me, but my bodies length.\nWhy, what is Pompe, Rule, Reigne, but Earth and Dust?\nAnd liue we how we can, yet dye we must.\nEnter Oxford and Somerset.\nSom. Ah Warwicke, Warwicke, wert thou as we are,\nWe might recouer all our Losse againe:\nThe Queene from France hath brought a puissant power.\nEuen now we heard the newes: ah, could'st thou flye\nWarw. Why then I would not flye. Ah Mountague,\nIf thou be there, sweet Brother, take my Hand,\nAnd with thy Lippes keepe in my Soule a while.\nThou lou'st me not: for, Brother, if thou did'st,\nThy teares would wash this cold congealed blood,\nThat glewes my Lippes, and will not let me speake.\nCome quickly Mountague, or I am dead\nSom. Ah Warwicke, Mountague hath breath'd his last,\nAnd to the latest gaspe, cry'd out for Warwicke:\nAnd said, Commend me to my valiant Brother.\nAnd more he would haue said, and more he spoke,\nWhich sounded like a Cannon in a Vault,\nThat mought not be distinguisht: but at last,\nI well might heare, deliuered with a groane,\nOh farewell Warwicke\nWarw. Sweet rest his Soule:\nFlye Lords, and saue your selues,\nFor Warwicke bids you all farewell, to meet in Heauen\nOxf. Away, away, to meet the Queenes great power.\nHere they beare away his Body. Exeunt.\nFlourish. Enter King Edward in triumph, with Richard, Clarence,\nand the\nrest.\nKing. Thus farre our fortune keepes an vpward course,\nAnd we are grac'd with wreaths of Victorie:\nBut in the midst of this bright-shining Day,\nI spy a black suspicious threatning Cloud,\nThat will encounter with our glorious Sunne,\nEre he attaine his easefull Westerne Bed:\nI meane, my Lords, those powers that the Queene\nHath rays'd in Gallia, haue arriued our Coast,\nAnd, as we heare, march on to fight with vs\nClar. A little gale will soone disperse that Cloud,\nAnd blow it to the Source from whence it came,\nThy very Beames will dry those Vapours vp,\nFor euery Cloud engenders not a Storme\nRich. The Queene is valued thirtie thousand strong,\nAnd Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her:\nIf she haue time to breathe, be well assur'd\nHer faction will be full as strong as ours\nKing. We are aduertis'd by our louing friends,\nThat they doe hold their course toward Tewksbury.\nWe hauing now the best at Barnet field,\nWill thither straight, for willingnesse rids way,\nAnd as we march, our strength will be augmented:\nIn euery Countie as we goe along,\nStrike vp the Drumme, cry courage, and away.\nExeunt.\nFlourish. March. Enter the Queene, young Edward, Somerset,\nOxford, and\nSouldiers.\nQu. Great Lords, wise men ne'r sit and waile their losse,\nBut chearely seeke how to redresse their harmes.\nWhat though the Mast be now blowne ouer-boord,\nThe Cable broke, the holding-Anchor lost,\nAnd halfe our Saylors swallow'd in the flood?\nYet liues our Pilot still. Is't meet, that hee\nShould leaue the Helme, and like a fearefull Lad,\nWith tearefull Eyes adde Water to the Sea,\nAnd giue more strength to that which hath too much,\nWhiles in his moane, the Ship splits on the Rock,\nWhich Industrie and Courage might haue sau'd?\nAh what a shame, ah what a fault were this.\nSay Warwicke was our Anchor: what of that?\nAnd Mountague our Top-Mast: what of him?\nOur slaught'red friends, the Tackles: what of these?\nWhy is not Oxford here, another Anchor?\nAnd Somerset, another goodly Mast?\nThe friends of France our Shrowds and Tacklings?\nAnd though vnskilfull, why not Ned and I,\nFor once allow'd the skilfull Pilots Charge?\nWe will not from the Helme, to sit and weepe,\nBut keepe our Course (though the rough Winde say no)\nFrom Shelues and Rocks, that threaten vs with Wrack.\nAs good to chide the Waues, as speake them faire.\nAnd what is Edward, but a ruthlesse Sea?\nWhat Clarence, but a Quick-sand of Deceit?\nAnd Richard, but a raged fatall Rocke?\nAll these, the Enemies to our poore Barke.\nSay you can swim, alas 'tis but a while:\nTread on the Sand, why there you quickly sinke,\nBestride the Rock, the Tyde will wash you off,\nOr else you famish, that's a three-fold Death.\nThis speake I (Lords) to let you vnderstand,\nIf case some one of you would flye from vs,\nThat there's no hop'd-for Mercy with the Brothers,\nMore then with ruthlesse Waues, with Sands and Rocks.\nWhy courage then, what cannot be auoided,\n'Twere childish weakenesse to lament, or feare\nPrince. Me thinkes a Woman of this valiant Spirit,\nShould, if a Coward heard her speake these words,\nInfuse his Breast with Magnanimitie,\nAnd make him, naked, foyle a man at Armes.\nI speake not this, as doubting any here:\nFor did I but suspect a fearefull man,\nHe should haue leaue to goe away betimes,\nLeast in our need he might infect another,\nAnd make him of like spirit to himselfe.\nIf any such be here, as God forbid,\nLet him depart, before we neede his helpe\nOxf. Women and Children of so high a courage,\nAnd Warriors faint, why 'twere perpetuall shame.\nOh braue young Prince: thy famous Grandfather\nDoth liue againe in thee; long may'st thou liue,\nTo beare his Image, and renew his Glories\nSom. And he that will not fight for such a hope,\nGoe home to Bed, and like the Owle by day,\nIf he arise, be mock'd and wondred at\nQu. Thankes gentle Somerset, sweet Oxford thankes\nPrince. And take his thankes, that yet hath nothing\nelse.\nEnter a Messenger.\nMess. Prepare you Lords, for Edward is at hand,\nReadie to fight: therefore be resolute\nOxf. I thought no lesse: it is his Policie,\nTo haste thus fast, to finde vs vnprouided\nSom. But hee's deceiu'd, we are in readinesse\nQu. This cheares my heart, to see your forwardnesse\nOxf. Here pitch our Battaile, hence we will not budge.\nFlourish, and march. Enter Edward, Richard, Clarence, and\nSouldiers.\nEdw. Braue followers, yonder stands the thornie Wood,\nWhich by the Heauens assistance, and your strength,\nMust by the Roots be hew'ne vp yet ere Night.\nI need not adde more fuell to your fire,\nFor well I wot, ye blaze, to burne them out:\nGiue signall to the fight, and to it Lords\nQu. Lords, Knights, and Gentlemen, what I should say,\nMy teares gaine-say: for euery word I speake,\nYe see I drinke the water of my eye.\nTherefore no more but this: Henry your Soueraigne\nIs Prisoner to the Foe, his State vsurp'd,\nHis Realme a slaughter-house, his Subiects slaine,\nHis Statutes cancell'd, and his Treasure spent:\nAnd yonder is the Wolfe, that makes this spoyle.\nYou fight in Iustice: then in Gods Name, Lords,\nBe valiant, and giue signall to the fight.\nAlarum, Retreat, Excursions. Exeunt.\nFlourish. Enter Edward, Richard, Queene, Clarence, Oxford,\nSomerset.\nEdw. Now here a period of tumultuous Broyles.\nAway with Oxford, to Hames Castle straight:\nFor Somerset, off with his guiltie Head.\nGoe beare them hence, I will not heare them speake\nOxf. For my part, Ile not trouble thee with words\nSom. Nor I, but stoupe with patience to my fortune.\nExeunt.\nQu. So part we sadly in this troublous World,\nTo meet with Ioy in sweet Ierusalem\nEdw. Is Proclamation made, That who finds Edward,\nShall haue a high Reward, and he his Life?\nRich. It is, and loe where youthfull Edward comes.\nEnter the Prince.\nEdw. Bring forth the Gallant, let vs heare him speake.\nWhat? can so young a Thorne begin to prick?\nEdward, what satisfaction canst thou make,\nFor bearing Armes, for stirring vp my Subiects,\nAnd all the trouble thou hast turn'd me to?\nPrince. Speake like a Subiect, prowd ambitious Yorke.\nSuppose that I am now my Fathers Mouth,\nResigne thy Chayre, and where I stand, kneele thou,\nWhil'st I propose the selfe-same words to thee,\nWhich (Traytor) thou would'st haue me answer to\nQu. Ah, that thy Father had beene so resolu'd\nRich. That you might still haue worne the Petticoat,\nAnd ne're haue stolne the Breech from Lancaster\nPrince. Let Aesop fable in a Winters Night,\nHis Currish Riddles sorts not with this place\nRich. By Heauen, Brat, Ile plague ye for that word\nQu. I, thou wast borne to be a plague to men\nRich. For Gods sake, take away this Captiue Scold\nPrince. Nay, take away this scolding Crooke-backe,\nrather\nEdw. Peace wilfull Boy, or I will charme your tongue\nClar. Vntutor'd Lad, thou art too malapert\nPrince. I know my dutie, you are all vndutifull:\nLasciuious Edward, and thou periur'd George,\nAnd thou mis-shapen Dicke, I tell ye all,\nI am your better, Traytors as ye are,\nAnd thou vsurp'st my Fathers right and mine\nEdw. Take that, the likenesse of this Rayler here.\nStabs him.\nRich. Sprawl'st thou? take that, to end thy agonie.\nRich[ard]. stabs him.\nClar. And ther's for twitting me with periurie.\nClar[ence]. stabs him.\nQu. Oh, kill me too\nRich. Marry, and shall.\nOffers to kill her.\nEdw. Hold, Richard, hold, for we haue done too much\nRich. Why should shee liue, to fill the World with\nwords\nEdw. What? doth shee swowne? vse meanes for her\nrecouerie\nRich. Clarence excuse me to the King my Brother:\nIle hence to London on a serious matter,\nEre ye come there, be sure to heare some newes\nCla. What? what?\nRich. Tower, the Tower.\nEnter.\nQu. Oh Ned, sweet Ned, speake to thy Mother Boy.\nCan'st thou not speake? O Traitors, Murtherers!\nThey that stabb'd C\u00e6sar, shed no blood at all:\nDid not offend, nor were not worthy Blame,\nIf this foule deed were by, to equall it.\nHe was a Man; this (in respect) a Childe,\nAnd Men, ne're spend their fury on a Childe.\nWhat's worse then Murtherer, that I may name it?\nNo, no, my heart will burst, and if I speake,\nAnd I will speake, that so my heart may burst.\nButchers and Villaines, bloudy Caniballes,\nHow sweet a Plant haue you vntimely cropt:\nYou haue no children (Butchers) if you had,\nThe thought of them would haue stirr'd vp remorse,\nBut if you euer chance to haue a Childe,\nLooke in his youth to haue him so cut off.\nAs deathsmen you haue rid this sweet yong Prince\nKing. Away with her, go beare her hence perforce\nQu. Nay, neuer beare me hence, dispatch me heere:\nHere sheath thy Sword, Ile pardon thee my death:\nWhat? wilt thou not? Then Clarence do it thou\nCla. By heauen, I will not do thee so much ease\nQu. Good Clarence do: sweet Clarence do thou do it\nCla. Did'st thou not heare me sweare I would not do it?\nQu. I, but thou vsest to forsweare thy selfe.\n'Twas Sin before, but now 'tis Charity\nWhat wilt y not? Where is that diuels butcher Richard?\nHard fauor'd Richard? Richard, where art thou?\nThou art not heere; Murther is thy Almes-deed:\nPetitioners for Blood, thou ne're put'st backe\nEd. Away I say, I charge ye beare her hence,\nQu. So come to you, and yours, as to this Prince.\nExit Queene.\nEd. Where's Richard gone\nCla. To London all in post, and as I guesse,\nTo make a bloody Supper in the Tower\nEd. He's sodaine if a thing comes in his head.\nNow march we hence, discharge the common sort\nWith Pay and Thankes, and let's away to London,\nAnd see our gentle Queene how well she fares,\nBy this (I hope) she hath a Sonne for me.\nEnter.\nEnter Henry the sixt, and Richard, with the Lieutenant on the\nWalles.\nRich. Good day, my Lord, what at your Booke so\nhard?\nHen. I my good Lord: my Lord I should say rather,\nTis sinne to flatter, Good was little better:\n'Good Gloster, and good Deuill, were alike,\nAnd both preposterous: therefore, not Good Lord\nRich. Sirra, leaue vs to our selues, we must conferre\nHen. So flies the wreaklesse shepherd from y Wolfe:\nSo first the harmlesse Sheepe doth yeeld his Fleece,\nAnd next his Throate, vnto the Butchers Knife.\nWhat Scene of death hath Rossius now to Acte?\nRich. Suspition alwayes haunts the guilty minde,\nThe Theefe doth feare each bush an Officer,\nHen. The Bird that hath bin limed in a bush,\nWith trembling wings misdoubteth euery bush;\nAnd I the haplesse Male to one sweet Bird,\nHaue now the fatall Obiect in my eye,\nWhere my poore yong was lim'd, was caught, and kill'd\nRich. Why what a peeuish Foole was that of Creet,\nThat taught his Sonne the office of a Fowle,\nAnd yet for all his wings, the Foole was drown'd\nHen. I Dedalus, my poore Boy Icarus,\nThy Father Minos, that deni'de our course,\nThe Sunne that sear'd the wings of my sweet Boy.\nThy Brother Edward, and thy Selfe, the Sea\nWhose enuious Gulfe did swallow vp his life:\nAh, kill me with thy Weapon, not with words,\nMy brest can better brooke thy Daggers point,\nThen can my eares that Tragicke History.\nBut wherefore dost thou come? Is't for my Life?\nRich. Think'st thou I am an Executioner?\nHen. A Persecutor I am sure thou art,\nIf murthering Innocents be Executing,\nWhy then thou art an Executioner\nRich. Thy Son I kill'd for his presumption\nHen. Hadst thou bin kill'd, when first y didst presume,\nThou had'st not liu'd to kill a Sonne of mine:\nAnd thus I prophesie, that many a thousand,\nWhich now mistrust no parcell of my feare,\nAnd many an old mans sighe, and many a Widdowes,\nAnd many an Orphans water-standing-eye,\nMen for their Sonnes, Wiues for their Husbands,\nOrphans, for their Parents timeles death,\nShall rue the houre that euer thou was't borne.\nThe Owle shriek'd at thy birth, an euill signe,\nThe Night-Crow cry'de, aboding lucklesse time,\nDogs howl'd, and hiddeous Tempest shook down Trees:\nThe Rauen rook'd her on the Chimnies top,\nAnd chatt'ring Pies in dismall Discords sung:\nThy Mother felt more then a Mothers paine,\nAnd yet brought forth lesse then a Mothers hope,\nTo wit, an indigested and deformed lumpe,\nNot like the fruit of such a goodly Tree.\nTeeth had'st thou in thy head, when thou was't borne,\nTo signifie, thou cam'st to bite the world:\nAnd if the rest be true, which I haue heard,\nThou cam'st-\nRich. Ile heare no more:\nDye Prophet in thy speech,\nStabbes him.\nFor this (among'st the rest) was I ordain'd\nHen. I, and for much more slaughter after this,\nO God forgiue my sinnes, and pardon thee.\nDyes.\nRich. What? will the aspiring blood of Lancaster\nSinke in the ground? I thought it would haue mounted.\nSee how my sword weepes for the poore Kings death.\nO may such purple teares be alway shed\nFrom those that wish the downfall of our house.\nIf any sparke of Life be yet remaining,\nDowne, downe to hell, and say I sent thee thither.\nStabs him againe.\nI that haue neyther pitty, loue, nor feare,\nIndeed 'tis true that Henrie told me of:\nFor I haue often heard my Mother say,\nI came into the world with my Legges forward.\nHad I not reason (thinke ye) to make hast,\nAnd seeke their Ruine, that vsurp'd our Right?\nThe Midwife wonder'd, and the Women cri'de\nO Iesus blesse vs, he is borne with teeth,\nAnd so I was, which plainly signified,\nThat I should snarle, and bite, and play the dogge:\nThen since the Heauens haue shap'd my Body so,\nLet Hell make crook'd my Minde to answer it.\nI haue no Brother, I am like no Brother:\nAnd this word (Loue) which Gray-beards call Diuine,\nBe resident in men like one another,\nAnd not in me: I am my selfe alone.\nClarence beware, thou keept'st me from the Light,\nBut I will sort a pitchy day for thee:\nFor I will buzze abroad such Prophesies,\nThat Edward shall be fearefull of his life,\nAnd then to purge his feare, Ile be thy death.\nKing Henry, and the Prince his Son are gone,\nClarence thy turne is next, and then the rest,\nCounting my selfe but bad, till I be best.\nIle throw thy body in another roome,\nAnd Triumph Henry, in thy day of Doome.\nEnter.\nFlourish. Enter King, Queene, Clarence, Richard, Hastings, Nurse,\nand\nAttendants.\nKing. Once more we sit in Englands Royall Throne,\nRe-purchac'd with the Blood of Enemies:\nWhat valiant Foe-men, like to Autumnes Corne,\nHaue we mow'd downe in tops of all their pride?\nThree Dukes of Somerset, threefold Renowne,\nFor hardy and vndoubted Champions:\nTwo Cliffords, as the Father and the Sonne,\nAnd two Northumberlands: two brauer men,\nNe're spurr'd their Coursers at the Trumpets sound.\nWith them, the two braue Beares, Warwick & Montague,\nThat in their Chaines fetter'd the Kingly Lyon,\nAnd made the Forrest tremble when they roar'd.\nThus haue we swept Suspition from our Seate,\nAnd made our Footstoole of Security.\nCome hither Besse, and let me kisse my Boy:\nYong Ned, for thee, thine Vnckles, and my selfe,\nHaue in our Armors watcht the Winters night,\nWent all afoote in Summers scalding heate,\nThat thou might'st repossesse the Crowne in peace,\nAnd of our Labours thou shalt reape the gaine\nRich. Ile blast his Haruest, if your head were laid,\nFor yet I am not look'd on in the world.\nThis shoulder was ordain'd so thicke, to heaue,\nAnd heaue it shall some waight, or breake my backe,\nWorke thou the way, and that shalt execute\nKing. Clarence and Gloster, loue my louely Queene,\nAnd kis your Princely Nephew Brothers both\nCla. The duty that I owe vnto your Maiesty,\nI Seale vpon the lips of this sweet Babe\nCla. Thanke Noble Clarence, worthy brother thanks\nRich. And that I loue the tree fro[m] whence y sprang'st:\nWitnesse the louing kisse I giue the Fruite,\nTo say the truth, so Iudas kist his master,\nAnd cried all haile, when as he meant all harme\nKing. Now am I seated as my soule delights,\nHauing my Countries peace, and Brothers loues\nCla. What will your Grace haue done with Margaret,\nReynard her Father, to the King of France\nHath pawn'd the Sicils and Ierusalem,\nAnd hither haue they sent it for her ransome\nKing. Away with her, and waft her hence to France:\nAnd now what rests, but that we spend the time\nWith stately Triumphes, mirthfull Comicke shewes,\nSuch as befits the pleasure of the Court.\nSound Drums and Trumpets, farwell sowre annoy,\nFor heere I hope begins our lasting ioy.\nExeunt. omnes\nFINIS. The third Part of Henry the Sixt, with the death of the Duke\nof\nYORKE.","title":"The third Part of Henry the Sixt","type":"page"}