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:
Unsheathe your sword and dub him presently.
Edward, kneel down.

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.

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. Unsheathe your sword, good father: cry, George!"

"Saint ]

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.

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 swcrd.
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,

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 I rest a while.

Enter EDWARD, running.

Edw. Smile, gentle Heaven, or strike, ungentle 1 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?