But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretel 'Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue? Mess. Ah, one that was a woful looker-on, When as the noble duke of York was slain, Your princely father, and my loving lord. Edw. O, speak no more! for I have heard too much.

'Rich. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. 'Mess. Environed he was with many foes; And stood against them as the hope of Troy2 * Against the Greeks, that would have enter'd Troy. * But Hercules himself must yield to odds;

And many strokes, though with a little axe, *Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak. 'By many hands your father was subdu'd;

But only slaughter'd by the ireful arm

Of unrelenting Clifford, and the queen: Who crown'd the gracious duke in high despite; Laugh'd in his face; and, when with grief he wept, The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks, 'A napkin steeped in the harmless blood

Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain: And, after many scorns, many foul taunts, They took his head, and on the gates of York They set the same; and there it doth remain, "The saddest spectacle 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!* O Clifford, boist'rous Clifford, thou hast slain *The flower of Europe for his chivalry; *And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him, * For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd thee!

Now my soul's palace is become a prison:
Ah, would she break from hence! that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest:
For never henceforth shall I joy again,
Never, O never, shall I see more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart: *Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden;

*For self-same wind, that I should speak withal, * Is kindling coals, that fire all my breast,

* And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench.

To weep, is to make less 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, Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun : For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say; Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. March. Enter Warwick and Montague, with forces.

War. 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 deliverance,
Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,
The words would add more anguish than the

wounds.

O valiant lord, the duke of York is slain.

Edw. O Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet, Which held thee dearly, as his soul's redemption, Is by the stern lord Clifford done to death.3

War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in

tears:

Short tale to make,-we at Saint Albans met,
Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought.
But, whether 'twas the coldness of the king,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen,
That robb'd my soldiers of their hated spleen,
Or whether 'twas report of her success;
Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,
Who thunders to his captives-blood and death,
I cannot judge: but, to conclude with truth,
Their weapons like to lightning came and went;
Our soldiers'-like the night-owl's lazy flight,
Or like a lazy thrasher with a flail,-
Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends
I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause,
With promise of high pay, and great rewards:
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 haste, post-haste, 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 six miles off the duke is with the

soldiers:

And for your brother, he was lately sent
From your kind aunt, duchess of Burgundy,
With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

Rich. 'Twas odds, belike, when valiant War-wick fled:

Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,
But ne'er, till now, his scandal of retire.

War. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou

hear:

For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine
Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head,
And wring the awful sceptre from his fist;
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 shall 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

you out;

seek

And therefore comes my brother Montague.
Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen,
With Clifford, and the haught' Northumberland,
And of their feather, many more proud birds,
Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax.
He swore consent to your succession,
His oath enrolled in the parliament;
And now to London all the crew are gone,
To frustrate both his oath, and what beside
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 canst procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,
Why, via! to London will we march amain;
And once again bestride 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 see a sunshine day, "That cries-Retire, if Warwick bid him stay. Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I

lean;

And when thou fall'st (as God forbid the hour!) Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forefend! War. No longer earl of March, but duke of York;

The next degree is, England's royal throne: For king of England shalt thou be proclaim'd In every borough as we pass 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 sound the trumpets, and about our task. * Rich. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard

as steel

*(As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,) * I come to pierce it,-or to give thee mine. *Edw. Then strike up, drums;-God, and Saint George, for us!

Enter a Messenger.

War. How now? what news?

SCENE II-Before York. Enter King Henry Queen Margaret, the Prince of Wales, Clifford, and Northumberland, with forces.

Q. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.

Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy,
That sought to be encompass'd with your crown:
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?
'K. Hen. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear
their wreck ;-

To see this sight, it irks my very soul.-
Withhold revenge, dear God! 'tis not my fault,
Not wittingly have I infring'd my vow.

Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity,
And harmful pity, must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?
Not his, that spoils her young before her face.
Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?
Not he, that sets his foot upon her back.
The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on;
And doves will peck, in safeguard of their brood.
Ambitious York did level at thy crown,
Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows:
He, but a duke, would have his son a king,
And raise his issue, like a loving sire;
Thou, being a king, bless'd with a goodly son,
Didst yield consent to disinherit him,

Which argued thee a most unloving father.
Unreasonable creatures feed their young:
And though man's face be fearful to their eyes,
Yet, in protection of their tender ones,
Who hath not seen them (even with those wings

Which sometime they have us'd with fearful flight,) Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest, Offering their own lives in their young's defence? For shame, my liege, make them your precedent! Were it not pity that this goodly boy

Should lose his birthright by his father's fault;
And long hereafter say unto his child,-
What my great-grandfather and grandsire got,
My careless father fondly3 gave away?
Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy;
And let his manly face, which promiseth
Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart,
To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.
K. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play'd the orator,
Inferring arguments of mighty force.
But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear,-
That things ill got had ever bad success?
And happy always was it for that son,
Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?
I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind;
And 'would, my father had left me no more!
For all the rest is held at such a rate,

As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep,
Than in possession any jot of pleasure.
Ah, cousin York! 'would thy best friends did know,
How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

'Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits; our

foes are nigh,

And this soft courage makes your followers faint. You promis'd knighthood to our forward son; Unsheath your sword, and dub him presently.—

K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight; And learn this lesson,-Draw thy sword in right. Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave, I'll draw it as apparent to the crown, And in that quarrel use it to the death. Clif. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince (3) Foolishly.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Royal commanders, be in readiness: 'For, with a band of thirty thousand men, Comes Warwick, backing of the duke of York; And, in the towns as they do march along, Proclaims him king, and many fly to him: 'Darraign your battle, for they are at hand. Clif. I would, your highness would depart the field;

The queen hath best success when you are absent. Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our

fortune.

K. Hen. Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll stay.

North. Be it with resolution then to fight.

Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble lords,

And hearten those that fight in your defence: Unsheath your sword, good father; cry, Saint George!

March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers. Edw. Now, perjur'd Henry! wilt thou kneel for grace,

And set thy diadem upon my head; *Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Q. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy!
'Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms,
Before thy sovereign, and thy lawful king?
Edw. I am his king, and he should bow his knee;
I was adopted heir by his consent:

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 reason too;

Who should succeed the father, but the son?
'Rich. Are you there, butcher?-O, I cannot
speak!

Clif. Ay, crook-back; here I stand, to answer thee,

'Or any he the proudest of thy sort. Rich. 'Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not?

Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. Rich. For God's sake, lords, give signal to the

fight.

War. What say'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield

the crown?

you stay.

Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently;-
Break off the parle; for scarce I can refrain
The execution of my big-swoln heart
Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.
Clif. I slew thy father: Call'st thou him a child?
Rich. Ay, like a dastard, and a treacherous
coward,

As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;
But, ere sun-set, I'll make thee curse the deed.

(1) i. e. Arrange your host, put your host in order. (2) It is my firm persuasion.

3) One branded by nature.

4) Gilt is a superficial covering of gold.

upon

his tongue.

Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no? A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day, That ne'er shall dine, unless thou yield the crown. For York in justice puts his armour on. War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;

'Prince. If that be right, which Warwick says is right,

There is no wrong, but every thing is right.

Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;
For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother's tongue.
Q. Mar. But thou art neither like thy sire, nor
dam;

But like a foul misshapen stigmatic,
Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided,
As venom toads, or lizards' dreadful stings.
Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt,4
Whose father bears the title of a king
(As if a channels should be call'd the sea,)
Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art ex-
traught,

To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?6
Edw. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand

crowns,

To make this shameless callet? know herself.-
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
*Although thy husband may be Menelaus;8
*And ne'er was Agamemnon's brother wrong'd
By that false woman, as this king by thee.
His father revell'd in the heart of France,
And tam'd the king, and made the dauphin stoop;
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 sunshine 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?
Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept;
And we, in pity of the gentle king,

Had slipp'd our claim until another age.

'Geo. But, when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,

We set the axe to thy usurping root:
And that thy summer bred us no increase,
And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,

Yet, know thou, since we have begun to strike,
We'll never leave, till we have hewn thee down,
Or bath'd thy growing with our heated bloods.
Edw. And, in this resolution, I defy thee;
Not willing any longer conference,
Since thou deny'st the gentle king to speak.-
Sound trumpets!-let our bloody colours wave!-
And either victory, or else a grave.

Q. Mar. Stay, Edward.

Edw. No, wrangling woman; we'll no longer stay:

(5) Kennel was then pronounced channel. (6) To show thy meanness of birth by thy indecent railing.

(7) Drab

(8) i. e. A cuckold.

6

These words will cost ten thousand lives to-day. [Exeunt. SCENE III-A field of battle between Towton and Saxton in Yorkshire. Alarums: Excursions. Enter Warwick.

War. Forspent 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 robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength, And, spite of spite, needs must I rest a while. Enter Edward, running.

Edw. Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death!

For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded.

War. How now, my lord? what hap? what hope of good?

Enter George.

*Geo. Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair; 'Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us : "What counsel give you, whither shall we fly?

Edw. Bootless is flight, they follow us with

wings;

And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit.
Enter Richard.

'Rich. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?

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 cried,— 'Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death! So underneath the belly of their steeds, That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood, "The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

• War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:

I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly.
*Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,
*Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;
*And look upon, as if the tragedy

*Were play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors? "Here on my knee I vow to God above,

I'll never pause again, never stand still, 'Till either death hath clos'd these 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 ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face, *I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, Thou setter up and plucker down of kings! 'Beseeching thee,-if with thy will it stands, That to my foes this body must be prey,Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, And give sweet passage to my sinful soul!Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, Where'er it be, in heaven, or on 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 wo,
That winter should cut off our spring-time so.
'War. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords,
farewell.

"Geo. Yet let us all together to our troops, And give them leave to fly that will not stay; And call them pillars, that will stand to us; 'And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards 'As victors wear at the Olympian games:

(1) And are mere spectators.

*This may plant courage in their quailing2 breasts, For yet is hope of life, and victory.*Fore-slow3 no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunt. Another part of the

SCENE IV.-The same. field. Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford. 'Rich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone: Suppose, this arm is for the duke of York, And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge, Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall.

Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone: This is the hand that stabb'd thy father York; And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland, And here's the heart that triumphs in their death, And cheers these hands, that slew thy sire and brother,

To execute the like upon thyself;
And so, have at thee.

[They fight. Warwick enters; Clifford flies.
Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other

When dying clouds contend with growing light; *What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day, nor night. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea, Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind; Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind: Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind; Now, one the better; then, another best; Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered: So is the equal poise of this fell war. *Here on this molehill will I sit me down. * To whom God will, there be the victory! For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, Have chid me from the battle; swearing both, They prosper best of all when I am thence. 'Would I were dead! if God's good will were so. For what is in this world, but grief and wo? *O God! methinks, it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain;

* To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

* To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run: * How many make the hour full complete, *How many hours bring about the day, * How many days will finish up the year, *How many years a mortal man may live. * When this is known, then to divide the times: *So many hours must I tend my flock; *So many hours must I take my rest; *So many hours must I cóntemplate; * So many hours must I sport myself; *So many days my ewes have been with young; * So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean; *So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: * So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, * Pass'd over to the end they were created, *Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. * Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely. *Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade *To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, *Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

(2) Sinking into dejection.

(3) To fore-slow is to be dilatory, to loiter.