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Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen ;

Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high defpight;
Laugh'd in his face; and when with grief he wept,
The ruthlefs Queen gave him, to dry his cheek,
A napkin fteeped in the harmlefs blood

Of fweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford flain.
And after many fcorns, many foul taunts,
They took his head, and on the gates of York
They fet the fame; and there it doth remain
The faddeft fpectacle that e'er I view'd.

Edw. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon!
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.
Oh Clifford, boift'rous Clifford! thou haft flain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry,

And treacherously haft thou vanquish'd him!
For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd thee.
Now my foul's palace is become a prifon :

Ah, would fhe break from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest!
For never henceforth fhall I joy again,
Never, oh never, fhall I fee more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture
Scarce ferves to quench my furnace-burning heart:
Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden:
For felf-fame wind, that I fhould speak withal,
Is kindling coals that fire up all my breast;

And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench.
To weep, is to make lefs the depth of grief:
Tears then for babes; blows and revenge for me!
Richard, I bear thy name; I'll 'venge thy death;
Or die renowned by attempting it.

Edw. His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee:

His Dukedom and his chair with me is left.

Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,
Shew thy defcent, by gazing 'gainst the fun:
For chair and Dukedom, throne and kingdom fay;
Either that's thine, or elfe thou wert not his.

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March. Enter Warwick, Marquis of Montague, and their army.

W. How now, fair Lords? what fare? what news abroad? Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount Our baleful news, and at each word's deliv'rance, Stab poinards in our flesh till all were told;

The words would add more anguish than the wounds, O valiant Lord, the Duke of York is flain.

Edw. O Warwick! Warwick! That Plantagenet,
Which held thee dearly as his foul's redemption,
Is by the ftern Lord Clifford done to death.

War. Ten days ago I drown'd thefe news in tears;
And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things fith then befaln.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath'd his latest gafp,
Tidings, as fwiftly as the poft could run,
Were brought me of your lofs and his depart.
I then in London, keeper of the King,
Mufter'd my foldiers, gather'd flocks of friends ;
March'd toward St. Albans t' intercept the Queen;
Bearing the King in my behalf along:

For by my scouts I was advertised

That he was coming, with a full intent
To dash our late decree in parliament,
Touching King Henry's oath and your fucceffion:
Short tale to make, we at St. Albans met,
Our battles join'd, and both fides fiercely fought:
But whether 'twas the coldness of the King,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queen,
That robb'd my foldiers of their heated spleen;
Or whether 'twas report of her fuccefs,

Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,
Who thunders to his captives blood and death,
1 cannot judge: but to conclude with truth,
Their weapons, like to lightning, came and went;
Our foldiers, like the night-owls lazy flight,
Or like a lazy thrasher with a flail,

Fell gently down, as if they ftruck their friends.

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I cheer'd

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I cheer'd them up with juftice of our cause,
With promife of high pay and great reward;
But all in vain, they had no heart to fight;
And we, in them, no hope to win the day;
So that we fled; the King unto the Queen;
Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,
In hafte, post-hafte, are come to join with you:
For in the marches here we heard you were,
Making another head to fight again.

Edw. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick ?
And when came George from Burgundy to England?
War. Some fix miles off the Duke is with his
And for your brother, he was lately fent

From your kind aunt, Duchefs of Burgundy,
With aid of foldiers to this needful war.

power;

Rich. "Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled; Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,

But ne'er, 'till now, his fcandal of retire.

War. Nor now, my scandal, Richard, doft thou hear:
For thou shalt know, this ftrong right hand of mine
Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head,
And wring the awful scepter from his fift;

Were he as famous and as bold in war,

As he is fam'd for mildness, peace and prayer.

Rich. I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not;
'Tis love, I bear thy glories, makes me speak.
But in this troublous time what's to be done?
Shall we go throw away our coats of steel,
And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,
Numb'ring our Ave Maries with our beads?
Or fhall we on the helmets of our foes
Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?
If for the last, say, ay; and to it, Lords.

War. Why, therefore Warwick came to feek you out;
And therefore comes my brother Montague.
Attend me, Lords: the proud infulting Queen,
With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland,
And of their feather many more proud birds,
Have wrought the eafy-melting King, like wax.
He fwore confent to your fucceffion,

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His

- His oath inrolled in the Parliament:
And now to London all the crew are gone,
To fruftrate both his oath, and what befide
May make against the house of Lancaster.
Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong:
Now if the help of Norfolk and myself,

With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welshmen canft procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thoufand:
Why, Via! to London will we march amaine;
And once again beftride our foaming steeds,
And once again cry, Charge upon our foes!-
But never once again turn back, and fly.

Rich. Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick speak:
Ne'er may he live to fee a fun-fhine day,
That cries, Retire;

if Warwick bid him stay.

Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy fhoulder will I lean, And when thou fail'ft, (as God forbid the hour!) Muft Edward fall, which peril heav'n forefend!

War. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York;
The next degree is England's royal throne:
For King of England fhalt thou be proclaim'd
In every borough as we pafs along :

And he, that throws not up his cap for joy,
Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.
King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague,
Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown;
But found the trumpets, and about our task.

Rich. Then Clifford, were thy heart as hard as fteel,
As thou haft fhewn it flinty by thy deeds,
I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.

Edw. Then ftrike up, drums : God and St. George for us! Enter a Meffenger.

War. How now? what news?

Me. The Duke of Norfolk fends you word by me, The Queen is coming with a puiflant hoft;

And craves your company for speedy counfel.

War. Why then it forts; brave warriors, let's away.

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE, changes to York.

Enter King Henry, the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland, and the Prince of Wales, with Drums and Trumpets.

Queen.

Elcome, my Lord, to this brave town of York.
Wonder's the head of that arch-enemy,

That fought to be encompast with your crown.
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my Lord?
K. H. Ay, as the rocks cheer them, that fear their wreck ;
To fee this fight it irks my very foul:

With-hold revenge, dear God; 'tis not my fault,
Nor wittingly have I infring'd my vow.

Clif. My gracious Liege, this too much lenity
And harmful pity must be laid afide: (9)
To whom do lions caft their gentle looks?
Not to the beaft, that would ufurp their den.
Whofe hand is that the forest bear doth lick?
Not his, that spoils her young before her face.
Who fcapes the lurking ferpent's mortal fting?
Not he, that fets his foot upon her back.
The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on!
And doves will peck in fafeguard of their brood.
Ambitious York did level at thy crown;
Thou fmiling, while he knit his angry brows.
He but a Duke, would have his fon a King;
And raise his iffue like a loving fire;
Thou being a King, bleft with a goodly fon,
Didft yield confent to difinherit him;
Which argu'd thee a moft unloving father.
Unreasonable creatures feed their young;
And tho' man's face be fearful to their eyes,
Yet, in protection of their tender ones,
Who hath not feen them (even with those wings,
Which fometimes they have us'd with fearful flight)
Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest,

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(9) And harmless pity must be laid afide] This reading, I don't know for what reafon, was introduc'd by Mr. Rowe, and followed by Mr. Pope: But all the old books have it rightly, barmful: meaning, that the King's lenity and pity were prejudicial to his interest,

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