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, Edw. I am his King, and he fhould bow his Knee; Since when, his Oath is broke: for as I hear, Clif. And reafon too: Who fhould fucceed the Father, but the Son? Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland, was it not? 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. War. 'Twas not your Valour, Clifford, drove me thence. 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. 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: Edw. Say, Henry, fhall I have my right, or no : 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. (As if a Kennel fhould be call'd the Sea) Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, 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, And And tam'd the King, and made the Dauphin ftoop: And grac'd thy poor Sire with his Bridal Day, 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, Not willing any longer Conference, Since thou deny'dit the gentle King to speak. Edw. No, wrangling Woman, we'll no longer stay. War. Fore-fpent with Toil, as Runners with a Race, For Strokes receiv'd, and many Blows repaid, 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? Enter Richard. Rich. Ah Warwick, why halt thou withdrawn thy felf? That ftain'd their Fetlocks in hs fmoaking Blood, 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, Were plaid in jeft by counterfeiting Actors. Give me thy Hand, and gentle Warwick, Once more, fweet Lords, farewel CLA Cla. Yet let us all together to our Troops; Excurfions. Enter Richard and Clifford. [Exeunt. Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone, 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 |