She is hard by with twenty thousand men,
And therefore fortify your hold, my lord.
York. Ay, with my sword.

that we fear them ?

What, think'st thou,

Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me:
My brother Montague shall post to London.
Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,
Whom we have left protectors of the king,
With powerful policy strengthen themselves,
And trust not simple Henry, nor his oaths.
Mont. Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not:
And thus most humbly I do take my leave.

[Exit.

Enter Sir JOHN and Sir HUGH MORTIMER. York. Sir John, and sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles, You are come to Sandal in a happy hour;

The army of the queen mean to besiege us.

Sir John. She shall not need, we 'll meet her in the field.

York. What, with five thousand men?

Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need. A woman's general; what should we fear?

[A March afar off.

Edw. I hear their drums: let's set our men in order,

And issue forth, and bid them battle straight.

York. Five men to twenty !-though the odds be great, I doubt not, uncle, of our victory.

Many a battle have I won in France,

When as the enemy hath been ten to one:

Why should I not now have the like success?

[Alarum.

Exeunt.

SCENE III.-Plains near Sandal Castle.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter RUTLAND, and his Tutor. Rut. Ah! whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands? Ah, tutor! look, where bloody Clifford comes.

Enter CLIFFORD and Soldiers.

Clif. Chaplain, away: thy priesthood saves thy life. As for the brat of this accursed duke,

Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company.
Clif. Soldiers, away with him.

Tut. Ah, Clifford ! murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

[Exit, forced off by Soldiers.

.

And this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade,
Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood

Congeal'd with this do make me wipe off both. [Exit.
SCENE IV.-The Same.

Alarum. Enter YORK.

York. The army of the queen hath got the field: My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;

And all my followers to the eager foe

Turn back, and fly like ships before the wind,
Or lambs pursu'd by hunger-starved wolves.
My sons-God knows, what hath bechanced them,
But this I know,-they have demean'd themselves
Like men born to renown by life or death.
Three times did Richard make a lane to me,
And thrice cried,-"Courage, father! fight it out :"
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple falchion, painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encounter'd him:
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cried,
ground!"

Charge! and give no foot of

And cried," A crown, or else a glorious tomb!
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre !"
With this, we charg'd again; but, out alas !
We bodg'd again: as I have seen a swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide,

And spend her strength with over-matching waves.

[A short Alarum within.

Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue,

And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury;

And, were I strong, I would not shun their fury.
The sands are number'd that make up my life;

Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
Enter Queen MARGARET, CLIFFORD, Northumberland,
and Soldiers.

Come, bloody Clifford,―rough Northumberland,—
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage.

I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Clif. Ay, to such mercy, as his ruthless arm
With downright payment show'd unto my father.
Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noon-tide prick.

The wanton Edward, and the lusty George?
And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy,
Dicky your boy, that, with his grumbling voice,
Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies ?

Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland ?
'Look, York: I stain'd this napkin with the blood
That valiant Clifford with his rapier's point
Made issue from the bosom of the boy;

And, if thine eyes can water for his death,

I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. [Throwing it.'
Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly,
I should lament thy miserable state.

I pr'ythee, grieve to make me merry, York:
What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails,
That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death?
Why art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be mad;
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Thou wouldst be fee'd, I see, to make me sport:
York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown.-
A crown for York!-and, lords, bow low to him.
Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on.-

[Putting a Paper Crown on his Head.
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 Plantagenet

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 pale2 your head in Henry's glory,
And rob his temples of the diadem,

Now in his life, against your holy oath?
O! 't is 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,

1 Not in f. e. 2 Impale, encircle.