Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble lords, And hearten those that fight in your defence. Unsheathe your sword, good father: cry, George!"

March.

"Saint]

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 kill'd 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?

Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick! ' dare you speak?

When you and I met at Saint Alban's last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.

War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine.

Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled. War. 'Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.

North. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.

Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently. Break off the parley; 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 did'st kill our tender brother Rutland; But ere sun-set I'll make thee curse the deed.

K. Hen.

Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.

Q. Mar. Defy them, then, or else hold close thy lips. K. Hen. I pr'ythee give no limits to my tongue : I am a king, and privileg'd to speak.

Clif. My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still..

Rich. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword.
By him that made us all, I am resolv'd
That Clifford's manhood lies 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.
War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;

For York in justice puts his armour on.

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 mis-shapen stigmatic,

Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided,

As venom toads, or lizards' dreadful stings.
Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt,
Whose father bears the title of a king,

(As if a channel should be call'd the sea,)

Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

Edw. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand

crowns

To make this shameless callat know herself.
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 false woman as this King by thee.
His father revell'd in the heart of France,
And tam'd the King, and made the Dolphin 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 show'r 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?
Had'st thou been meek, our title still had slept,
And we, in pity of the gentle King,

Had slipp'd our claim until another age.

George. But when we saw our sunshine made thy Spring,

And that thy Summer bred us no increase,

We set the axe to thy usurping root:

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 deniest 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: These words will cost ten thousand lives this day. ]

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A Field of Battle near Towton.

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 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?

Geo.

Enter GEORGE.

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,

66

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,