York. Sirrah, call in my fons to be my bail; 7 Wouldst have me kneel? First, let me afk of thefe, If they can brook i bow a knee to man.

I know, ere they will let me go to Ward,
They'll pawn their fwords for my enfranchifement.
Q. Mar. Call hither Clifford; bid him come amain,
To fay, if that the baftard boys of York

Shall be the Surety for their traitor father.
York. O blood-befpotted Neapolitan,
Out-caft of Naplės, England's bloody scourge !
The fons of York, thy Betters in their Birth,
8 Shall be their father's bail, and bane to thofe
That for my furety will refufe the boys.

Enter Edward and Richard.

See, where they come; I'll warrant, they'll make it good.

Enter Clifford.

Q. Mar. And here comes Clifford, to deny their bail.

Clif. Health and all Happiness to my Lord the

King!

[kneels. York. I thank thee, Clifford; fay, what news with

thee?

Nay, do not fright us with an angry look,

We are thy Sovereign, Clifford, kneel again;
For thy mistaking fo, we pardon thee.

7 Would't bave me kneel? First
let me afk of thefe,
If they can brook I bows a knee

to man.

Sirrah, call in my Sons to be my

bail] As thefe lines have hitherto food, I think the Senfe perplexed and obfcure. I have ventur'd to tranfpose them.

WARBURTON. Shall be their Father's Bail, 4

and Bane to thofe,] Confidering how our Author loves to play on Wordsfimilarin their found, but oppofite in their Signification, I make no Doubt but the Author wrote bail and bale. Bale, (from whence our common Adjective, baleful) fignifies, Detriment, Ruin, Misfortune, &c. THEOBALD.

*Bale fignifies forrow. Either word may ferve.

Clif.

Clif. This is my King, York, I do not mistake,
But thou mistak'ft me much, to think I do.
-To Bedlam with him, is the man grown mad?

K. Henry. Ay, Clifford, a Bedlam and ambitioushumour

Makes him oppofe himfelf against his King.

Cliff. He is a traitor, let him to the Tower, And crop away that factious pate of his.

Q. Mar. He is arrefted, but will not obey, His fons, he says, fhall give their words for him. York. Will you not, fons?

E. Plan. Ay, noble father, if our words will ferve. R. Plan. And if words will not, then our weapons fhall,

Clif. Why, what a brood of traitors have we here? York. Look in a glafs, and call thy image fo, I am thy King, and thou a falfe-heart traitor. Call hither to the ftake my two brave bears, That with the very fhaking of their chains They may aftonifh thefe fell-lurking curs. Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me.

Enter the Earl of Warwick and Salisbury.

Clif. Are these thy bears? we'll bait thy bears to
death,

And manacle the bear-ward in their chains,
If thou dar'ft bring them to the baiting place.
R. Plan. Oft have I seen a hot o'er-weening cur
Run back and bite, because he was withheld,
Who, being fuffer'd with the bear's fell paw,
Hath clapt his tail between his legs and cry'd;

9 Call hither to the take my
two brave bears,

-Bid Salisbury and War

wick come. Fork calls these Lords his bears because they had a bear for their arms.

And

And fuch a piece of fervice will you do,

If you oppofe yourselves to match Lord Warwick.
Clif. Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump,
As crooked in thy manners, as thy fhape.

York. Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon. Clif. Take heed, left by your heat you burn yourfelves.

K. Henry. Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to bow?

Old Salisbury, fhame to thy filver hair,

Thou mad mif-leader of thy brain-fick fon,
What, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian,
And feek for forrow with thy fpectacles?
Oh, where is faith? oh, where is loyalty?
If it be banish'd from the frofty head,
Where fhall it find a harbour in the earth?
Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war,
And shame thine honourable age with blood?
Why, art thou old, and want'ft experience?
Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou haft it?
For fhame, in duty bend thy knee to me,
That bows unto the grave with mickle age.
Sal. My Lord, I have confider'd with myself
The Title of this moft renowned Duke;

And in my confcience do repute his Grace
The rightful heir to England's royal Seat.

K. Henry. Haft thou not fworn allegiance unto me?
Sal. I have.

K. Henry. Canft thou difpenfe with heav'n for fuch an oath ?

Sal. It is great fin to swear unto a sin,
But greater fin to keep a finful oath.
Who can be bound by any folemn vow
To do a murd'rous deed, to rob a man,
To force a spotlefs virgin's chastity,
To 'reave the orphan of his patrimony,
To wring the widow from her cuftom'd right,
And have no other reafon for his wrong,

But

But that he was bound by a folemn oath ?

Q. Mar. A fubtle traitor needs no fophifter.

K. Henry. Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himfelf.

York. Call Buckingham and all the friends thou haft, I am refolv'd for death or dignity.

Old Clif. The firft I warrant thee; if dreams prove

true.

War. You had beft go to bed and dream again, To keep thee from the tempeft of the field. Old Clif. I am refolv'd to bear a greater storm Than any thou canft conjure up to day: And that I'll write upon thy Burgonet, Might I but know thee by thy House's badge. War. Now by my father's Badge, old Nevill's Creft, The rampant bear chain'd to the rugged staff, This day I'll wear aloft my Burgonet, As on a mountain-top the cedar fhews, That keeps his leaves in fpight of any storm, Ev'n to affright thee with the view thereof.

Old Cliff. And from thy Burgonet I'll rend thy bear, And tread it under foot with all contempt, Defpight the bear-ward, that protects the bear. Y. Clif. And fo to Arms, victorious noble father, To quell the rebels and their complices.

R. Plan. Fy, charity for fhame, fpeak not in spight, For you fhall fup with Jefu Chrift to-night.

Y. Clif. Foul ftigmatick, that's more than thou

can't tell.

R. Plan. If not in heav'n, you'll furely fup in hell.

1 Burgonet is a helmet.

[Exeunt, feverally.

SCENE

War.

Changes to a Field of Battle at St. Albans.

Enter Warwick.

LIFFORD of Cumberland, 'tis Warwick calls;

CLI

And if thou doft not hide thee from the bear,
Now when the angry trumpet founds alarm,
And dying men's cries do fill the empty air,
Clifford, I fay, come forth and fight with me;
Proud northern Lord, Clifford of Cumberland,
Warwick is hoarfe with calling thee to arms.

Enter York.

How now, my Lord? what all a-foot?

York. The deadly-handed Clifford flew my Steed; But match to match I have encountred him, And made a prey for carrion kites and crows Ev'n of the bonny beast he lov'd fo well.

Enter Clifford.

War. Of one or both of us the time is come.
York. Hold, Warwick, feek thee out fome other

chace,

For I myself muft hunt this deer to death.

War. Then nobly, York; 'tis for a Crown thou fight'ft.

As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to day,

It grieves my foul to leave thee unaffail'd. [Exit War. Cif. What feeft thou in me, York? why doft thou paufe?

York. With thy brave Bearing fhould I be in love, But that thou art fo faft mine enemy.

Elif. Nor fhould thy Prowefs want praife and esteem,

But