Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king!
Ay, this is he that took king Henry's chair;
And this is he was his adopted heir.-
But how is it that great Plantaganet

Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath?
As I bethink me, you should not be king,
Till our king Henry had shook hands with death.
And will you pale your head in Henry's glory,
And rob his temples of the diadem,
Now in his life, against your holy oath?
O, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable !—
Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his head;
And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.
Clif. That is my office, for my father's sake.
Q. Mar. Nay, stay; let's hear the orisons he

makes.

York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France,

"Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth! How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex,

To triumph like an Amazonian trull,

Upon their woes, whom fortune captivates?
But that thy face is, visor-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush:
To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriv'd,
Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not
shameless.

Thy father bears the type of king of Naples,
Of both the Sicils, and Jerusalem;
Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman.
Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?
It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen;
Unless the adage must be verified,--

That beggars, mounted, run their horse to death.
'Tis beauty, that doth oft make women proud;
But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small:
'Tis virtue, that doth make them most admir'd;
The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at:
'Tis government, that makes them seem divine;
The want thereof makes thee abominable:
Thou art as opposite to every good,
As the Antipodes are unto us,

Or as the south to the septentrion."

And, in thy need, such comfort came to thee,
As now I reap at thy too cruel hand!--
Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world
My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads!
North. Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin
'I should not for my life but weep with him,
To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.

Q. Mar. What, weeping-ripe, my lord Northum-
berland?

Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
Clif. Here's for iny oath, here's for my father's
death.
[Stabbing him.

Q. Mar. And here's to right our gentle-hearted
king.
[Stabbing him.
York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God!
'My soul flies through these wounds to seek out
thee.
[Dies.
Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York
gates;

So York may overlook the town of York. [Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I-A plain near Mortimer's Cross, in
Herefordshire. Drums. Enter Edward, and
Richard, with their forces, marching.

*Edw. I wonder, how our princely father 'scap'd;
*Or whether he be 'scap'd away, or no,
*From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit;
* Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the

news;

Had he been slain, we should have heard the news;
Or, had he 'scap'd, methinks, we should have
heard

O, tiger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman's hide!
How could'st thou drain the life-blood of the child,
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,
*The happy tidings of his good escape.—
And yet be seen to bear a woman's face?
'How fares my brother? why is he so sad?
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolv'd
'Thou, stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. Where our right valiant father is become.
Bid'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:I saw him in the battle range about;
'Would'st have me weep? why, now thou hast thy
will:

'For raging wind blows up incessant showers,
And, when the rage allays, the rain begins.
These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies;
And every drop cries vengeance for his death,-
"Gainst thee, fell Clifford,-and thee, false French-

woman.

North. Beshrew me, but his passions move me That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.

And watch'd him, how he singled Clifford forth.
Methought, he bore him in the thickest troop,
As doth a lion in a herd of neat:

Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs;
Who having pinch'd a few, and made them cry,
The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him.
So far'd our father with his enemies;
'So fled his enemies my warlike father;
so,'Methinks, 'tis prize enough to be his son.
See, how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewell of the glorious sun!"

York. That face of his the hungry cannibals Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with blood:

But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,-
O, ten times more,-than tigers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears:
This cloth thou dipp'dst in blood of my sweet boy,

(1) Impale, encircle with a crown.

(2) Kill him. (3) The distinguishing mark. (4) Government, in the language of the time, signified evenness of temper, and decency of manners. (5) The north. (6) Sufferings,

How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trimm'd like a younker, prancing to his love!
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?
Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect

'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:

'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 poinards 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."

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

tears:

And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things since then befall'n.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp,
Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,
Were brought me of your loss, and his depart.
I then in London, keeper of the king,
Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends,
And very well appointed, as I thought,
March'd towards Saint Albans, to intercept the
queen,

Bearing the king in my behalf along:
For by my scouts I was advértised,
That she was coming with a full intent
To dash our late decree in parliament,
Touching king Henry's oath, and your succes

sion.

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,

Ah, would she break from hence! that this my body With promise of high pay, and great rewards:

'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!

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 Eng-
land?

'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;

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,
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?
That sought to be encompass'd with your crown:
'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.

Cliff. My gracious liege, this too much lenity,
And harmful pity, must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
seek Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.

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 can 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 as steel

(As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,) come to pierce it,-or to give thee mine."

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 vield 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 used 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 fondly 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,
hardAs brings a thousand-fold more care to keep,
'Than in possession any jot of pleasure.

* Edw. Then strike up, drums;-God, and Saint George, for us!

Enter a Messenger.

War. How now? what news?

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.

Mess. The duke of Norfolk sends you word by 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.
Cliff. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince,
(3) Foolishly.

Enter à 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, War-
wick, 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
'Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms,
'Before thy sovereign, and thy lawful king?

I

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

Q. Mar. Defy them then, or else hold close the lips.

K. Hen. I pr'ythee, give no limits to my tongue; am a king, and privileg'd to speak.

Clif. My liege, the wound, that bred this meet-
ing here,

Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still.
Rich. Then, executioner, unsheath thy sword:
By him that made us all, I am resolved,
"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.
For York in justice puts his armour on.
Wer. 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,
boy!'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 ex-
traught,

Edw. I am his king, and he should bow his knee; I was adopted heir by his consent:

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

Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,
You-that are king, though he do wear the crown,-"To
Have caused 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 ?-0, 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?

crowns,

To make this shameless callet" 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 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 grae'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.
War-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,

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-tongued
wick? dare you speak?
When you and I met at Saint Albans 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 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.

Gilt is a superficial covering of gold.

Had slipp'd our claim until another age.

'Geo. 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 deny'st the gentle king to speak.-
Sound trumpets!-let o 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 inde cent railing.

(7) Drab,

(8) i, e. A cuckold.