York. Mine, Boy? not 'till King Henry be dead.
Rich. Your Right depends not on his Life, or Death.
Edw. Now you are Heir, therefore enjoy it now:
By giving the Houfe of Lancaster leave to breathe,
It will out-run you, Father, in the end.
York. I took an Oath, that he fhould quietly Reign.
Edw. But for a Kingdom any Oath may be broken:
I would break a thousand Oaths to Reign one Year.
Rich. No; God forbid your Grace fhould be forfworn.
Tork. I fhall be, if I claim by open War.
Rich. I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me fpeak.
York. Thou can't not, Son, it is impoffible.
Rich. An Oath is of no moment, being not took
Before a true and lawful Magiftrate,
That hath Authority over him that Swears.
Henry had none, but did ufurp the Place.
Then feeing 'twas he that made you to depofe,
Your Oath, my Lord, is vain and frivolous.
Therefore to Arms: and, Father, do but think,
How fweet a thing it is to wear a Crown,
Within whose Circuit is Elysium,
And all that Poets feign of Blifs and Joy.
Why do we linger thus? I cannot reft,
Until the white Rofe that I wear, be dy'd
Even in the lukewarm Blood of Henry's Heart.
York. Richard, enough: I will be King, or die.
Brother, thou shalt to London presently,
And whet on Warwick to this Enterprize.
Thou, Richard, fhalt go to the Duke of Norfolk,
And tell him privily of our intent.
You, Edward, fhall unto my Lord Cobham,
With whom the Kentifhmen will willingly rife.
In them I truft; for they are Soldiers,
Witty, courteous, liberal, full of Spirit.
While you are thus employ'd, what refteth more,
But that I feek occafion how to rife?
yet the King not privy to my drift,
Nor any of the House of Lancaster.
Enter Gabriel.
But ftay what News? why com'ft thou in fuch poft?
With all the Northern Earls and Lords,
Intend here to befiege you in your Castle.
She is hard by, with twenty thoufand Men;
And therefore fortifie your Hold, my Lord.
York. Ay, with my Sword.
What, think'ft thou that we fear them?
Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me,
My Brother Montague fhall poft to Londen.
Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the reft,
Whom we have left Protectors of the King,
With powerful Policy ftrengthen themselves,
And truft not fimple Henry, nor his Oaths.
Mont. Brother, I go: I'll win them, fear it not.
And thus moft humbly I do take my leave.
[Exis Montague,
Enter Sir John Mortimer, and Sir Hugh Mortimer.
Tork. Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine Uncles,
You are come to Sandal in a happy hour.
The Army of the Queen means to befiege us.
Sir John. She fhall not need, we'll meet her in the Field. Tork. What, with five thousand Men?
Rich. Ay, with five hundred, Father, for a need.
A Woman's General; what fhould we fear?
Edw. I hear their Drums:
Let's fet our Men in order,
And iffue forth, and bid them Battel ftreight.
Tork, Five Men to twenty, though the odds be
I doubt not, Uncle, of our Victory.
Many a Battel have I won in France,
When as the Enemy hath been ten to one:
Why should I not now have the like Succefs?
Rut. Ah, whether fhall I flie, to fcape their Hands? Ah, Tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes.
Clif. Chaplain, away, thy Priefthood faves thy Life; As for the Brat of this accurfed Duke,
Whose Father flew my Father, he fhall die.
Tutor. And I, my Lord, will bear him Company.
Clif. Soldiers, away with him.
Tutor. Ah Clifford, murther not this innocent Child, Left thou be hated both of God and Man.
Clif. How now is he dead already?
Or is it fear that makes him clofe his Eyes?
I'll open them.
Rut. So looks the pent-up Lyon o'er the wretch,
That trembles under his devouring Paws:
And fo he walks, infulting o'er his Prey,
And fo he comes to rend his Limbs afunder.
Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy Sword,
And not with fuch a cruel threatning Look.
Sweet Clifford, hear me fpeak before I die:
I am too mean a subject of thy wrath,
Be thou reveng❜d on Men, and let me live.
Cliff. In vain thou fpeak'ft, poor Boy:
My Father's Blood hath stopt the passage
Where thy Words should enter,
Rut. Then let my Father's Blood open it again,
He is a Man, and, Clifford, cope with him.
Clif. Had I thy Brethren here, their Lives and thine
Were not revenge fufficient for me:
No, if I digg'd up thy Fore-fathers Graves,
And hung their rotten Coffins up in Chains,
It could not flake mine Ire, nor eafe my Heart.
The fight of any of the Houfe of York
Is as a fury to torment my Soul:
And 'till I root out their accurfed Line,
And leave not one alive, I live in Hell.
Therefore
Rut. O let me pray before I take my Death:
To thee, I pray fweet Clifford, pity me.
Clif. Such pity as my Rapier's point affords.
Rut. I never did thee harm; why wilt thou flay me?
Clif. Thy Father hath.
Rut. But 'twas e'er I was born.
Thou haft one Son, for his fake pity me,
Left in revenge thereof, fith God is just,
He be as miferably flain as I.
Ah, let me live in Prifon all my Days,
And when I give occafion of Offence,
Then let me die, for now thou haft no cause.
Clif. No caufe? thy Father flew my Father, therefore die.
Rut. Dii faciant, laudis fumma fi ifta tua.
Clif. Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet..
And this thy Son's Blood cleaving to my Blade,
Shall ruft upon my Weapon, 'till thy Blood
Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both.
Alarum. Enter Richard Duke of York.
York. The Army of the Queen hath got the Field:
My Uncles both are flain in refcuing me,
And all my Followers, to the eager Foe
Turn back, and fly, like Ships before the Wind,
Or Lambs purfu'd by hunger-ftarved Wolves.
My Sons, God knows what hath bechanced them:
But this I know, they have demean'd themselves
Like Men born to Renown, by Life or Death.
Three times did Richard make a Lane to me,
And thrice cry'd, Courage, Father, fight it out:
And full as oft come Edward to my fide,
With Purple Falchion, painted to the Hilt
In Blood of those that had encountred him;
And when the hardieft Warriors did retire,
Richard cry'd, Charge, and give no foot of Ground,
And cry'd, a Crown, or elfe a glorious Tomb,
A Scepter, or an Earthly Sepulcher.
With this we chatg'd again; but out alas,
We bodg'd again; as I have feen a Swan
With bootless labour fwim against the Tide,
And spend her ftrength with over-matching Waves.
[A fhort Alarum within.
Ah hark, the fatal Followers do purfue,
And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury.
And were I ftrong, I would not fhun their fury.
The Sands are numbred that make up my Life,
Here must I ftay, and here my Life muft end.
Enter the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland, the Prince of
Wales, and Soldiers.
Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,
I dare your quenchlefs fury to more rage':
I am your Butt, and I abide your fhot.
North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Clif. Ay, to fuch mercy as his ruthless Arm
With downright payment fhew'd unto my Father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his Car,
And made an Evening at the Noon-tide Prick.
York. My Athes, as the Phoenix, may bring forth
A Bird, that will revenge upon you all:
And in that hope I throw mine Eyes to Heav'n,
Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not? what! Multitudes and fear?
Clif. So Cowards fight when they can fly no farther,
So Doves do peck the Falcons piercing Talons,
So defperate Thieves, all hopeless of their Lives,
Breath out Invectives 'gainft the Officers.
Tork. Oh, Clifford, but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought o'er-run my former time:
And if thou canft, for blufhing, view this Face,
And bite thy Tongue that flanders him with Cowardice,
Whofe frown hath made thee faint and fly e'er this.
Clif. I will not bandy with thee Word for Word,
But buckler with thee Blows twice two for one.
Queen. Hold, valiant Clifford, for a thoufand caufes
I would prolong a while the Traitor's Life:
Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou, Northumberland.
North. Hold Clifford, do not honour him so much,
To prick thy Finger, though to wound his Heart.
What Valour were it, when a Cur doth grin,
For one to thrust his Hand between his Teeth,
When he might fpurn him with his foot away?
It is Wars prize to take all vantages,
And ten to one is no impeach of Valour.
Clif. Ay, ay, fo ftrives the Woodcock with the Gin. North. So doth the Cony ftruggle in the Net. York. So triumph Thieves upon their conquer'd Booty, So true Men yield, with Robbers fo o'er-matcht.
North. What would your Grace have done unto him now? Queen. Brave Warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,, Come make him ftand upon this Mole-hill here, That caught at Mountains with out-ftretched Arms, Yet parted but the fhadow with his Hand. What, was it you that would be England's King? Was't you that revell'd in our Parliament,
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