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Clif. I would your Highness would depart the Field, The Queen hath beft Succefs when you are abfent.

Queen. Ay, good my Lord, and leave us to our Fortune. K. Henry. Why that's my Fortune too, therefore I'll ftay. North. Be it with Refolution then to fight.

Prince. My Royal Father, cheer thefe Noble Lords, And hearten those that fight in your Defence: Unfheath your Sword, good Father; cry St. George. March. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Clarence, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers.

Edw. Now perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for Grace, And fet thy Diadem upon my Head;

Or bide the Mortal Fortune of the Field?

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

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

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

Clif. And reafon too:

Who fhould fucceed the Father, but the Son?
Rich. Are you there, Butcher? O, I cannot fpeak.
Clif. Ay, Crook-back, here I ftand to answer thee,
Or any he, the proudeft of thy fort.

Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not?
Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not fatisfy'd.

Rich. For God's fake, Lords, give Signal to the Fight. War. What fay'ft thou, Henry,

Wilt thou yield the Crown?

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

Your Legs did better Service than your Hands.

[fpeak?

War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine.
Clif. You faid fo much before, and yet you fled.

War. 'Twas not your Valour, Clifford, drove me thence.
North. No, nor your Manhood that durft make you stay.
Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently,

Break off the Parley, for fcarce I can refrain

The

The Execution of my big-fwoln Heart

Upon that Clifford, that cruel Child-killer.

Clif. I flew thy Father, call'st thou him a Child? Rich. Ay, like a Daftard, and a treacherous Coward, As thou didst kill our tender Brother Rutland:

But e'er Sun fet, I'll make thee curfe the Deed.

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

Queen. Defie them then, or else hold close thy Lips.
K. Henry. I prithee give no Limits to my Tongue,
I am a King, and privileg'd to fpeak.

Clif. My Liege, the Wound that bred this Meeting here Cannot be cur'd by Words, therefore be still.

Rich. Then, Execution, re-unfheath thy Sword:
By him that made us all, I am refolv'd
That Clifford's Manhood lyes upon his Tongue.

Edw. Say, Henry, fhall I have my right, or no :
A thoufand Men have broke their Fafts to Day,
That ne'er fhall dine, unless thou yield the Crown.
War. If thou deny, their Blood upon thy Head,
For York in juftice puts his Armour on.

Prince. If that be right, which Warwick fays is right, There is no Wrong, but every thing is right.

War. Who ever got thee, there thy Mother ftands, For well I wot, thou haft thy Mother's Tongue. Queen. But thou art neither like thy Sire nor Dam, But like a foul mishapen Stigmatick,

Mark'd by the Deftinies to be avoided,

As venomous Toads, or Lizards dreadful Stings.
Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English Gilt,
Whofe Father bears the Title of a King,

(As if a Kennel fhould be call'd the Sea)

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

Edw. A Wifp of Straw were worth a thousand Crowns, To make this fhamelefs Callet know her felf.

Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy Husband may be Menelaus,
And ne'er was Agamemnon's Brother wrong'd
By that falfe Woman, as this King by thee.
His Father revell'd in the Heart of France,

And

And tam'd the King, and made the Dauphin ftoop:
And had he match'd according to his State,
He might have kept that Glory to this Day.
But when he took a Beggar to his Bed,

And grac'd thy poor Sire with his Bridal Day,
Even then that Sun-fhine brew'd a Shower for him,
That wash'd his Father's Fortunes forth of France,
And heap'd Sedition on his Crown at home:
For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy Pride?
HadЛt thou been meek, our Title ftill had flept,
And we in Pity of the gentle King,

Had flipt our Claim until another Age.

Cla. But when we faw our Sunshine made thy Spring, And that thy Summer bred us no encreafe,

We fet the Ax to thy ufurping Root;

And though the Edge hath fomething hit our felves,
Yet know thou, fince we have begun to ftrike,
We'll never leave, 'till we have hewn thee down,
Or bath'd thee growing with our heated Bloods.
Edw. And in this Refolution I defie thee,

Not willing any longer Conference,

Since thou deny'dit the gentle King to speak.
Sound Trumpets, let our bloody Colours wave,
And either Victory, or elfe a Grave.
Queen. Stay, Edward

Edw. No, wrangling Woman, we'll no longer stay.
Thefe Words will coft ten thousand Lives this Day.
[Exeunt omnes,
Alarum. Excurfions. Enter Warwick,

War. Fore-fpent with Toil, as Runners with a Race,
I lay me down a little while to breathe:

For Strokes receiv'd, and many Blows repaid,
Have rob'd my ftrong-knit Sinews of their Strength,
And fpight of fpight, needs muft I reft a while.

Enter Edward running.

Edw. Smile, gentle Heav'n; or ftrike, ungentle Death; For this World frowns, and Edward's Sun is clouded. War. How now, my Lord, what hap? What hope of good? Enter Clarence.

Cla. Our Hap is Lofs, our Hope but fad Despair,

Our Ranks are broke, and Ruin follows us.

What

What Counsel give you? whether fhall we fly?
Edw. Bootlefs is flight, they follow us with Wings,
And weak we are, and cannot fhun purfuit.

Enter Richard.

Rich. Ah Warwick, why halt thou withdrawn thy felf?
Thy Brother's Blood the thirsty Earth hath drunk,
Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's Lance:
And in the very pangs of Death he cry'd,
Like to a difmal Clangor heard from far,
Warwick, revenge; Brother, revenge my Death.
So underneath the Belly of his Steeds,

That ftain'd their Fetlocks in hs fmoaking Blood,
The Noble Gentleman gave up the Ghoft.

War. Then let the Earth be drunken with our Blood

I'll kill my Horfe because I will not fly:

Why ftand we like foft-hearted Women here,
Wailing our Loffes, whiles the Foe doth rage,
And look upon, as if the Tragedy

Were plaid in jeft by counterfeiting Actors.
Here on my Knee I vow to God above,
I'll never paufe again, never ftand ftill,
'Till either Death hath clos'd thefe Eyes of mine,
Or Fortune given me measure of revenge.
Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my Knee with thine,
And in this Vow do chain my Soul to thine.
And e'er my Knee rife from the Earth's cold Face,
I throw my Hands, mine Eyes, my Heart to thee,
Thou Setter up, and Plucker down of Kings,
Befeeching thee (if with thy Will it ftands
That to my Foes this Body must be prey)
Yet that thy brazen Gates of Heav'n may ope,
And give sweet paffage to my finful Soul.
Now Lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where-e'er it be, in Heav'n, or in the Earth.
Rich. Brother,

Give me thy Hand, and gentle Warwick,
Let me embrace thee in my weary Arms:
I that did never weep, now melt with woe,
That Winter should cut off our Spring-time fo
War. Away, away:

Once more, fweet Lords, farewel

CLA

Cla. Yet let us all together to our Troops;
And give them leave to fly that will not stay;
And call them Pillars that will ftand to us;
And if we thrive, promife them fuch Rewards
As Victors wear at the Olympian Games.
This may plant Courage in their quailing Breafts,
For yet is hope of Life and Victory;
Fore-flow no longer, make we hence amain.

Excurfions. Enter Richard and Clifford.
Rich. Now, Clifford, I have fingled thee alone,
Suppofe this Arm is for the Duke of York,
And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge,
Wert thou environ'd with a Brazen Wall.

[Exeunt.

Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone,
This is the Hand that stabb'd thy Father York,
And this the Hand that flew thy Brother Rutland,
And here's the Heart that triumphs in their Death,"
And cheers thefe Hands that flew thy Sire and Brother,
To execute the like upon thy felf,

And fo have at thee.

They fight, Warwick enters, Clifford flies. Rich. Nay Warwick, fingle out fome other Chace, For I my felf will hunt this Wolf to death.

Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.

[Exeunt.

K. Henry. This Battel fares like to the Morning's War, When dying Clouds contend with growing Light, What time the Shepherd blowing of his Nails, Can neither call it perfect Day nor Night. Now fways it this way, like the felf-fame Sea, Forc'd by the Tide to combat with the Wind: Now fways it that way, like the telf-fame Sea, Forc'd to retire by fury of the Wind. Sometime, the Flood prevails, and then the Wind, Now, one the better, then another beft, Both tugging to be Victors, Breast to Breaft, Yet neither Conqueror, nor conquered; So is the equal poize of this fell War. Here on this Mole-hill will I fit me down, To whom God will, there be the Victory: For Margaret my Queen, and Clifford too Have chid me from the Battel, fwearing both, They profper beft of all when I am thence.

Would

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